At noon they halted, allowed their mounts to graze for an hour and ate a snack themselves. Then into the saddle once more and off again along the tangled way. The sun was sliding down in the west, growing greater and redder as it went, and the trees were beginning to cast long shadows in the bare spaces, when Eph Taylor suddenly drew up his horse. Holding up a warning hand, he said:
“Listen!”
Like graven figures the boys sat their horses, their faces turned in the direction of the setting sun.
Sharp and with rending crispness of a sound traveling across a great silence, there came the unmistakable report of a rifle. A moment later there came another and still another. A clamor arose above the distant trees.
“Rifle shots!” cried Eph.
“And the Shawnee war cry!” said Oliver.
As one they inspected the locks of their pieces and their primings. Again and again came the rifle shots from the westward; and again and again from above the tree tops came the shrill yells of the redskins.
“We’ve been quite near one of the settlers’ houses without knowing it,” spoke Sandy Campbell. “And they are being attacked by Shawnees.” Looking steadily at his two friends he added: “What shall we do?”
“There is but one thing we can do,” replied Oliver.
“And that’s get over there as soon as we can and do our share in teaching these varmints a lesson,” finished Eph.