"We'll spread out in a straight line, due north," he said. "Each man about thirty yards from the next. Then we can beat up the timber thoroughly. Don't fire until you're sure of what you are doing, for to kill a friendly Indian just now would be the worst thing we could do. General Johnson would never forgive you for it. He had hard enough work to make 'em come over to us."
It fell to Henry's lot to skirt the shore of the lake, with Barringford next to him. The way was easy where the trail ran close to the water, but at other points was exceedingly difficult, for big stones and thick brushwood frequently blocked his progress.
"Phew! but this is no child's play!" he muttered to himself, as he came out on a point of the shore where the sun blazed down fiercely. "A fellow couldn't feel any hotter plowing corn or turning hay. I'd rather go swimming than hunt up Indians, I must confess."
His soliloquy was broken by the flitting of something from one tree to another, some distance ahead. The movement was so rapid, and the distance so great, that he could not settle in his mind what the object had been.
"Was that an Indian, or some big wild bird?" he asked himself. Drawing back into the shelter of some bushes he held his gun ready for use, and gazed ahead with much interest.
The sun was now well down in the west, so his shadow fell in front of him as he gazed eastward. Of a sudden another shadow loomed up beside his own. He turned, but before he could defend himself, he was hauled back and his gun was wrenched from his grasp. He tried to cry out, but a red hand was instantly clapped over his mouth.
Henry tried his best to free himself but it was useless. Two brawny warriors had attacked him, and now one of the redmen flourished a long hunting knife in his face, at the same time muttering some words of warning in a guttural tone. Henry did not understand the language spoken, but he knew what was meant—that he would be killed if he attempted to either fight or cry out—and so for the time being he lay still.
At a distance the young soldier heard the sounds of footsteps, and he rightfully surmised that Barringford was continuing his journey forward, with the rest of the rangers. Soon the sounds died away and all became as silent as the grave.
But the Indians did not wish to take any chances and so the one with the knife continued to stand over the young soldier until his companion was certain the whites had gone on. Then he emitted a short and peculiar bird-like whistle.
In less than two minutes fully a dozen warriors appeared on the scene, crawling from behind logs and rocks and from holes among the tree roots. All came forward and gazed curiously at the prisoner.