Upon this, Crawford leaped down the hillside, a wild and dripping figure streaking down the slope in great bounds. The redskins raised frightened yells and broke in mad panic. In this confusion of shouts and rain-blurred figures, Crawford lost all sight of Maclish. Fury spurring him, he gained the nearest fire, scattered it, and sent the brands whirling in among the powder-horns—brand after brand, whirling and smoking and bursting into flame again with the fall. Next instant Crawford was away, heading blindly into the darkness, while the bellow of Maclish was drowned in the bursting explosion of the black sands of death. Then, as Crawford darted into the gloom, he lifted his head and sent up the fearful blood-yell which even to these far redskins was known in all its dread implication—the Mohawk war whoop.
“Sassakouay!” he shrilled it, and again. “Kouay! Sassakouay!”
Leaving that token to chill their blood, he struck out across the wet night. No man could follow this unseen trail with any speed; dripping branches slapped him as he ran, trees were thick, the darkness was impenetrable; yet Crawford kept going after a fashion. He had failed to smite Maclish, but in the destruction of their powder he had dealt the enemy a shrewd enough blow.
Hour after hour he kept going forward, until toward dawn he halted and burrowed for shelter. He wakened with sun in his eyes and found the day clear as crystal, windless, incredibly warm; spring was at hand in the north, and the snows nearly cleared from the ground.
Now Crawford made good progress, unarmed save for knife and axe, intent upon keeping ahead of the Stone Men, speeding toward the northwest. With afternoon, however, he made a frightful discovery. A musket-shot crashed out somewhere to his left, and two minutes later a wounded deer broke cover almost beside him, swerved in hot panic, and darted off. Crawford dropped from sight, in time to see an Assiniboine warrior pass on the trail of the beast.
Crawford followed, driven now by hunger. When he heard the finishing shot, he ran in swiftly and caught the warrior with empty rifle. The axe-throw missed, the redskin sent up a long yell among the trees, knife clashed on knife; the end of this matter was that the body of the slain deer tripped his slayer, which was crude justice enough. Presently Crawford took up his trail again, bearing a load of fresh meat.
He was now cognizant of his danger—knew that he was between the main body of the Stone Men and their outflung advance parties. By next morning, these had picked up his trail. Smokes went up far and near, while Crawford fled steadily on into the northwest, gaining rougher and more open country, covering ground rapidly. The signal smokes died away. During two days he pressed on at top speed, saw no further signs of the enemy, and began to feel certain that he had flung off all pursuit.
Then, abruptly, fate tripped him.
Crawford was following a steep hillside and came to a broad scar where earth and trees had been riven away to form a drop of twenty feet. As he skirted the verge of this little chasm, a stick flew up between his legs. Crawford fell forward, the loosened earth gave way, and he was sent plunging head first with a small avalanche of earth and boulders. His descent came to crashing stop, and the senses were knocked out of him.
When he wakened, it was hard upon sunset, and a stunning sense of unreality oppressed him, for voices were sounding close at hand. Crawford found himself unable to move, buried nearly to the shoulders in loose earth and gravel. He looked up, and a species of paralysis seized on him at what he saw—not ten feet from him were five men, four of them Assiniboine warriors, and the fifth Maclish!