“You must not think of standing on that hurt leg yet,” answered Colonel Boone. “I am going out myself, in company with Jerry Wright and several others of our best marksmen. We shall do our best to bring your family and the others to this fort in safety.”
“Thank you, Colonel,” answered Peter Parsons. “If you’ll do that I will rest content. When do you calculate to start?”
“Early to-morrow morning.”
Daniel Boone was as good as his word, and the party of five was several miles away from the fort by the time the sun rose. Each man was mounted on a good horse, and the only stop made that day was for the midday meal, and to feed and water the steeds.
For several days nothing out of the usual occurred excepting that they found the remains of several Indian camp-fires, which showed that the red men were in that vicinity in force.
“Perhaps they are gathering to attack the party under this Ezra Winship,” said Jerry Wright, who had been a great friend of Boone’s son—the one who had been killed—and who was well liked by the great hunter himself.
“I trust not, Jerry,” replied Daniel Boone. “We want no more massacres here.”
It was then that the great rainstorm came on, and during this Jerry Wright’s horse ran away from him. The young hunter went after the steed, and in the darkness became separated from his companions. His trail was discovered by some Indians, and before he could recover his horse he was discovered and the Indians set upon him with fierce shouts. He tried to defend himself, but was wounded, and then the red men made him their captive.
Jerry Wright fully expected death at the hands of his enemies, but it did not come, and watching his chance, he escaped from the Indians and ran for the river. Here he swam out to a floating tree and crawled on top; and it was from this position of peril that Harry rescued him, as already described in the last chapter.