“Nary a bird,” cried Glyndon. “That’s an Injun. They’ve struck our trail, and they’re coming for us. Come on; we must get to the river, fast as we can travel.”
“Couldn’t we make a stand here and fight them?” suggested Percy Vere.
The old hunter shook his head.
“Madness, my boy,” he replied. “I like your spunk, but it can’t be done. I’m doubtful if we can all get back to the camp, but we’ll make a try for it. Our only hope is to make for the river upon the other side of the cliff.”
Percy Cute took off his hat, and felt of his hair, while his face assumed a rueful expression.
“I wish I had a photograph of it,” he exclaimed.
“Why so?” demanded Glyndon, in some surprise.
“Because I’m afraid that I will never see it again.”
Both the hunter and Percy Vere laughed at this sally. This dry humor in the face of threatening danger pleased Glyndon greatly.
“You’ll do!” he returned. “Good grit, both of you, and the Injuns shan’t get you if I can help it. Come along. We can make a stand at the river’s edge, and pepper some of ’em before we take to the water.”