“Stop!” roared a voice, in French, and a rifle rang out. The bullet this time struck Peaceful Jones in the left shoulder, inflicting an ugly and painful wound. He gave a grunt, mounted the sharp points of the palisade, and dropped outside. Then, with all the strength that was left to him, he started for the nearest patch of timber, sixty yards distant. As he entered the timber some more arrows flew towards him, but went shy of their mark. The trapper was now weak from the loss of blood, which was flowing down from his shoulder to his hand. But he staggered on, knowing that he now had no time to stop and bind up his wound. He rushed straight into the forest and staggered onward until he came to a clump of low-branched trees. Then, to “cut the trail,” as it was called, he pulled himself up into the trees by his uninjured arm and climbed from one tree to another, and so on, until a hundred feet had been covered. Then he dropped on some rocks, which the wind had swept clear of snow, and went forward as before, gritting his teeth, to keep himself from fainting from loss of blood. It was well for Peaceful Jones that night was coming on, and in the depths of the forest it was growing dark. Plucky though he was to the last degree, he was but human, and now felt that he might drop from sheer exhaustion at any moment. He looked for some sort of a hiding-place, and reaching a cedar tree growing in a split of the rocks, dove under it. For a good quarter of an hour the trapper did little but hold his hand tightly over his wound and pant for breath, leaning against the tree in the meanwhile with eyes closed. He could do nothing more to save himself, and was in that condition of mind when capture or escape meant little or nothing to him. But as his breath came back to him, and none of the Indians or Frenchmen appeared, a spark of hope came to his breast. He tore off his heavy coat and his hunting shirt and examined the wound from which he had suffered the most. The bullet had passed directly through the flesh and some lint was sticking in the wound. He took out the lint, cleaned the wound with soft snow, and bound it up as best he could with a handkerchief and a bandage he carried for emergencies. Then he drew on his hunting shirt once more and his coat, closed his eyes, and fell back in a sort of stupor. It was pitch-dark when Peaceful Jones came to himself once more. At a distance he heard a murmur of voices. Some Indians and a Frenchman were holding a conversation. “I can see nothing of a trail,” said one of the Indians, in his native tongue. “I doubt if he came this way.” “He must not be allowed to get away,” said the Frenchman, also in the Indian tongue. “Dead men are best, since they tell no tales.” “Are the others all dead?” asked another Indian. “Dead or dying.” “It was lucky that Moon Eye discovered their coming in time,” said the first Indian who had spoken. “We set a nice trap for them.”