“A corking good idea, sir,” said Ben Gordon. “The banks are plenty high enough to hide us from view.”
“Yes,” agreed the Major, “and the stream leads off to the southwest, the general direction in which we have to go.”
“It does seem like our best chance, may be our only chance.”
“The blasted Injuns might pen us up there, sir,” broke in Jim Martin, who had been an intent listener.
“If they did,” countered the officer, “we could shoot from the shelter of the banks. I doubt that we would be worse off than we are now.”
Word of the plan was quickly communicated to the rest of the troop. Throwing themselves flat on their stomachs, the anxious men wormed their way stealthily forward to the lip of the creek bank. Luckily, their movements were well hidden among the thickets and clustered timber. Jim Martin and a fellow trooper had been left behind as a rear guard, until the rest of the detachment got a slight start.
Ben Gordon was at the head of the little column, by the side of Major Stillman. They had gone perhaps a hundred yards down the bed of the creek, when a rifle cracked out sharply behind them. A second shot followed, and then all was quiet once again.
“Keep moving, men,” the leader called in a low voice. “The Sacs have sent scouts forward, and the two troopers are chasing them off. That’s just the way we planned it. It’ll make the pesky Indians think we’re still in the grove.”
Two minutes later, Jim Martin and his comrade came running up from behind, their hurried footfalls muffled by the soft sand at the creek edge.
“How did it look, Martin?” queried Stillman tensely.