The yells of the Indians now came closer, and fearful of being surrounded once more the backwoodsman and Dave plunged into the forest. They chose a point where the tall timber was thick, and they did not stop in their course until a hundred yards or more had been covered. Sheltered by some bushes, they reloaded their muskets, which had been discharged four times since the struggle began.
“This attack has been a bad one, lad,” said Raymond, who was breathing heavily. “Gilfoy is dead, and I saw Shamer go down, too.”
“And Henry?” panted the young solder. “Oh, do you think——” He could not go on.
“Let us hope for the best, lad.”
“If I thought I could help him I’d go back.”
“No, no, lad, don’t you try it. The Injuns are three or four to one, and you’ll lose your scalp just as sure as you are born.”
With great bitterness of mind, Dave was forced to realize that this was true. Yet, he could not bear to leave Henry to his fate.
“If he is killed I’ll never forgive myself,” he thought.
Listening intently, they heard the Indians moving around the neighborhood, evidently trying to pick up the trail the whites had left. Gradually they appeared to come closer.
“We must get out of here,” whispered Raymond. “Follow me, and don’t make a sound.”