Their predicament was hardly less dangerous than half an hour previous. They were further from their foes, but the latter had them within an arc, with the lake-shore for a base.
To get out of this was the point. They began a hurried consultation; but it was quickly brought to an end. Behind them, and on either flank the Indians were approaching rapidly. That the latter were aware of their position, was evident from their bold movements.
The rangers glided directly forward, from tree to tree. Presently the ball was opened by the discharge of several rifles behind them. A bullet grazed the arm of Ben Mace, the others were untouched. Then came a chorus of fierce, loud yells, enough to curdle the blood; but not of these men, who were now on a full run.
They knew ten minutes would bring them into the denser portion of forest, skirting the lake. Once there, a better chance would open for concealing themselves or stealing past their enemies.
“Spread out!” said Mace. “Thar’ll be less chance o’ bein’ hit.”
“Let us turn on dthe domd apes,” cried Tim Devine, as a bullet grazed his shoulder. “Dthey be on us in a minnit.”
“No; r-r-r-r-run, durn ye!” blurted Hill.
A peculiar whistle at this moment rung out at quite a distance ahead. All knew it was that of Scarred Eagle, and pressed on for life.
Three minutes later.
“I—say—Mace, what d’ye think of—”