“Black Hoof’s band. They’re hard to dodge,” he whispered, striding rapidly along and swinging his head from side to side. “How far to the Grisdol cabin?”
“Two miles.”
“Then ride for it. I’ll run at your stirrup. We’ll need that cabin if it ain’t been burned. I ’low it’ll be a close race.”
There was no sign of pursuit. I was no novice in Indian warfare, but in this instance I scarcely believed the Shawnees would draw near enough to make the chase interesting. So far as I could observe Cousin had succeeded in stealing away from them, and there was no Indian who could overtake him, especially if he ran at my stirrup.
“They’ve took four sculps on this side the valley,” he murmured as he loped along at my side. “I bagged three on ’em. You fetched one. Black Hoof is too big a chief to call it quits. He’s back there leadin’ the chase. So I ’low it’ll be close.”
A curious little thrill chilled my spine. Catahecassa, or Black Hoof, was one of the most redoubtable and resourceful savages to be found in the Shawnee nation. If below Cornstalk’s intellectual plane he made up for much of any such discrepancy by his fiery courage and deep cunning.
The long-drawn howl of a wolf sounded up the slope on our left and was soon answered by a similar call directly in our rear. For a third time the signal menaced us, on our right and at a considerable distance.
“They’re still scoutin’ the ridge for me,” murmured Cousin, his lean face turning to the left. “The heft of ’em are comin’ along the trace behind us. Those over to the right are hustlin’ to find out what’s up. We must git along faster!”
My mount responded eagerly, for he sensed the danger. And it was wonderful to observe how Cousin kept up, with one hand on my stirrup, the other holding the rifle. We were well beyond the brook where I shot my Shawnee, and within half a mile or less of the Grisdol cabin, when our flight was interrupted for a few moments by the behavior of my horse.
It was just as we turned from the main trace to strike into the path leading to the cabin that the animal bolted sidewise, crowding Cousin deep into the bushes. I reined in and stared down on a terrible sight—that of the four Grisdols. They lay in the path, head to head, in the form of a cross. I felt my stirrup shake as Cousin’s hand rested on it. He gave a little gasping sob and whispered: