renegade in the northwest, was enough of itself to seal Oscar
Parton's lips.

A long fringe of woodland welcomed the swimmers, and they drew
themselves from the water. No noise save the plash of the ripples at
their feet broke the stillness, and the sound was so musical that they
could scarcely believe that the woods and the waves beautified a land of
death.

Wringing the water from their garments, the scouts inaugurated a search
for the trail, or, in other words, for the spot where the boat had been
drawn from the water.

A line of moonshine lay along the edge of the stream, and this underwent
a close examination, Harvey Catlett hunting down and his companion up
the river.

While Oscar Parton was not an experienced woodman, like his friend, the
mysteries of the trail were not great ones to him. He had been reared in
the forests, and from the very tribes that now sought his heart's blood
he had learned much of the science of tracking man and beast. He felt
proud of the notice which Catlett had taken of his woodcraft in
permitting him to search alone for Kate's trail, and he inwardly hoped
that he would have the good fortune to find it. The circumstance would
elevate him in the eyes of the young scout.

Now through the forest, and now back to the river, with its edging of
moonlight, the two men crept like ghosts, letting nothing escape them.

One could not distinguish the other for the dimly lighted distance that
lay between them, but preconcerted calls told from time to time that the
search had not been abandoned.

Oscar Parton began to despair. He had passed beyond the line of search
marked out by his companion and was on the eve of returning when he came
suddenly upon a canoe with its keel just beyond the reach of the tide.

The sudden discovery startled the trail hunter, and he was about to
advance upon and examine the craft, when a night owl flew by and swept
its cold wings across his face, as if to keep him back. But the youth
did not heed the omen of portending evil.

He crept to the seemingly stranded and abandoned craft, and peered over
its side.

What did he see? A dark object lying on the bottom, a tuft of feathers,
a face, deathly and covered here and there with clotted blood. He turned
away, and looked again before he saw that an Indian lay beneath his
gaze, rigid, as he believed, in death!

"This is the result of Catlett's shot," he said. "I thank God that his
bullet did not reach Kate's hear