“S’pect the purp got hold of a redskin’s guzzle, an’ shut his wind off so quick he couldn’t——”
“Ugh! Duke him bite bad Shawnee much hard,” the Wyandot volunteered. “Here Duke him is now. Come.”
The dog trotted back to his place and, panting, threw himself upon the ground. Again they moved onward, creeping along inch by inch and pausing frequently to listen. In this manner they covered quite a distance. They had arisen to their feet, and were congratulating themselves that they had eluded the vigilance of their watchful foes, when the patter of moccasined feet sounded on all sides of them. They were surrounded.
A short and sharp conflict in the intense darkness ensued. Rifles were discharged and blows were struck at random. Then the three comrades found themselves beyond the line of their enemies, and blindly dashed away in the impenetrable blackness.
For some time they continued their mad flight, through thickets and over fallen logs, stumbling, falling, scrambling to their feet and running on. At last they paused momentarily to listen. All sounds of pursuit had died out. Naught was to be heard but the patter of the rain-drops upon the dead leaves and the boom of the creek near at hand.
“We have distanced them,” Douglas panted.
“Yes,” Farley gasped in reply. “But it was a mighty close shave. Is either o’ you fellers hurt?”
“I’m not,” Ross replied.
“Me no hurt,” Bright Wing grunted. “Where dog Duke?”