They pressed rapidly forward, but their path was beset with many obstacles and obstructions. They had to clamber over huge bowlders, and force their way through thickets of cedar, and fir-trees, nor were brambles wanting in the way.
The numerous signals that now sounded behind them lent spurs to their exertions, for they told them that the Indians were following in swift pursuit.
As they approached the river’s brink the wood grew more open; there were less rocks scattered about, and the trees were taller. As they emerged into this opening, with only a fringe of trees between them and the river’s bank, the report of guns rattled in quick succession behind them, and a bullet went whistling by Glyndon’s ear.
“Great Cæsar!” he cried, “this won’t do. Turn at the trees, boys, and prepare for ’em. They’ll hit one of us next thing.”
They gained a clump of fir trees that grew close together, which afforded them a shelter, and an opportunity to fire their rifles between the trunks.
They were breathless with the exertions they had made, and were only too glad to avail themselves of this temporary rest.
“Phew! that’s what I call tall traveling,” cried Cute, panting to recover his wind. “I heard the bullets rattling around me like hailstones.”
“It’s a mercy we were none of us hit,” rejoined Percy Vere. “Well, we’re lucky so far.”
“But we ain’t out of it yet,” said Glyndon, and he looked grave. “They’ll make a rush for us, and when they come, fire your rifles, and then take your pistols. Don’t stop to load; if we can’t drive ’em back on the first fire, it’s all up with us. Give ’em every shot you’ve got, and then take the river—the current will carry us down to the camp, and we can’t be far above it. Maybe they’ll hear the firing and be ready to help us.”
“Hoop-la!” exclaimed Cute, excitedly. “Here they come. I’ll take that big fellow in front.”