st no protection. Still they fought stubbornly
on, answering shot with shot until the point and canoes were shrouded
in a fog of smoke.

"They see the young Indian, they see him," cried Charley in an agony of
suspense. "Look, look, they are all shooting at him."

The young Indian had passed out of the smoke pall, but his flight had
not been undetected; some of the convicts, with an eye out for just
such escapes, had drawn back to higher ground where they could see
above the smoke which hung close to the water. These at once gave the
alarm, and a shower of bullets began to rain around the dugout.

The Indian lad stood stoically at his poling, not even glancing back,
and paying no more attention to the hail of bullets than if they were
so many flies. The little Seminole seemed to bear a charmed life,
bullets struck the pole he was handling, and again and again they sent
out splinters flying from the sides of the dugout itself, but still he
shoved steadily ahead.

"By the ghost of the Flying Dutchman," shouted the captain, "he is
going to get away from them. Two hundred feet more and their bullets
won't hurt if they hit."

"He's hit," cried Charley, a second later; "watch him."

The Indian lad had given a sudden, involuntary start and one hand went
to his head, he sank to his knees, struggled to rise, then slowly and
gently slipped down; a huddled heap in the bottom of his canoe, while
an exultant yell rose from the convicts' camp.

Charley's face was white and haggard, but his voice was steady and cool
as he turned to the captain. "Please go to my saddle-bags. You'll
find two rockets there. Set them both off; that will bring Walter, and
we will have need of him soon. I am going after that Indian and bring
him in dead or alive. You and Chris had better mount guard again at
the wall; those cut-throats will be here soon."

One look at Charley's face convinced the captain that remonstrances
were useless, so, with a hearty squeeze of the lad's hand, he turned
away to his duties.

Charley unmoored one of the canvas canoes and, taking his place in the
stern, with a mighty shove of the paddle drove it far out into the
stream.

"Massa Charley, my own Massa Charley, going to be killed," wailed
Chris, giving way to his fears and grief with the emotionalism of his
race.

The captain shook him vigorously. "Shut up," he said, roughly, partly
to hide his own feelings, "Charley's comin' back without a scratch.
T