"No—his scalp Lightfoot's," doggedly replied the Kickapoo.
Boone made no reply, but crouching low down, glided noiselessly down the hillside furthest from the river, followed by the chief. Reaching the bottom, they entered a narrow valley, intending to round the large hill before again taking to the water. The settlements were, for the most part, upon the other side of the Osage.
The sky was partially obscured by broken clouds, driving here and there in angry confusion, betokening a storm. An occasional flash of lightning would herald the deep rumbling of thunder, and quicken the footsteps of the scouts.
Half an hour after emerging from the hollow tree, the bank of the Osage was reached, and with his rifle secured upon a log, which he impelled before him, Boone swam the river, with Lightfoot beside him. Scarce pausing for breath, they plunged into the forest, heading for Mordaunt's cabin.
"Hooh!" suddenly uttered Lightfoot, pausing and bending his ear as the fresh breeze bore the sound of voices faintly to him.
"The varmints have found out we've gone," and Boone laughed grimly.
"Lose us, den t'ink oders—tek scalp now, sure. White Wolf t'ink 'bout Yellow-hair, now," muttered Lightfoot, uneasily.
"Lead on, chief. I'm old, but I can stand a little brush, I reckon, 'f pushed," retorted Boone.
The two scouts pushed on through the tangled forest at a pace truly marvelous, considering the gloom. And for full an hour they advanced without pausing, until the edge of a small clearing was reached, near the center of which stood a small, rude log-cabin.
"They've gone to bed," muttered Boone, vexedly, for time was precious now; an hour lost or gained might be either life or death to them all.