Tom Gordon, quickly recovering his power over himself, drew his own pistol and jumped forward. But he could not use it. The two wrestlers, almost equal in strength, went down in the wet grass, and whirled over and over. There was hard breathing, muttered threats, and sharp cracking of sticks under their straining bodies. They rolled over, toward the very edge of the river bank, and Tom gave voice to a low cry of alarm. The bank edge gave way, under their weight, and the two, still locked fast in each other’s arms, tumbled swiftly down the slope toward the water. Unluckily, Bill Brown’s tight grip was partly broken by the violence of the unexpected tumble. Taking instant advantage of this, the burly Fagan tore loose from the scout’s clutch, bounced to his feet, and fled down the level strip of sand that bordered the channel. In a trice, Brown was up and after him, running as hard as he could. Meantime, Ben Gordon and Bright Star had emerged from the timber. Just as they did so, a shrill whoop arose from upstream, another and then several more. The sound of the pistol shot had brought three Indians running to the scene. One of them, who carried a musket, fired quickly. It would have been Ben Gordon’s last moment, had not the brave been so hasty that he did not take careful aim. As it was, the boy heard the lead pellet singing a little warning in his ear as it passed. “The Prairie Wolf!” cried Ben, whirling about to face the new danger. Up flew his rifle. A humming bullet narrowly missed the Wolf; but struck one of the other Sacs in the arm. With a wild howl of fear the fellow dove into the nearby thicket. The third brave was quick to follow suit, fairly trampling the heels of the wounded warrior, as they both scrambled to safety in the brush screen. “Ugh,” rasped Bright Star, pulling his keen knife from its leathern sheath. The sight of the gleaming blade, together with the grim expression on the face of the dauntless young Pottawattomee, was too much for the hulking Prairie Wolf. With a yelp of thwarted rage the Sac flung aside his empty musket and darted into the bushes. Bright Star swiftly bounded forward, at the same time putting two fingers of his free left hand across his mouth and giving utterance to a long, quavering cry that was full of taunting triumph. Then he slipped into the dense thicket, hot on the trail of the vaunted Wolf. At this, Ben and Tom Gordon again whirled about, and turned their attention once more to Bill Brown’s pursuit of big Pat Fagan. “They’re gone!” gasped Tom. “Around the bend!” yelled his brother. “Let’s go!”