“They’ve stalked the place,” laughed Stillman, “found out that we’ve gone, and are hopping mad about it. Now men, swing those blades lustily, so that we can get a good piece down river before dark.”
Keeping to the middle of the wide stream, where the strong current would aid them most, they glided smoothly down the channel. All the while they kept a watchful eye, especially to the rear, but there was no alarm. Two hours later, at twilight, they ran the boats into a little cove, where they beached them for the night. All hands were glad to step ashore, and stretch their cramped limbs, for the narrow canoes were crowded to the limit.
The wind, blowing down stream from the north, had grown quite cool with the coming of night. There was plenty of dry driftwood about, but Stillman decided not to risk a fire. Desolate howls came from the gloomy forest, as they lay down to sleep.
“Timber wolves!” said one of the men, casting a worried look at the encircling darkness. “I wish we had a fire. The beasts fear a blaze.”
The night was divided into watches of three hours apiece; but the darkness passed peacefully. Neither timber wolves nor red wolves came; and the thirty canoemen were off again the next morning at the first flush of dawn. Three hours afterward, at mid-morning, they pulled in safely at Dixon’s Ferry, thankful to the bottom of their hearts to have escaped from the clutches of the vengeful Sacs.
Taking leave of Stillman for the time being, Ben Gordon, Jim Martin and the three troopers at once went to the camp of their detachment, where they were greeted by the others as men returned from the dead.
“We gave you up for lost,” asserted Tom Gordon, pounding brother Ben on the back in unrestrained joy and relief.
“It’s a plumb miracle the Sacs didn’t lift yer scalps,” Bill Brown agreed, honest delight shining in his weatherbeaten face.
“Heap smart,” grunted Bright Star, “to get away from Hawk.”
“But where is Captain Van Alstyne?” inquired Lieutenant Clark anxiously.