He trotted, searching for the glimmer of the letter. The woods were beginning to echo. If he could find that letter, and hide it—huzzah! He had it, he had it! And he picked it up and he turned with a bound, and to a burst of view-halloo from the leading scouts he bolted full speed. Perhaps he could get off, after all.
He went leaping, straining, scudding like a hare, with the shouts in gleeful pursuit. So once again he was fleeing, as he had fled the Cherokee; but it took better legs now to catch Robert the Hunter—fifteen years old, hard and lean and bred to the woods the same as an Indian.
Up slope and down slope and through the levels he plunged; and the shouts seemed to string out behind him. He doubled and side-stepped, and broke his trail, and by this gained time; and he ever had his eyes alert for a tree or a rock ledge where he might cover up long enough to throw the enemy off the scent.
His legs were getting heavy, and his breath was short. From another slope he looked back upon his trail. Ugh! Two Ottawas were closing in upon him—they were plain in sight of him, and he was plain in sight of them. They had appeared suddenly, they shouted and he glanced aside and he saw another Indian (a Huron) burst from cover on his right as by a short cut, to head him off.
The Ottawas were not shooting, but the Huron dashed on with hatchet lifted. And Robert swerved a little and in last spurt legged again. He could not throw the letter away here, before the eyes of Ottawas and Hurons. Now all he hoped for was to win the top of the slope, and dive over and get rid of the letter there. Then they could capture him and do what they pleased with him.
The Huron whooped shrilly. The slope rang to the cries of him and the Ottawas. The cries ceased; the pursuit was saving breath—glancing behind again Robert saw the Huron bearing in, his painted face a-scowl, his skin sweaty, his hatchet raised. The top of the slope loomed with thick brush into which a boy might dive. Run, Hunter! Now! He almost could feel the Huron’s clutch, he could see only dimly—he lunged to the top, and he made another leap, and a great blow upon the head sent him spinning; and to cheers and crack of guns he sank into blackness.
XVII
SCOUTING FOR THE GRENADIERS
It seemed to Robert, while he lay panting and kicking and trying to wake, that a battle had been raging over him. He knew that he was wet with cold water, and that fingers were busy upon his head; and at last he looked into a face black-whiskered, black-eyed, a face very dark and stern, but ready to smile: the face, yes, of the Black Rifle!