“Wah! My brother will be late for scalps,” said the last Caugh-na-wa-ga.
“I will catch up,” answered Robert, still fussing. And the trotting file disappeared around a bend. Now Robert sprang to his feet, cast one glance to see that the coast was clear, and dived into the brush.
He could not nurse his ankle any more. But he had left the trail to Fraser’s and the river, and the going was worse.
Viny ravines blocked him, and tangled or rocky slopes slowed him; and what with his hurry and his many detours he almost lost his way. Besides, his ankle did hurt, whether he minded or not. Then he came to a spring, and he stopped just long enough to scrub the paint from his face and chest with wet clay. Then he ran on, feeling better. He was no French Mohawk now; he was a Washington man.
Wah! He had washed off his paint too soon! What was that? He heard voices—he had approached the trail again; no, this was a little side trail, and all around him lay a park which he dared not cross while those voices were so near. He acted as quick as thought—he thrust his gun under a log and shinned full speed into a tree. He scarcely had climbed well up, and held rigid, when more Indians arrived.
They were Ottawas, trotting like wolves, with Pontiac leading; after them came the Potawatomis under Langlade, and the Ojibwas, and the Shawnees of Black Hoof; and after these came the woodsmen Rangers in their hunting clothes, and a company of French regular soldiers in blue and white. Who next? The Hunter figured that he had seen over six hundred Indians and almost three hundred French upon the march to war.
While he hung in his tree he looked abroad to figure just where he was. It was a fine big tree upon a hill. He could see the Monongahela, down toward Fraser’s; not very far, either, by air line—and the bend of the river flashed back at him with moving figures.
The English army was crossing! Ho, what a sight through the sunshine! In solid red line it was crossing, and the flags flew, and by the glitter of the instruments the bands were making music—he could see even the white cross-belts of the grenadiers, beneath the tall, peaked, black-leather hats; the officers rode alongside their companies, and their swords glanced brightly when they waved orders.