“And the dog?”
“Ugh!”
“Which way did they go?”
“Long Gun and his warriors tried to follow them, but could not. The black night swallowed them.”
“Bah!” sneered the white man. “And you call yourself a Shawnee warrior! Do not palefaces leave tracks in the dark, as well as in the light? You must find their trail; you must follow and overtake them. Do you hear me? Rouse yourselves! Get torches! I will accompany you. Five pounds to the brave who first strikes their trail; ten pounds to him who first gains sight of them! Let’s be off! Hurry! Hurry!”
Stimulated by the prospect of reward, the braves hurriedly prepared for the pursuit. Out of the cabin they trooped, Long Gun in the lead. Bradford accompanied them. The camp was enveloped in darkness; the rain still fell steadily—persistently. Up the creek they proceeded, their flaming torches lighting the surface of the muddy stream. They reached the ravine, crossed it, and disappeared in the thick woods. And still the rain fell, and still the camp was wrapped in darkness and slumber.
The next day, the allied tribes at Wildcat Creek packed their scanty effects and set out for the village of the Miamis, upon the Mississinewa.
Now let us return to the escaped captive and his friends.
The sun was several hours high when Ross awoke. The sky was clear; the morning air crisp and biting. The young man stretched his limbs and drank deeply of the sweet, invigorating atmosphere. The grateful odor of cooking meat greeted him. A brisk camp-fire blazed at his feet; and suspended over it, by means of a tripod of green sticks, was a hunk of venison, roasting. Douglas took in all this at a glance. Then he looked around for his companions. They were nowhere in sight.