“You’ve had a nightmare, and it did us a heap o’ good,” broke in Sam Barringford. “Your runnin’ around has scared off some redskins, I reckon.”
By this time half a dozen were near. They gazed at the red warrior whom Barringford had laid low.
“He is done for,” said Rodney. “He is too far gone even to question him.” But even as the young soldier spoke the red man raised up suddenly and flung his tomahawk squarely at Barringford. The fling was a weak one and the weapon fell short of its mark. Then the warrior sank back, gave a gasp, and was dead.
“Game to the last,” muttered Barringford. “Don’t know as I blame him. Might be I’d do likewise, ef one o’ the varmin plugged me,” he added philosophically.
It took several minutes for Mrs. Dobson to settle herself. Her husband stated that she often arose in her sleep. She had been terribly worked up over the red men ever since leaving Fort Pitt, and this had gotten on her nerves.
The alarm kept the entire camp “on edge” until daybreak. Barringford and two others made several tours in the immediate vicinity, but could see or hear nothing more of the enemy.
“They have either cleared out entirely, or else they know how to hide,” said the old frontiersman.
“Do you think it is the same party that Packerson met?” questioned Rodney.
“Like as not, Rodney. We ain’t seen or heard o’ anybody else on this trail.”
They went on as before, and the following forenoon made a discovery that filled even the stoutest of them with horror. Coming to a spot where the road led down to a ford over a good-sized brook they beheld a man lying beside a rock, with one ear gone and part of his scalp cut away. The man was shot through the body and was all but dead.