At the end of the rest, Barringford crawled forward on hands and knees until he reached a large rock with a split in the center. Dave followed the old hunter. From this point they could see a detachment of the French behind some brushwood to their right. Down in the glade was Washington, trying to place the troops in order for retreat.
“They are going to fire on Washington!” cried Dave. Scarcely had he spoken when Barringford’s weapon rang out and one of the French soldiers fell.
The others looked toward the split in the rocks and just then Dave fired, but missed his mark. The French soldiers gave a yell and turned their aim on our friends. Several bullets hit the rocks and one cutting across Dave’s cheek left a mark which the lad carried to his grave.
“You are hurt!” cried Barringford.
“It’s nothing,” answered Dave, putting up his hand. “But we must get out of here!”
They fell down and crawled off, and were not a minute too soon, for presently the French came to the spot in a body. In the meantime the other Rangers had left the vicinity and now the grenadiers were in full retreat.
“Our men have moved in this direction,” said the old hunter, as they stopped to reload. “We had better go after them, or we’ll be left behind.”
“It’s hot work!” panted Dave. “I wish there was a brook handy, where I could wash my face and get a drink.”
But nothing was at hand, and he had to push on, with his face covered with blood, dust and gun soot, making him look as fierce as any Indian. The yelling kept on, and also the firing, but they noticed that both came from a considerable distance.
“This day is a loss to us,” said Barringford, sadly. “And Braddock is responsible. With all the soldiers in the woods we could have fought our way to the fort beyond a doubt.”