“I had what ye might call a putty clost shave,” said Barringford. “They got me down an’ one o’ the rascals war a-goin’ to sculp me when Moon Eye cuts in an’ says to let me alone—he would torture me into tellin’ em’ some o’ the white folks’ secrets—about the fort an’ the soldiers on the march, an’ sech. They war a-goin’ to burn me at a stake—jest as them Injuns war goin’ to burn me when I war on my way to Detroit with Dave,—when White Buffalo plays a trick on ’em.”
“What did he do, Sam?”
“Got one o’ his followers to wave a torch from some rocks. The feller war kivered with a white blanket an’ I reckon they took him fer a ghost. When Moon Eye’s crowd war lookin’ at the figger in white, White Buffalo come up to me, fixed up as one o’ the enemy, an’ cuts me loose. I didn’t know him myself till he spoke. The disguise did the trick, and we got away into the forest. Then I dropped, I war thet weak, and they brung me here. Then he said he would do what he could fer ye—an’ he must have kept his word, or ye wouldn’t be here,” concluded the old frontiersman.
White Buffalo had mentioned another spot—down the river—where the party of whites might wait until morning for the Delawares to join them. Helping Sam Barringford upon one of the horses that had been carrying supplies, they set off for the place mentioned, reaching it without mishap just as day was breaking.
By this time the entire party was so worn out that half the number were glad to throw themselves down to rest, leaving the others on guard for two hours, when they were relieved by their companions. A light breakfast was served, no campfire being lit for fear the smoke might attract the attention of the enemy.
It was well toward noon when White Buffalo came in, he and his followers having had to make a wide detour, in order to escape another encounter with Moon Eye. White Buffalo had been struck in the left forearm by a tomahawk, an ugly but not a serious cut, and one brave had received an arrow in the fleshy part of the leg.
“Do you think they are coming this way?” was Rodney’s first question.
“There is no telling what they will do next,” answered the aged Indian chief. “White Buffalo and his followers drew them as far northward as possible—we could do no more. Rodney had better travel eastward as fast as he can. In that direction alone lies safety.”
Without delay the march was once more begun, first to a fording spot across the stream and then directly eastward. They moved onward until long after sunset, covering at least fifteen miles, over a broken deer trail that was rough in the extreme. On the way one horse—that carrying Nell and little Tom—stepped into a hole and went down, throwing both children into the bushes.
“Are you hurt, Nell?” asked Rodney, rushing up in alarm.