“Jesse Hughes oughter be here,” said one of the men who was notching the long logs.
“He’ll be along if there’s promise of a fight,” assured Hacker. “Young Cousin and Ike Crabtree, too.”
“I ’low them red devils would skin back to the Ohio like a burned cat if they know’d you boys was after ’em!” cried Widow McCabe, who was as strong as the average man and could swing an ax with the best of them. Her husband was killed on the Kanawha the year before, and her hatred of Indians was as intense as that of any killer.
“They’ll sure know they’ve met with some trouble, Missus,” modestly admitted Hacker.
The three men seated themselves on a knoll and watched the busy scene. I joined them and inquired about the footing they had observed. Scott informed me they had followed the trail toward the creek and then lost it.
“It was a small party of scouts, mebbe not more’n three,” he said. “We sort o’ reckon that they ’lowed they might be followed and so took to water. We ’lowed it was best to hustle along here and git in front of the fighting, instead o’ losing time trying to find where they quit the creek. You’re sticking along, we ’low.”
“No need with all you men. I must carry my despatches over the mountains to-morrow.”
“Better think twice afore trying it alone. By to-morrow the mountain trace will probably be shut in by the reds,” declared Hacker ominously.
“Then I must take my chances of breaking across country. His Lordship must have the despatches at the earliest possible minute.”
“Of course,” Runner agreed. “Wish you luck even if you got a Quaker stomick when it comes to killing the vermin. But if you want to git across you’d better start at once. Them two or three scouts shows the devils are closing in. Every hour saved now means a dozen more chances for your hair to grow.”