“We are going on a scout, too. Scarouady and Aroas are already gone.”
Robert threw off his blanket and sat up and grabbed his gun.
“To the French fort?”
“Yes. Or as near as we can get. They two, now we two.”
Wah! That promised sport. He and Gist were to see if they could not find out more than Scarouady and Aroas could. So he sprang to his feet and followed Christopher Gist out of the sleeping group. A sentry muffled in a great-coat and looking like a bear indeed leveled his gun and said something; Gist answered with a word, and they passed on into the woods.
The sky was not yet gray, but the air seemed to have thinned a little, so that morning was not far removed. Gist trotted rapidly, munching a piece of meat; and Robert trotted in his steps, munching likewise.
It was a good hour. The woods were silent. The Forks of the Ohio where the French fort lay were only thirteen miles across country; and Gist knew the way as well as Robert did. By daylight they should be near enough to it to use their eyes; then if the coast were clear they could hide, and go on in the evening, and spy again in the early morning, and get back.
So they trotted rapidly. After a time the dusk had paled and birds were twittering. They kept on. The sun rose, and still they kept on. They had seen nobody and nobody had seen them. It looked as though they might get almost to the fort—maybe they could see it.
The fort now could not be far ahead. Robert thought that he heard axes chopping, away, ’way before. Sounds carried a long distance. They two stole forward, more cautiously. Yes, those were axes; and that was a faint shout.
Surely the French at the fort feared nothing. Where were their scouts? Then, just as they two were topping a hill from which they ought to look down upon the Forks, sharp and swift there broke the crack of a rifle, ringing through the woods.