The Indians’ guns were resting against a pole which was supported by two crotched sticks. If he attempted to run in that direction he would find but few between him and the timber, as almost all the men were around the kettle. But pursuit would be made by the warriors near the guns, which they could snatch up and use with deadly effect before he could reach cover. Had it been broad daylight he might have elected to attempt that course, and to count it success if he was shot off his feet. He had supposed all hope had left him. Now the gloomy woods, just beyond the fire, invited him to make it a race. If he took this direction he must win his way through and around the bulk of the warriors. But if he reached the growth they either would pursue him unarmed, or else lose time in running back across the opening to get guns.
He thought it out and made his decision inside a few seconds of deliberation. The very idea of attempting to do something gave him physical strength. He advanced toward the kettles. Little Beaver followed and overtook him as he halted as if waiting for his breakfast. The chief patted him on the shoulder. Knight met the smoldering gaze and smiled and nodded his head. The Indians averted their gaze to hide their amusement. The white man was believing them to be friendly. With a final pat Little Beaver dropped his hand to his side. Knight’s hard fist, starting from his hip, came up with terrific force under the chief’s chin and fairly lifted him off his feet. Then with a leap, and a jump to one side, and a left-handed smash in the face of a man he could not dodge, he was bursting through the fringe of bushes and plunging into the gloomy woods.
The complete surprize of it all dazed the warriors some seconds. Then they followed their first impulse, to run down and recapture their man. As they took the woods, whooping and howling, and armed only with their knives and axes, Knight fought against panic and even slowed his gait to prevent a collision with the faintly outlined trees. One of the warriors yelled for the men to secure their guns. Some ran back to do this. It was too dark for those pressing the chase to pick up the trail, and quite to his amazement Knight found himself on the bank of the creek. The infuriated yells and howls suddenly ceased and Knight at once imagined the foe were all but upon him. Still he practised enough self-control to slip into the icy waters of the creek and noiselessly make his way to the opposite bank.
He started at right angles from the stream and soon came to a long, sloping ridge, where there was more light. Up and along the ridge he ran until it did seem as if his pounding heart would burst.
For the first time he ventured to look back. He could discover no signs of pursuit, but he realized he must now sacrifice speed for cunning. Once the light strengthened, the Indians would pick up his trail and follow it at a run. He walked on ledges whenever possible. He took care not to break off twigs and small branches in passing through bush-dotted openings. He was young and in excellent physical condition. He was spurred on by the fear of something worse than death. He kept his back to the sun, and he chased after the sun. Late in the afternoon he came to a stream he knew must be the Scioto.[[3]]
[Footnote 3: Near Piketon, Pike County, Ohio.]
He did not believe he could lift one foot ahead of the other, but fear told him he must place the river between him and his enemies. On the western bank he told himself he had done all that mortal could; and, flogged on by thoughts of Little Beaver’s terrible rage, he walked with staggering steps into the sunset.
With the first light he was continuing his flight and fought pains and aches for several miles before his legs limbered up. Two hours after sunrise he killed a squirrel with a rock and ate the scanty meat raw. Fortunately his mind focused on the fear behind him and he did not take time to realize he might run into another band of Indians at any moment. He entered the rugged hills around Sunfish creek. He was determined to use every hour of light for travel, and fear served as food and drink in keeping him going. Traveling south, he crossed Scioto Brush and Turkey Creek; and everything seemed unreal. Another night and day, and he halted and stared stupidly when he beheld a broad river, which, he knew, must be the Ohio. He was ten miles below the mouth of the Scioto. He had no idea of how and when he had rested, of the meager food of nuts and raw squirrel meat. But he did know he was gazing on the Ohio and the Kentucky shore beyond. His problem now was to cross the river although it was very possible that would mean from pan to fire. He remembered poor Bryant’s advice to make for Massie’s Station, but he had no idea whether he was above or below it. Nor did he know how much time had elapsed since he struck Little Beaver and escaped from the Salt Creek camp.
He crawled into a thicket of bushes as a befuddling sense of helplessness swept over him. His clothing consisted of a few rags. His moccasins were worn out. His feet and limbs and chest were scratched and torn by the wildness of his flight. As he stared at his poor feet he discovered he was weeping. He fought down the weakness, and was startled into lively perception by a slight splashing noise in the current above his hiding-place. As it sounded at regular intervals and appeared to be drawing nearer he forced his way closer to the bank to stare down through the tangled growth.
He felt as if he were suffocating when he beheld a man in a canoe. The man was dressed like one of the Long Hunters who lighted the Kentucky fire.