“Help!” came in a woman’s voice. “Help!”
“Mrs. Dobson, by ginger!” ejaculated the old frontiersman. “What’s the matter with her?”
The fleeing woman was some distance away, and he made after her with all possible speed. She crashed through the bushes and he came after her.
“Mrs. Dobson!” he called. “What is the matter? Stop!”
His cries, and those of the frantic woman, aroused the entire camp, and Dobson himself came rushing toward Barringford, followed by Rodney.
The old frontiersman soon gained the immediate rear of the woman. As he did so, he heard a rush through the thickets ahead and caught a glimpse of an Indian. Then he saw another red warrior rise up from behind a rock, tomahawk in hand. This fellow made a leap for Mrs. Dobson, but before he could use his weapon, Barringford brought his long rifle into play and the Indian pitched forward, fatally wounded in the breast. The other Indian continued to run, and so did several others who could be heard but not seen, and soon their footsteps died away in the distance.
“Maria, what is it?” cried Asa Dobson, catching his wife by the arm. “What is it?” And he gave her a shake. Then he saw her open her eyes and stare at him. “Creation! Be you asleep?” he gasped.
“Asa! Oh, save me!” she screamed. “Save me from the Indians! Don’t let them scalp me!” Then she gazed around in bewilderment. “I—I thought we were at the fort and the Indians had come in after us,” she faltered.
“You were dreaming,” said her husband. “We are on the journey to Cumberland and Baltimore.”
“Yes, yes, I know; but—but——” She stared around her. “I—I—where is the tent, and the horses?”