At this moment a shot rang out in the frozen air, and a bullet made a clean hole through George’s buckskin cap. One glance showed him an Indian crouching in the brushwood. With a spring as quick and sure as a panther’s, George had the savage by the throat, and wrenched the firelock, still smoking, from his hand. Behind him half a dozen Indian figures were seen stealing off through the trees. Lance walked up, and, raising a hatchet over the Indian’s head, said, coolly: