“Oh, Joe, are you shot?” cried Harry in keen alarm.
“I—I reckon not,” stammered his companion, as soon as he could recover from the shock. “But why did you fire over my shoulder like that? It was only a jack-rabbit.”
“I didn’t mean to fire. The gun—hark!”
Harry stopped short and both listened. From a distance they could hear one Indian calling to another. Then followed a crashing through some undergrowth.
“They are after us sure!” ejaculated Harry. “Come on.”
Both broke into a run without waiting for Harry to reload. As they went on, they heard more firing at a distance, and then a long yell that they knew could mean but one thing.
“The Indians are on the warpath!” exclaimed Joe. “There can be no doubt of it—they have attacked the camp.”
“How many do you suppose there are of them?”
“There is no telling. But if they number a dozen or more it will surely go hard with all of our party, Harry.”
They calculated that they had covered half the distance to the camp when they reached something of a hollow. Here the undergrowth was extra heavy and the ground wet and uncertain, and before they realized it they were in a bog up to their ankles.