“To remain here means to fall into the hands of the band upon our trail,” Douglas returned hastily. “The Winnebagoes know nothing of us; perhaps we can avoid them. What have you to say, Bright Wing?”
“Scar Face and braves back there; Winnebagoes out there,” the Wyandot answered, indicating each direction with his finger. “Go that way.”
“You mean we should leave the Winnebago trail to the south, until we have passed them?”
“Ugh!”—With a vigorous nod.
“Very well. Let’s be moving.”
“But,” cried Joe, “that’s goin’ to take us ’way out of our course.”
“It’s better to leave our course than to lose our lives,” was Douglas’s answer, as he shouldered his rifle and followed the Indian.
Farley offered no reply, but silently brought up the rear. Duke trotted softly at his master’s side. The shadows of night gathered noiselessly—swiftly. The four dusky figures moved forward. The sky was thickly obscured by clouds; the darkness was intense. Snow began to fall in fine, downy flakes. Still the four black forms—now a part of the general blackness—glided onward, slowly and cautiously.
“I say we’ve got far enough,” Farley ventured at last, in a soft whisper.