“This ends the hope of releasing father, if he is alive,” returned Dave, sadly.
They went on, until they came to another clump of brushwood. Here they found two Rangers, each badly wounded and moaning because of his hurts.
“Dobley!” cried Barringford, as he recognized one of the unfortunates. “This is rough on ye.”
“Save me, Barringford,” answered the man addressed. “Don’t let the Indians come and scalp me.”
“Save me, too,” put in the other Ranger.
Barringford and Dave came to a halt and gazed at each other in perplexity. They were perfectly willing to save the men, but how could it be done?
“I can carry one of ’em,” said the old hunter to Dave. “But the other——”
“I will see what I can do,” answered the young soldier. “Perhaps we can get to some sort of safe place.”
Slinging their rifles over their backs, they took up the wounded Rangers and placed them over their shoulders. Then Barringford struck out through the forest, hoping to make a wide detour and thus gain the river at the point to which the main body of the English army was retreating.
A hundred yards were covered, when a wild yelling sounded out close at hand, and in a twinkle the little party was surrounded. Several shots rang out and the Ranger Dave was carrying was instantly killed. Then Dave himself felt a sudden sharp pain in the back of the head and pitched forward insensible.