Joseph Morris and Dave were overjoyed to see Henry back again and gave the youth a warm greeting. Torches were lit, and a list made of the dead and wounded, and the latter were made as comfortable as possible.
“I vote to go after Jean Bevoir,” said Dave. “I must catch that man and make him tell me all he knows about father.”
“An’ I am with ye, lad,” said Barringford. “It ain’t right to let thet hound git away. He has caused all o’ us trouble enough.”
“We cannot go away and leave the post alone,” said Joseph Morris. “Bevoir might come back in the meantime and take possession.”
“We can fool him,” said Dave. “Let us raise the gate and fasten it in some manner and then leave a few men on guard. He won’t know but what all of us are inside.”
This was considered a good plan, and leaving the dead where they had fallen, those able to work quickly set the broken gate into place and propped it fast with some heavy logs. Then seven of the party, including the planter, Barringford, Dave, and Henry, left the post and took to the forest in the direction Jean Bevoir and his followers had gone.
“Be careful,” warned Sam Barringford. “We don’t want to run into a trap. Remember, Jean Bevoir is foxy, an’ always was.”
The night was still fairly clear, and they followed the trail through the wet snow with ease. Evidently the Frenchman had not imagined that he would be pursued, and so had not taken any precautions to hide his tracks. The trail led straight forward for nearly a mile, then curved in the direction of the river.
“I believe he is bound for that Indian village I was at,” said Henry, who had, during the brief rest at the post, donned some dry clothing. “Perhaps he hopes to get aid there. Well, he will be disappointed, I think, although I am not sure.”
As they drew closer to the village they advanced with increased caution, and each member of the party looked to make sure that his weapons were in proper order. All were tired out, and each was more or less wounded, but none thought of giving up the task they had undertaken.