“What’s the matter?” exclaimed Tom, staring about him as though he had just awakened to a sense of his perilous condition.
“The Blackfeet are after you.”
“Where?”
“Everywhere,” replied Hammond, somewhat excitedly; “there are two or three coming up the stream, and several coming down. They are trying to surround you, and if you remain here five minutes longer, you are a dead man.”
“I ain’t killed quite so easy as that,” said Tom, somewhat sullenly. “Ef thar ar’ any red-skins that ar’ goin’ to make a dead man of me, jest fetch ’em along; that’s what’s the matter.”
“Follow me, and don’t wait an instant,” commanded Hammond, fairly seizing upon him.
Instead of running either up or down-stream, the young man led the way to the high, steep side of the valley, which was thickly wooded, and extended full five hundred feet upward from where they stood.
Up this the two hounded like goats, half crawling and climbing through the wood and undergrowth, until, panting and almost exhausted, they reached the high ground above, where they paused awhile to gain their breath before proceeding further in this dangerous territory.
They had penetrated such a distance that they were effectually concealed from the view of whatever Indians there might be in the valley below, although, of course, the red-skins could easily follow their trail.
They stood a moment in silence, and then, when they had recovered their breath, Hammond placed his hand familiarly upon the shoulder of the trapper, and said, earnestly and kindly: