The sturdy youth now realized that he had a life or death struggle before him. No one was at hand to give him aid, and if he was to be saved he must do it himself. As he came up once more he clutched at the under surface of the ice and felt around until he found something of an opening. Then, with might and main, he pulled himself up, until his head and shoulders were out of the water. It was high time, for he could no longer hold his breath. The ice was all around him, but so rotten that it threatened at every instant to break away and let him down again. He was less than ten yards from the bank of the river, but try his best he could make no headway toward safety. As Henry was wondering how long he could stand the cold and keep from losing his grip something along the shore attracted his attention. He gave a closer look and saw three Indians stealing along. That they were enemies he had not the slightest doubt, yet he hailed their appearance with a certain sense of joy. They could save him, even though they might make him their prisoner once more. “Help!” he called, as loudly as he could. “Help!” The Indians were at first startled by the call, and in a trice fled behind some trees and out of sight. But then they saw the youth’s head and noted his plight and came forth and ran to the edge of the river bank. “Help me!” went on Henry. “Do not let me drown!” “We help,” grunted one of the Indians, and threw out a lasso he chanced to be carrying. It fell within Henry’s reach, and he quickly grasped it. Then the three red men hauled him to a place of safety. “My friend Henry!” cried one of the red men, in amazement. “White Buffalo!” gasped the youth. “Can it be possible? How came you here?” “White Buffalo is journeying to the trading post. He heard that harm had befallen his old friends,” answered the old chief of the Delawares. “Is his friend Henry alone?” “Yes. I was out with Sam Barringford, and we were captured by some unfriendly Indians,” returned Henry, and related his story in detail, to which White Buffalo listened with close attention. Then the chief asked about Joseph Morris, Dave, and also about Jean Bevoir and Moon Eye. “Bevoir and Moon Eye are snakes, not fit to live,” said White Buffalo. “A runner brought me the news of what was being done. If they have slain my friend James Morris both of them shall die. White Buffalo swears it by the Great Spirit.” “Have you only these two warriors with you?” “No, close at hand White Buffalo has two score men—the flower of his warriors. Our tribe is united and in the future all will fight only for the English. We shall aid in driving the French and the bad Indians from the land.” “Good for you!” cried Henry. The news made his heart give a bound. “If you intend to help us, the quicker you get to the trading post the better.”