e seeking another target. To all appearances, he was, in the darkness
and driving rain, a true Shawnee, and the manner and gesture of an
Indian were second nature to him.

But he had little fear of being discovered at such a time. His sole
thought was to find his comrade. All the old days of boyish
companionship rushed upon him, with their memories. The tenderness in
his nature was the stronger, because of its long repression. He would
find him and if he were alive, he would save him; moreover he had what
he thought was a clew. He had remembered seeing Paul crouched behind a
log, firing at the enemy, and no one had seen him afterwards. He
believed that the boy was lying there yet, slain, or, if fate were
kinder, too badly wounded to move. The line of retreat had slanted
somewhat from the spot, and the savages might well have passed, in the
dark, without noticing the boy's fallen body.

His own sense of direction was perfect, and he edged swiftly away toward
the fallen log, behind which Paul had lain. Many dark forms passed him,
but none sought to stop him; the counterfeit was too good; all thought
him one of themselves.

Presently Henry passed no more of the flitting warriors. The battle was
moving on toward the south and was now behind him. He looked back and
saw the flashes growing fainter and heard the scattering rifle shots,
deadened somewhat by the distance. Around him was the beat of the rain
on the leaves and the sodden earth, and he looked up at a sky, wholly
hidden by black clouds. He would need all his forest lore, and all the
primitive instincts, handed down from far-off ancestors. But never were
they more keenly alive than on this night.

The boy did not veer from the way, but merely by the sense of direction
took a straight path toward the fallen log that he remembered. The din
of battle still rolled slowly off toward the south, and, for the moment,
he forgot it. He came to the log, bent down and touched a cold face. It
was Paul. Instinctively his hand moved toward the boy's head and when it
touched the thick brown hair and nothing else, he uttered a little
shuddering sigh of relief. Dead or alive, the hideous Indian trophy had
not been taken. Then he found the boy's wrist and his pulse, which was
still beating faintly. The deft hands moved on, and touched the wound,
made by a bullet that had passed entirely through his shoulder. Paul had
fainted from loss of blood, and without the coming of help would s