Hunting Near Burnt Hills (3)

Hearing no reply from his companion, Lewis began to fear the worst. Indians had attacked and Cruzatte was captured or lay dead or dying somewhere in the nearby woods. The crack of the rifle appeared not to have been from more than forty or fifty paces away. "How many were out there? Behind which bushes were they hiding?" If Cruzatte were able, he would have surely responded. Quickly sizing up the prospect of an unpleasant consequence should he remain where he was, Lewis beat a hasty retreat. Hollering for Cruzatte all the way, he made for the river as fast as his injuries permitted and alerted the others to the danger at hand. Grabbing their rifles they followed the Captain back into the forest, determination set hard across their faces. Cruzatte must be rescued.

The pain and stiffness from his injuries was overtaking him and Lewis realized that he was not going to be able to keep up. Directing the men onward to where the attack had taken place he dragged himself back to the pirogue and canoes. There he waited, armed with a pistol, a rifle and an air gun resolved that his life would not come at a bargain, but only be let go of at a very high price. Within twenty minutes, however, the rescue party returned, the missing Cruzatte and an elk carcass among them. Looking as fit as any man who had occasion to spend a couple of years in the wild, Cruzatte was very much alive --his rescuers reported not even the slightest hint of a single Indian anywhere in sight.

Though his hearing was not impaired, Cruzatte denied having heard Lewis' yelling. He was equally adamant about the fact that he had indeed felled the elk, which the rescue party had recovered, after the two had separated. Still more vehemently he denied having shot Lewis, even unintentionally, and became quite agitated over the suggestion that such could be true. Lewis was not convinced.