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The Pict had run his canoe in close to the shore, and staring up into the bushes, called out something. His answer came in the twang of the bow-string, the streaking flight of the arrow that sank to the feathers in his broad breast. With a choking gasp he slumped sidewise and rolled into the shallow water. In an instant Conan was down the bank and wading into the water to grasp the drifting canoe. Balthus stumbled after him and somewhat dazedly crawled into the canoe. Conan scrambled in, seized the paddle and sent the craft shooting toward the eastern shore. Balthus noted with envious admiration the play of the great muscles beneath the sun-burnt skin. The Cimmerian seemed an iron man, who never knew fatigue.
"What did you say to the Pict?" asked Balthus.
"Told him to pull into shore; said there was a white forest runner on the bank who was trying to get a shot at him."
"That doesn't seem fair," Balthus objected. "He thought a friend was speaking to him. You mimicked a Pict perfectly--"
"We needed his boat," grunted Conan, not pausing in his exertions. "Only way to lure him to the bank. Which is worse -- to betray a Pict who'd enjoy skinning us both alive, or betray the men across the river whose lives depend on our getting over?"
Balthus mulled over this delicate ethical question for a moment, then shrugged his shoulders and asked: "How far are we from the fort?"
Conan pointed to a creek which flowed into Black River from the east, a few hundred yards below them
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