Oh,
she's a fine boat, a beautiful boat, the reg'lar King o' the seas!"
"Queen, you mean," said Paul, who felt the reaction.
"No, King it is," replied Sol stoutly. "A boat that carries travelers may
be a she, but shorely one that fights like this is a he."
The fog was gone, save for occasional wisps of white mist, but the day had
not yet come, and the night was by no means light. When they looked back
again they could not see any of the Indian canoes. Apparently they had
retreated into the flooded forest. Henry and Sol held a consultation.
"It's hard to pull up stream," said Henry, "and we'd exhaust ourselves
doing it. Besides, if the Indians chose to renew the pursuit, that would
cut us off from our own purpose. We must drop down the river toward the
Spanish camp."
"You're always right, Henry," said the shiftless one with conviction. "The
Spaniards o' course, know nothin' about our fight, ez they wuz much too
fur off to hear the shots, an', ez we go down that way, the savages likely
will think that we belong to the party, which is too strong for them to
attack. This must be some band that Braxton Wyatt don't know nothin'
about. Maybe it's a gang o' southern Indians that's come away up here in
canoes.
Pages:
91
92
93
94
95
96
97
98
99
100
101
102
103
104
105
106
107
108
109
110
111
112
113
114
115