of the Wyandot was full of shame
and anger. He dived as his foe had done, but he came up several feet
away from the canoe, and he saw the terrible youth with his own rifle
held by the barrel, ready to crush him with a single, deadly blow. The
Wyandot perhaps was a fatalist and he resigned himself to the end. He
looked up while he awaited the blow that was to send him to another
world.

But Henry could not strike. The Indian was wholly helpless now and, his
first impulse gone, he dropped the rifle in the canoe, seized the
paddle, and with a mighty sweep sent the canoe shooting toward the
Kentucky shore. He had turned none too soon. Other canoes drawn by the
shot were now coming from both north and south. The Wyandot turned and
swam toward one of them, while Henry continued his flight.

Henry was so exultant that he laughed aloud. A few minutes before he had
been swimming for his life. Now he was in a canoe, and nothing but the
most untoward accident could keep him from reaching the Kentucky shore.
One or two shots were fired at long range from the pursuing canoes, but
the bullets did not come anywhere near him, and he replied with an
ironic shout.

The Wyandot's bullet pouch and powder horn, torn from him in the
struggle, were lying in the boat. Henry promptly seized them, and
reloaded the Wyandot's rifle. Just as he finished the task his canoe
struck against the shore, and, as he leaped out, he gave it a push with
his foot that sent it into the current. Then carrying the Indian's rifle
in addition to his own, strapped on his back, he darted into the woods.

Once more Henry Ware trod the soil of Kain-tuck-ee, and for an instant
or two he did not think of his wounded or exhausted companions behind.
Nature had been so kind to him in giving him great physical power, which
formed the basis of a sanguine character, that he always and quickly
forgot hardships and dangers passed and was ready to meet a new
emergency. The muddy Ohio was flowing from him in plentiful rills, but
one rifle was loaded, and he had of dry ammunition enough to serve.
Moreover, his trifling wound was forgotten. His mind responded to his
triumph, and, laughing a little, he shook his captured rifle gleefully.

He stopped three or four hundred yards from the river in a dense clump
of oak and elm and listened. He could hear no sound that betokened the
approach of the Indians, nor did he consider further pursuit likely.
They would be too busy with thei