His whole memory came back in a flash, and he looked toward the river.

Far down the stream, and near the middle of it, was a black dot that, even as he looked, became smaller, and disappeared.

It was the flatboat with its living freight, and Paul's heart, despite his own desperate position, leaped up with joy.
From the river he glanced back at the Indian faces near him, and so far as he could tell they bore no signs of triumph.

Nor could he see any of those hideous trophies they would have been sure to carry in case the ambush had been a success.

No! the triumph had been his, not theirs.