"Into the brushwood," said Barringford, and made a leap over some low bushes. Dave followed, and both went plunging straight into the heart of the wilderness, over rough stones and fallen trees, and then downward, into a gully where the overhanging bushes soon hid them from view.
The Indians were now in full pursuit. As Flabig had said, there were from fifteen to twenty of them, and they belonged to the Seneca tribe that had just left Venango in ashes and killed the majority of the garrison attached to that post. They were skillful warriors and bent upon killing or capturing Dave and Barringford at any cost.
But the old frontiersman did not intend to be taken, and once in the gully he did not stop, but continued to push forward until he reached a series of rough rocks. Up these he climbed, and finding an overhanging branch, drew himself up into the tree and called on Dave to follow. Then they climbed to the other side of the tree, dropped behind more bushes, and continued their flight.
Dave gave a sigh of relief.
"Reckon as thet will throw 'em off the trail, or, leas'wise, give 'em a bit o' huntin' to do afore they pick it up ag'in," observed the old frontiersman. "But we've got to leg it good an' strong, or we'll be their game, sure pop."
Nearly a mile more was covered before they slackened their pace. They had reached a stony brook, and along this watercourse they walked, to conceal their trail again. Then, coming to a cliff of overhanging rocks, they found a fine shelter, and here stopped to rest.
"Poor Flabig," murmured Dave. "He certainly didn't deserve that fate."
"He's better off than if he was captured an' tortured," returned Barringford. "Kinder winded, eh, Dave?"
"Just a little. It was a stiff run."
"It war a run fer life, lad, nuthin less. I seed at onct it wouldn't do to take a stand—they war too many fer us. I hope they don't find their way here."