“They’ve found out the trick,” came from Pep Frost. “But I reckon as how we’ve got the best o’ ’em, Joey—and thanks to your slickness.”
“Did you see those in the canoe?” queried the youth. “Mrs. Parsons and Harmony!”
“Harmony!” ejaculated Mr. Winship, and stopped short. “Are you sure?”
“Yes, father; Mrs. Parsons called her by name.”
“Then I had best go back——”
“No, no!” put in Pep Frost. “It would be worse nor suicide, friend Winship.”
“But my daughter—the redskins will——”
“I know, I know! But we must bide our time,” interrupted Pep Frost again. “Remember, there were seven redskins on shore and at least four more on the river. We can’t fight no sech band as thet.”
They had reached a small brook, and along this Pep Frost forced the father and son, more than half against their will. Yet both realized that the old pioneer was right—that to fight eleven of the foe under present circumstances would be out of the question.
The Indians were already on the trail and the whites could hear them rushing along the tracks left in the forest. At the brook they came to a halt and then the force divided, some going up the stream and some down.