“That is true,” broke in Shamer. “A good man is a good man, and a bad one is a bad one, no matter what his nationality. But I have no use for an Indian.”
“Well, there are some good Indians,” added Dave quickly. “White Buffalo, for instance. If he was here I am sure he would help us out of our trouble. But I can’t get Henry out of my mind,” he added, with a sigh.
Dave was glad enough to leave his cramped position in the tree and stretch himself at full length on a bed of dry leaves in the sunshine. So the balance of the day passed, with nothing coming to disturb them. Raymond half expected to see the old she bear, but she did not show herself, and he was content to let her remain with her cubs.
“How far is the trail to Fort Oswego from here?” asked the young soldier, when the darkness began to gather.
“Not over half a mile.”
“I was thinking I might get that far on a pinch. But even if we got to the trail, what then?”
“I’ve got a plan,” said Raymond. “I’ll carry you on my back. We can take our time, and we are bound to reach Fort Oswego sooner or later.”
“If we don’t fall into some redskins’ trap,” put in Shamer.
“Well, I suppose we must take some chances,” said Dave. “It is very kind to offer to carry me.”
The start was begun a short while later, Shamer carrying the guns and what was left of the provisions, and Dave perched on Raymond’s shoulders, for that was the manner in which the backwoodsman declare he could carry the load most comfortably.