“Where? How far away?”
“Three—four gunshots.”
“And upon our trail?”
“Ugh!”
“Are they moving rapidly?”
“Ugh! Soon be here. Scar Face, bad Shawnees and Pottawatomies. Come fast; soon be here.”
“Let’s be off, then,” Ross said calmly. “We have no time to lose.”
“Grab up that piece o’ meat, Injin, an’ put it in y’r pouch,” Joe cried, excitedly. “You can eat it on the run. We’ve had our sheer. Dang the varmints, anyhow! They mean to give us a long an’ hot chase.”
Quickly they descended the eastern slope, worked their way through the fringe of bushes surrounding its base, and set off at a rapid pace through the forest. Bright Wing led the way. They bore toward the southeast. With the foresight and cunning of trained woodmen, they exercised all the arts of their craft to throw their pursuers off their trail. Here they followed the bed of a stream, soaking their moccasins in the icy water to hide their faint footprints; there they doubled on their track and took a new direction. At intervals, they separated and made wide detours from the main course, only to meet again further on. Occasionally they paused momentarily, to drink from some running stream or to strain their senses for sight or sound of their enemies. Then on again—swiftly, tirelessly.