“Hish!” said a voice. “Crunch down hyur all on ye, an’ not stir onless—”
The voice was that of Scarred Eagle. He had not a chance to finish the sentence, for a dark body of savages were rushing on, not ten yards away. He himself dashed away with Goodbrand, leaving the men crouched under the fallen timber.
Every one of them understood Scarred Eagle’s object. His plan was the bold one of trying to draw the entire posse of Indians past them, running the risk of escaping himself afterward. And, indeed, the bounds of himself and Goodbrand, as they sped away, were enough to convince the pursuers that all their victims were yet running. But to make the deception more perfect, a loud, excited voice cried:
“Now—to the lake-shore for y’ur lives!”
The next moment a number of savages rushed past, on either side of the concealed men, and four or five sprung directly over them. One of these, unfortunately for himself, slipped and fell beside them. But the incident was unheeded by his companions, and before they were a dozen bounds away, the hand of Ben Mace stilled the savage forever.
Then every man reloaded as quickly as it was possible to do in the gloom.
“What d’ye think, Mace?” whispered Revel.
“We might ’s well skim back an’ git ter the bivouac ef we kin. The woods ’pears ter be full on ’em, cuss ’em!”
“Just what I think. Less you an’ me an’ Dan, try to find poor Hank an’ the rest, an’ make stret back.”
“An’ laive Scarred Aigle is it?” said Tim. “Divil blow yees, pwhat wan of ye—”