“Come, Henry!” exclaimed Dave. “Follow us!”
“All right,” was the answer, and in a second more the three were running for the nearest patch of brushwood, loading their muskets as they ran.
As the new shelter was gained, two tall warriors leaped out to meet them. Tomahawks were raised, but Raymond swung his musket over his head and sent one Indian reeling to the earth. In the meantime the second warrior threw his tomahawk at Dave, but the youth dodged and before the red man could recover from his throw Henry was on him with the hunting knife he had carried since the breaking out of the war.
“That for you!” cried Henry, wild with excitement, and buried the knife in the Indian’s shoulder. The warrior sank with a groan; and in a moment more he and Henry were on the ground, in a fierce hand-to-hand struggle for life.
Dave was somewhat bewildered by the quickness of the various moves made, and when he could recover somewhat he found himself by Raymond’s side running up the lake shore. A fierce yell and shouting came from a distance, interspersed with gun and pistol shots.
“Whe—where is Henry?” he gasped.
“Reckon he is following us,” answered Raymond.
“Come on, don’t stop here. The Injuns will be after us ag’in in a minute or two.”
“But I don’t want to—to leave Henry behind.”
“Don’t worry but what he’ll follow, unless they kill him, Dave. Come, it’s suicide to stay here,” urged Raymond, and caught the youth by the hand and dragged him forward.