They were crossing the meadow, and making a great noise, with Washington bravely toiling along beside Christopher Gist, as if determined upon a good finish, and with Robert the Hunter behind, trying to step in their tracks, when on a sudden the meadow and the woods around it echoed to a ringing “Bang!” and a ball hissed past Robert’s ear, and whined on.
The Indian had turned about, the smoke was oozing from his gun muzzle and the butt was still to his shoulder. From fifteen paces he had fired at Washington or at Gist.
Washington had stopped short.
“Are you shot, Gist?” he cried.
“No,” answered Gist. “Did the beggar fire upon us?”
“I think he did.”
“I’ll have his hair for that!” said Gist.
The Indian was running. He sprang behind an oak tree, and was loading. Gist threw off his pack and cocking his rifle was right after—feeling for his tomahawk as he ran.
Washington ran too, as best he could.
“Wait! Let him be a minute,” he shouted. “Till we see what he does next.”