United States were having a war-dance. At any rate, the man named Pat had told him to come; this seemed to be the best time; and, guided by the glow, he hurried for the river.
When he had struck the river well above the camp, the boats and the beach were ruddy. People had gathered about a huge fire. They were making music and dancing; and some were white men and others were Indians: Otoes! Chief Little Thief had arrived.
Somewhat fearing, but very determined, Peter cautiously waded out into the water, and from waist-deep slipping into the current silently swam down, down, outside the edge of the firelight, until obliquing in he might use the big boat as a shield. With his hand he felt along it; encountered a rope stretched taut from boat to water. Wah! Or—hoorah, he meant.
As neatly as a cat he swarmed up the rope and hoisted himself over the gunwale. Sprawling in, he dropped flat, to cower in the shadow of the mast. A dark figure, with a gun, had seen him—was making for him, from down the deck.
"Hist, Peter!" huskily spoke a voice. "'Tis Pat. Ye're all right. Stay where ye are, now!"
Yes, except for Pat, the sentry, all the big boat was deserted. There was a great time ashore. Crouched panting and dripping, Peter witnessed, from behind the mast. The shore was bright, the figures plainly outlined. There were the two white chiefs. Of
