“Vibrator is all right. I didn’t furgit to keep her muzzle down, and her nipple dry. My powder is in a water-proof horn, and now I’ll see if I can’t check the speed o’ them ’ere critters afore they git in range for their bird-pickers.” As he concluded, the old scout thrust his rifle through the foliage, took a deliberate aim, and fired. Had a torpedo exploded under the advancing canoe, it could not have caused greater consternation than did the shot fired by Old Tumult. It was wholly unexpected by the enemy. Sherwood had convinced the savages that there was nothing to fear from the whites--that their firearms were rendered useless by the rain. But, when one of their number fell dead--shot through the head with a half-ounce ball--all their savage anticipations of a pair of scalps fled, and turning their canoe shoreward, they fled equally as fast. Old Tumult, with all the lion force of his lungs, gave vent to a triumphant, defiant yell, and a derisive, mocking laugh, that made the very blood of Dick Sherwood’s veins leap hot with rage, and burn with resentment. “That’ll be apt to set the hounds o’ Satan red-hot,” said the old scout, as the enemy disappeared in the flooded timber; “and we’ve got to keep a close look-out, fur they’ll try every way that their cunnin’ brain kin invent to git our skulps.” The new danger stimulated, rather than depressed, the spirit of our friends, and they began to view their situation in a rather novel light; but how long this would last was a question of doubt. True, the water was falling fast, still it would be several hours before they could set foot upon the island; and, without great precaution, in that time the enemy might bring to bear upon them some means that would dislodge them. The only difficulty that they experienced in their elevated retreat was the numbness of their limbs, occasioned by inactivity and the cramped position they were compelled to retain. Town. drew the wet charge from his rifle, and reloaded with powder from Old Tumult’s horn, and thus in a few minutes he had his piece ready for use. Something like an hour had passed after the defeat of Sherwood, when the attention of our flood-bound friends was attracted by a huge raft of driftwood coming down the river. It was some four hundred yards away when first discovered, and although a number of such rafts of flood-collected debris had passed down the river since daylight, this was the first one that attracted unusual attention from the keen eyes of Old Tumult. “Thar’s deviltry up, boy,” said the old scout; “that ’ere raft o’ wood and sich, looks a leetle suspicious.” “What do you judge from?” asked Town. “Wal, thar’s too many logs piled on top o’ one anuther; and when you see thar’s some brush and such, piled onto the logs, in a kind o’ a careless way, it’s true; but I would not be afraid to bet there war Ingins among that ’ere driftwood.”