They clambered into the saddle; Running Elk, who had clung to the packhorse during all, kept the faithful beast beside his own horse as they rode along. After having gone something less than a mile they heard a yell, faint, but high pitched and exultant, from the distance; rifles cracked and a flare of light lit the sky.
“They’ve reached the summit of the knoll,” spoke Jack. “And they’ve let drive with everything they had.”
After the scattering of shots there was a short pause; a murmur, dull and sustained, came from the direction of their late fort; then, as though the Indians had just realized the escape of their intended victims, a screech of rage, hate and disappointment swept the still night with shuddering intensity.
“I’m as well satisfied that we didn’t fall into the hands of those gentlemen,” observed Frank, as they rode away at a gallop. “I don’t think they’d stop at much.”
“The Creeks are not the merciful kind,” said Jack. “And they seldom take prisoners.”
“Creek burn and scalp,” stated Running Elk, calmly. “Him no good.”
They rode all that night in order to put as much distance between them and the savage bands as possible; in the morning they had breakfast, saw to their horses and rested for a few hours; then they were off again.
During that day they came upon innumerable Indian signs; in the course of the next they sighted a small party of Creeks headed through the forest, and toward evening they all but stumbled upon a large encampment.
“It looks as though they were gathering for trouble,” said Frank. “The woods are alive with them.”
“Like as not runners have been sent out to the different villages that the Prophet is here,” said Jack. “And, of course, they are all anxious to see him and hear his medicine.”