Yet the veteran ranger, thoroughly skilled in the craft that had been the study of his life, wound his way through the tree-trunks growing so thickly around, over fallen timber and other obstacles, with truly marvelous celerity and ease. But after him came others equally as expert, fired by a burning thirst for vengeance upon the one who had that night dealt them such a bitter blow.
Boone had already shaped the details of a plan by which he hoped to escape his pursuers, and now bent every energy of his body to the first point: that of gaining a few yards greater lead. With this purpose he dashed ahead at a dangerous pace, though knowing that a single misstep might end in his death or capture.
At this point the storm broke in all its fury and in it the scout recognized a truly welcome ally. The rain fell in torrents, pattering loudly upon the tree-tops, that soon began to shed their watery load upon the undergrowth beneath their boughs.
A few moments later Boone suddenly paused, pressing close to the gnarled trunk of a huge tree that had been momentarily revealed by the glare of lightning. Here, holding his breath, trying to still the loud throbbings of his heart, he stood with knife tight clenched in his hand, to await the result of his ruse.
One, two, half a dozen savages dash by, running with hushed voices now, for they dread losing their prey, since the tempest so nearly drowns his footfalls. Then others pass by panting, losing hope with each step.
A minute passes—then a wild yell comes from beyond the point toward which the savages had chased a phantom. They had missed their prey. Boone smiled grimly.
"Yelp on, ye blood-thirsty curs—yelp on till your throats split with hate an' fury. The trail's broken—the nose of a true-bred hound couldn't splice it now," muttered the Wood King.
Rapidly gliding a few yards to the right, Boone paused beneath a broad-spreading elm tree, and clutching the ivy vines that shrouded its trunk, clambered up to the limbs. When nearly a score feet from the ground he paused, and crouching down upon the gnarled limb, listened intently.
Numerous signals filled the air, the voices of birds and beasts, but the veteran smiled contemptuously at the frail disguise, perfect as the imitations were. On such a night not even the panther ventured from its den, still less the feathered tribe. He knew that the savages were beating the forest for him, knowing that he had put some such ruse in operation as the one described.
"Let them hunt—an owl couldn't spy me out here in the night, an' I reckon they'll tire of it afore day," muttered Boone, carefully shielding the lock of his rifle from the rain-drops.