“Yes. Of course I think they are on guard already, but we are not sure of it. And if the redskins fall on them by surprise they’ll kill all of the men folks, and kill the women and children too, or carry them off.”
“Then let us try to get back to camp, no matter how perilous it is.”
“I’m willing.”
It was not long after this that they were on the lowest branch of the tree. They strained eyes and ears for some sign of the Indians, but none appeared. Joe was the first to drop to the ground, and Harry speedily followed.
From the top of the tree they had “located themselves” with care, and now they struck out in the darkness directly for the camp.
“We are taking our lives in our hands,” was the way in which Joe expressed himself. “But it cannot be helped. I don’t want to see the others suffer if we can do anything that will save them.”
“Right you are, Joe,” was his companion’s reply.
Fortunately for the boys there was but little undergrowth in that portion of the great forest, and the ground was comparatively level. The trees, five to fifteen feet apart, grew up tall and as straight as so many arrows. Some had stood there for many, many years, and it did not seem possible that these veterans were later on to fall beneath the stroke of the woodman’s ax, to make way for the farmer and his crops.
But if brushwood was wanting, exposed roots were not, and more than once one boy or the other would go sprawling in the darkness.
“By George, what a fall!” panted Harry, after a tumble that had laid him flat on his breast. “It—it knocked the wind right out of me.”