“To venture near their camp will mean discovery. They’re very wide-awake.”
“I ain’t goin’ near their camp,” he growled in irritation. “I want to look over them rafts. I can tell from them how many warriors come over, or pretty close to it.”
He slipped away and left me to do the hardest of the work—the work of waiting. It seemed a very long time before I heard the bushes rustle. I drew my ax, but a voice whispering “Richmond,” the parole for the night, composed me. Feeling his way to my side he gravely informed me:
“There’s seventy-eight or nine rafts an’ a few canoes. It’s goin’ to be a fine piece o’ fightin’. At least there’s a thousand warriors on this side an’ a lot o’ squaws an’ boys.”
I estimated our army at eleven hundred and I thanked God they were all frontiersmen.
Cousin now was as eager to go as I; and leaving our hiding-place, we worked north until we felt safe to make a détour to the east. Our progress was slow as there was no knowing how far the Indian scouts were ranging. Once we were forced to remain flat on our stomachs while a group of warriors passed within a dozen feet of us, driving to their camp some strayed beeves from the high rolling bottom-lands to the east. When the last of them had passed I observed with great alarm a thinning out of the darkness along the eastern skyline.
“Good God! We’ll be too late!” I groaned. “Let’s fire our guns and give the alarm!”
“Not yet!” snarled my companion. “I must be in the thick o’ that fight. We’re too far east to git to camp in a hustle. We must sneak atween the hills an’ that small slash (Virginian for marsh). Foller me.”
We changed our course so as to avoid the low hills drained by Crooked Creek, and made after the warriors. About an hour before sunrise we were at the head of the marsh, and in time to witness the first act of the day’s great drama. Two men were working out of the fallen timber, and Cousin threw up his double-barrel rifle. I checked him, saying:
“Don’t! They’re white!”