CHAPTER VIII.
A MAN IN TROUBLE.
Dingle waited in the wood until morning, searching and signaling for Jenkins, but without success. He hoped at first that he had made his escape; but he was compelled, after carefully watching the village for a long time, to the belief that he had been captured. In fact, it was a certainty with the ranger. He understood the actions of the Shawnees well enough to be satisfied upon that point.
"Now, Dingle, what's to be done?" queried the ranger meditatively. "He's in their claws—that's a sure case, and it don't look right for you to leave him thar. But jest hold on a minute. The great moral question is this: which ar' to be saved—him or the whole settlements? Ef I stay h'yer, pokin' round for him, like as not, I'll get cotched myself—no, I won't either, for Dick Dingle don't get that thing done to him. The reds ar' goin' on a ha'r raise, that's sure; and they'll leave Jenkins till they come back afore they roast him. Consequently, he'll have time to look round and git acquainted with his friends, and p'r'aps make a bargain to let him off on a visit. No, Dingle, you must make tracks fur home powerful fast."
This decision arrived at, the ranger lost no time in putting it into execution. He knew he could not get much start of his enemies; and, although they would be armed at the settlement, yet it was imperatively necessary they should have more definite knowledge of the intended assault. Slinging his rifle over his shoulder, he turned his face to the south and plunged into the forest.
In the meantime Peter Jenkins had managed to fall into an unpleasant predicament.
Upon the departure of Dingle, he made up his mind to obey every letter of his instructions. Accordingly, he squeezed himself into the smallest space possible, and curled obediently up on the ground. He lay thus perhaps a half-hour, when he fell sound asleep. This was unintentional on his part; but the fatigue of the expedition, and the time he had passed, without slumber, were too much for him, and he finally succumbed.
He would have slept, in all probability, until the return of Dingle, had it not been for a purely accidental circumstance. As his slumbers grew more heavy, he gave two or three jerks, and finally straightened out upon his back. In doing this, he naturally threw his hands backward, and by the merest accident in the world, struck a toad that sat blinking a foot or two distant. The creature made a startled leap and plumped down square in his face, but immediately sprang off again. It, however, seemed to awaken Jenkins, who rose to the sitting position, and entirely unmindful of where he was, commenced talking, in a mumbling tone, to himself.
"Like to know who that feller was that hit me in the face. Liked to knocked me out of bed; s'pose it was Dingle, though—just like him—makes my nose feel awful cold. Queer a feller can't sleep when he wants to—all-fired mean to 'sturb a person that way. Lay over on your own side, Dick. Hello! he ain't here! Look at these bushes!—Thunderation! where am I?"