CHAPTER XXVII

AN ONLY WAY

When Antoine the bear so far forgot himself as to interfere in his master’s affairs, he, as usual, had occasion for after regret—­Pepin saw to that.

The Indians seized their rifles and ran up the slope to the narrow slit in the cliff that led to their eyrie, and which on the other side looked out upon the far-stretching prairie.  Pepin, calling Antoine all the unpleasant names he could think of, told him to follow, and waddled uphill after the redskins as fast as his late exertions and his short legs would allow him.  The Indians did not attempt to interfere with his movements.  Once there, he immediately saw the reason of the interruption.  Hurriedly retiring down the hill were three or four men, but whether whites or breeds it was difficult to determine.  He rather thought he recognised one burly form, and determined to make sure of the fact that very night.  He thought, however, it was quite excusable for any small party to retire.  Twenty men could have been picked off by one before they got half-way up.  It was as well for the strangers that the Indians had opened fire so soon, otherwise some of them might have been left behind.

That night Pepin disappeared without saying a word to any one.  The strange thing was that none of the Indians saw him go.  Two days passed and there was no sign or trace of him.  On the afternoon of the third day, when the two Indians on guard at the entrance of the Pass were busily engaged in quarrelling over some sort of rodent, nearly as large as a rat, Pepin suddenly rose up before them as if from the earth.  They flattened themselves against the sides of the cliff in order to allow him and Antoine to continue their royal progress.

Pepin sought out Dorothy.  She was at her usual place on the edge of the precipice that looked down upon the deep, divided channels of the great river.  She turned on hearing the deep breathing of Pepin and the shambling of Antoine as they passed over some loose gravel behind her.  She rose to her feet with a little cry of welcome.  There was something in the dwarfs face that spoke of a settled purpose and hope.  Their late awkward meeting was quite forgotten.

There was a by no means unkindly look on the dwarfs face as he seated himself beside Dorothy, and told her how he had slipped out of the Indian camp unobserved three nights before, and how, going back to Croisettes down the river, where he had left his mother, he had fallen in with her friends, who had been rescued by British troops from Poundmaker’s clutches and sent to stay there out of harm’s way while the soldiers pursued the scattered and flying Indians.  Pepin having told them that Dorothy was for the time being safe, though in Jumping Frog’s hands, they of course wanted to start out at once to rescue her, but that was promptly negatived by Pepin.  Such an attempt might only precipitate her fate.  It