“There!” he panted, “I feel much better. Now I must find a hiding-place; the woods is swarming with my foes. When night comes I’ll make my way to the shore, swim the river, and attempt to gain the fort. What an awful day’s work this has been—hundreds dead, hundreds captured!”
Then, after a pause:
“But I must get my bearings. Let me see. Where’s the sun? I’m far back of the battle-ground, and farther down the river. Fort Miami lies between me and Fort Meigs. I’ll bear to the right of it, and strike the stream at a point between the scene of to-day’s battle and the British encampment. But I must hide until nightfall—it wouldn’t be safe to make the attempt sooner. Well, I’m more fortunate than most of my rash comrades; I’m yet alive and free. My wounds pain me some, but they’re not of a serious character. If I had something to eat, I should be all right. I wonder what has become of Duke. Faithful old fellow! No doubt he has been killed; else he would be at my side. No,——”—Reflectively,—“he may have escaped and made his way to Fort Meigs, with the few survivors. With the smell of blood in his nostrils, he wouldn’t be able to follow my trail. Well, I’ll hide myself and rest until dark. Then for Fort Meigs and safety!”
Concealing his trail as well as he could, he pushed farther into the woods, leaving the river behind him. At last he lay down by a log and, hugging his empty rifle to his breast, fell asleep. When he awoke, the sun was setting and the forest was aflame with rosy light. Arising, he stretched his stiffened limbs and carefully examined his wounds.
“Mere scratches,” he muttered. “But I’m weak from fasting and loss of blood. Then, too, I have no arms but an empty gun and a knife. I shouldn’t like to encounter a score of savages just now.”—And he smiled grimly.—“But it’ll soon be dark. I’ll move toward the river.”
Shouldering his rifle, he set out, walking briskly in spite of pain and weakness. The sun went down; the rosy light began to pale and fade. At last he stopped suddenly.
“I’m nearing the river. Perhaps I’d better wait until it’s darker. But then I’m afraid I should run into danger without seeing it. What’s best? Ah!”
He uttered the exclamation with vexation and disappointment, and sprang behind a tree. In the dusky twilight he perceived a cloaked figure moving toward him. Loosening the knife in his belt, he softly placed his gun against the tree trunk and peeped from his place of concealment. The obscure figure was coming on, slowly, hesitatingly. Its cautious footfalls fell upon his ear. He drew his knife and panted with suppressed excitement. Nearer and nearer to his hiding-place, the figure drew, its head bent low over a bundle it carried in its arms.
Douglas breathed hard and, gripping his knife firmly, held it ready for instant use. Then he made the discovery that the approaching personage was a woman—an Indian squaw, probably. For a moment he debated what he should do. Could he kill a defenseless female, even to assure his own safety? His soul sickened at the thought. Quickly he determined on a more humane course of action. He would confront the squaw. Should she seek to give an alarm, he would seize and overpower her. Then he would choke her into silence and carry her from the spot.
Acting upon this resolve, he boldly stepped from his place of concealment and coughed to attract the woman’s attention. Flinging up her head, she uttered a half-suppressed scream and turned to flee. Ross sprang forward and threw his arms around her. She struggled to escape, but did not cry out.