you where you are," urged John Colter.
There were eight hundred of them!

But Trapper Potts shook his head.

"I'll not. I might as well be killed here and now, as be robbed and
beaten first. You--"

A bow twanged angrily. Down he fell, in the bottom of his canoe. John
Colter could scarcely see, by reason of the dancing, shouting
Blackfeet. Then he heard.

"Colter! They've got me! I'm wounded!"

"Bad hurt?"

Trapper Potts was standing, rifle in hand and an arrow jutting from his
hip.

"Yes. I can't make off. Get away if you can. I meant to kill one at
least."

He aimed and fired; shot a Blackfoot dead. That was his last act. The
smoke had no more than cleared the muzzle of his gun, ere a hundred
arrows and bullets "made a riddle of him." Thus he died, also; a brave
no-surrender man.

Yelling furiously, the Blackfeet, in a jostling mob, rushed into the
stream, pulled the canoe ashore, dragged the body out upon the bank,
and hacked it to pieces. They threw the pieces into John Colter's
face, the slain warrior's relatives fought to get at him with their
tomahawks, while the other Blackfeet formed about him and thrust them
aside.

It was a doubtful moment. The air quivered to threat and insult.
Trapper Colter expected to be killed at once. His friend had sealed
the doom of both of them; had destroyed the one chance, for if no blood
had been shed the Blackfeet might only have robbed them and let them go.

The tumult gradually lessened. The chiefs squatted in a circle, and
while all scowled at the prisoner a council was held. The only point
to be discussed was, how should he die?

They appeared to have decided. The head chief arose, and stalking to
John motioned to him to go farther out into the open.

"Go! Go away!" he ordered, in the Crow tongue. Evidently they
recognized John Colter as the white man who had fought against them
among the Crows. That made matters worse.

John guessed that they were using him for a practice target. As soon
as he was out a little way, they would shoot at him--see how many times
they could hit him before killing him. That would be great sport as
well as good practice. He slowly walked, to the east, upon the open
plain, expecting with every step to feel the first arrow or bullet.
This was a nervous stroll for a naked man. He heartily wished that he
never had seen the Crows, or John Potts either.

He was not moving fast enough to suit the Blackfeet.