Tom Bantry had been a flatboatman since he was old enough to hold a pole, and now for the first time paused to consider how far he had gone down the road of sin. He was conscious of many evil deeds already performed, but the stain of blood was not upon his soul, and although pledged to his vile companion he could not stand by tamely and witness the murder of so good a man as Samuel Wescott. But his good intentions had come to naught, and the brave man was dead. The flatboatman rose and looked about him, a wicked light coming over his dark face. “They taught me evil, them cusses did,” he muttered. “I’d the making of a man in me, but they sp’iled me, and now they’ve killed as good a man as ever walked the earth. I’ll remember that ag’inst ye, old man Garrett.” He was literally worn out, and dropped down upon the grass and slept until morning. He woke at last and started up refreshed, only to find a party of white men were upon the opposite bank, and with his paint upon him, Tom knew that it would be far from safe to meet them, and he skulked away, keeping under cover of the bushes, and then made a circuit through the bushes, designing to cross their path and ascertain who they were. As he crept forward with that intention, he heard a slight rustling in the bushes in front, and the long, snake-like head of Napope appeared above the bushes, signaling him to fall back. He did so, involuntarily dropping his hand upon his knife, which he had not lost in the last night’s struggle in the stream, when he remembered that Napope regarded all his party as friends and that he still wore the garb of an Indian. He dropped back and the next moment Napope joined him. “The white dogs come,” he said, in a fierce tone, “and the heart of a chief is big in his bosom. They shall die without knowledge.” “Who are they?” demanded Tom. “They are white and they are not the friends of Jackwood the son of Red-Bird. Where is your gun, my brother?” “I lost it last night,” replied Tom, a little embarrassed. “Let me look out and see what white men come.” He advanced to the edge of the woods and looked out, and could detect a white party moving hastily across the plain. Foremost among them was a man whom he had known well some years before, Cooney Joe, and behind him came Captain Melton and his gallant men, and it flashed through the mind of Tom Bantry that they were in pursuit of Dick Garrett. His heart stood still, for a backward glance showed him fifty stout Sacs, armed to the teeth, lying under the bushes waiting for the coming of the hated white men. Twenty-four hours ago Tom Bantry would have delighted in this, but now he was changed, and racked his brains for ways and means to acquaint them with the ambush before them, without destruction to himself.