"Perhaps I'm going to die," he thought, and then uttered a silent prayer that his life might be spared, and that he might return to his family and friends in safety.
The hole into which Dave had stumbled was only a few feet deep and the bottom was covered with dead leaves, making a fairly comfortable couch, even though damp. Overhead all was dark, and he knew that it was night.
His first rational thought was to get back to the camp of the soldiers—providing they still had a camp. But the moment he tried to stand on his feet the pain in his side came back. His under garments were saturated with blood, but fortunately the wound had now stopped bleeding.
"I—I can't do it!" he groaned. "I've got to stay here."
He wondered what had become of Barringford and the other rangers, and at the risk of being discovered by the Indians, set up a faint call for help. But no answer came back. The silence was complete, for the sounds of battle had driven even the birds and larger game away.
An hour or more went by—Dave had no means of measuring time—and slowly it began to grow lighter. With a painful effort the youth stood up in the hole and gazed about him.
It was a fatal move, for at that moment three Indians, each slightly wounded, came limping into view. As one saw Dave he uttered a shout to his companions, and all drew their tomahawks.
"Don't!" cried Dave, as one of the red men was about to hurl his hatchet. "Don't!" And he threw up both hands, to show that he was unarmed.
The tomahawks were lowered and in curiosity the Indians gathered around the hole. One wanted to scalp Dave and brandished his knife for that purpose, but the others stopped him.
"Let us take him to Chief Moon Eye," said one. "He may have something of importance to tell."