They hoped and fully believed that when they reached the country about their cabin—with all the woods near which they were well acquainted, their trouble would be at an end. If Captain Pipe, the Delaware chief, were in his village, he would permit no attack to be made upon them by Big Buffalo or any other of his tribe, and there would be only the wandering Mingoes to fear. Some of these and many others the lads had traded with and knew personally. A few presents would renew their friendship, and all would be well.
Until the cabin was reached, however, there were many dangers to be reckoned with, and these were increased by the fact that they were trying to save the life of the, to them, almost unknown man, who might have enemies they knew not of, and who could not help them one bit, while positively delaying their progress by adding to their load and the care with which they must travel, on his account.
Camp was made, the evening following the mysterious attack, in the center of a considerable open space, nearly bare of trees, which may have been at one time an Indian corn field. The horses were picketed close to the wagon and a defense of brush and small logs was built to a height of a few feet all about the cart. The wagon’s contents were then so arranged that the wounded man, who, though still delirious, seemed to be gaining in strength, was protected from stray bullets by boxes and other articles piled at either side of him.
“It seems actually foolish to go to all this trouble,” was Ree Kingdom’s comment as he surveyed the completed task.
Bang!—pr-r-r-r-s-s-st! A bullet whizzed through the low breast-works and flattened itself on the iron tire of the cart, close to John’s left elbow.
“Look! There he goes!” cried young Jerome, and leveled his rifle at an Indian who leaped from tree to tree with most astonishing speed, traveling in a circle about the camp at a distance of eighty or ninety yards, loading his rifle as he ran, with the greatest dexterity.
In another moment, as he thought the chance was favorable, John fired. A second later Kingdom also let drive, but all to no purpose, for the next second there came from the side of the camp opposite that from which the first bullet had flown, another to keep it company, splitting a spoke in one of the cart’s wheels.
No sooner had he fired this second time than the Indian disappeared in the depths of the woods.
“Land o’ Goshen! What does the Redskin mean?” exclaimed John, as both boys saw him fleeing away.
“He’s the same fellow that fired at us last night. Look how nervous this poor mare is. That proves it if nothing else does,” answered Kingdom, boldly rising from behind the brush-work defenses, and patting the terror-stricken horse of the stranger.