it.

He went a mile down the stream, without finding shallow water, and, then
coming back, discovered the ford only a hundred yards above his original
point of departure. The water here ran over rocks, and, for a space of
ten or fifteen yards, it was not more than four feet deep. The Indians
undoubtedly knew of this ford, and here they would attempt to cross.

He waded to the other side, rolled up the second blanket, crouched
behind rocks among dense bushes, ate more cold food, and waited. His
rifle lay across his knees, and, at all times, he watched the woods on
the far shore. He was the hunter now, the hunter of men, the most
dangerous figure in the forest, all of his wonderful five senses attuned
to the utmost.

The darkness faded away, as the dawn came up, silver and then gold.
Golden light poured down in a torrent on river, forest and hills. Every
leaf and stem sprang out clear and sharp in the yellow blaze. The
waiting youth never stirred. From his covert in the thicket behind the
rocks he saw everything. He saw a bush stir, when there was no wind, and
then he saw the face of the Indian chief Chaska, appear beside the bush.
After him came the remainder of the seven and they advanced toward the
ford.

Henry raised his rifle and aimed at Chaska. He picked a spot on the
broad and naked chest, where he could make his bullet strike with
absolute certainty. Then he lowered it. He could not fire thus upon an
unsuspecting enemy, although he knew that Chaska would have no such
scruples about him. Pursing his lips he uttered a loud sharp whistle, a
whistle full of warning and menace.

The seven sprang back among the bushes. The eighth on the other side of
the river lay quite still for a little while. Then a sudden puff of wind
blew aside some of the bushes and disclosed a portion of his cap. Chaska
who was the farthest forward of the seven saw the cap and fired. The
Indian is not usually a good marksman, and his bullet cut the bushes,
but Henry, who now had no scruples, was a sharpshooter beyond compare.
Chaska had raised up a little to take aim, and, before the smoke from
his own weapon rose, the rifle on the other side of the river cracked.
Chaska threw up his hands and died as he would have wished to die, on
the field of battle, and with his face to the foe. The others shrank
farther back among the bushes, daunted by the deadly shot, and the
hidden foe who held the ford.

Henry reloaded quietly, and then lay ver