Some one had fired a shot.  At once the thicket was filled with armed men.  Some unknown member of the boat party, standing on the deck behind the leader, had fired at a movement seen in the willows twenty yards away.  The aim was true.  A groan was answer to the shot, even before the exclamation of the leader was made.  Young Desha fell back, shot through the body.  His friends at first did not know that any one had been hurt, but to lie still under fire ill suited their wild temper.  With a common impulse, and without order, they emptied their guns into the mass of dark figures ranged along the beach.  The air was filled with shouts and curses.  The attacking party advanced.  The narrow beach of sand and mud was covered with a struggling mass of fighting men, of which neither party knew the nature of the other, and where the combatants could scarce tell friend from foe.

“Get in, men!” cried Dunwody.  “Go on!  Take the boat!” He pressed on slowly, Judge Clayton at his side, and they two passed on up the gang-plank and into the boat itself.  The leader of the boat forces, who had retired again to the steamer deck, faced them here.  It was Dunwody himself who reached out, caught him in a fell grip and took away from him his rifle.

“Call your men off!” he cried.  “Do you all want to get killed?”

“You pirates!” exclaimed the boat leader as soon as he could get his breath.  “What do you mean by firing on us here?  We’re peaceable men and on our own business.”

Dunwody stood supporting himself on his rifle, the stock of it under his arm.  “You call this peace!” he said.  “We didn’t intend to attack you.  We’re after a fugitive slave.  I’m a United States marshal.  You’ve killed some of our men, and you fired, first.  You’ve no right—­Who are you?” he cried, suddenly pushing closer to his prisoner in the half light.  “I thought I knew your voice!  You—­Carlisle—­What are you doing here?”

[Illustration:  “Who are you?” he cried suddenly.]

“I’m about my business,” rejoined that young officer curtly.  “I’ve been on your trail.”

“Well, you’ve found me,” said Dunwody grimly.  “You may wish you hadn’t.”

The Northerner was not in the least subdued, and remained fearless as before.  “That’s fine talk!” he said.  “Why haven’t we a right here?  We’re on a navigable stream of the United States, in free waters and in a free country, and we’re free to do as we propose.  We’re under a free flag.  What do you mean by firing into us?”

“You’re not navigating the river at all,” retorted Judge Clayton.  “You’re tied up to Missouri soil.  The real channel of the river is away out yonder, and you know it.  We’re inside our right in boarding you.  We want to know who you are and what you are doing here, an army officer, at the head of men armed in this way.  We’re going to search this boat.  You’ve got property of mine on board, and we’ve the legal right to take it, and we’re going to take it.  You’ve killed some of our posse.”