Once more there came the sound of a brief struggle—again the outcast uttered his shrill, taunting whoop. No longer hesitating, the Pottawatomies dashed forward in hot pursuit.
Crouching down in their leafy covert, the fugitives waited and listened in acute suspense, scarce daring to breathe. They knew that enemies, deadly, vindictive and marvelously keen-sensed, were gathered around them, thirsting for blood, each moment drawing the meshes of the web closer. They knew this by the low, peculiar signals that quavered upon the air with the passage of every few moments, now from one side, now the other, drawing nearer and nearer as the savages carefully searched the undergrowth.
Boone and Mordaunt listened painfully, their muscles strung, their weapons in readiness for use when the fatal moment should arrive. They listened for some sound from Lightfoot. Would he be in time? Or if so, would the enemy all be deceived?
The suspense was fearfully trying, but fortunately did not last long. Crouching there, the fugitives heard the loud yell of Lightfoot, as he sprung away from his first victim.
The women shuddered as the cry echoed by, reverberating from the hills, roaring through the tree-tops, strangely blending with the first howlings of the tempest. Could it be human—the voice of a fiend?
Yes—Boone recognized it without difficulty. Just then it sounded like music in his ears.
Other ears caught the sound, and with little cries the Osage warriors sprung to their feet, bending forward, eagerly listening. They too recognized the voice of the tribeless outcast!
Crouching there, the fugitives could distinguish the outlines of more than one savage foe, so near had they crept. Will they pass on? 'Tis a moment of horrible suspense.
Again the defiant cry of the Kickapoo sounds forth the death-knell of a Pottawatomie, and then, with wild yells, the Osages leap forward, an intense yearning scorching their hearts.
Boone suddenly flattens his muscular figure to the earth, but the effort is useless. A dark figure bounds through the air, crashing through the frail bush, alighting fairly between the broad shoulders of the Wood King.