CHAPTER V.
SURROUNDED BY DEATH.
A shrill yell of exultation burst front Lightfoot's lips as he heard the death-shrieks behind him, and right deftly did he improve the advantage given him by the momentary hesitation of his pursuers, darting forward with the speed of a well-conditioned race-horse. It needed not the clear voice that shouted encouragement to him from out the gloom, to tell him who were the daring marksmen. Lightfoot knew that Boone and Dare had ventured from the forest in order to create a diversion in his favor.
But the savages quickly recovered from the confusion these shots had thrown them into, and knowing—if only from there coming no other reports—the number of the enemy, rushed forward with augmented fury. Side by side the three scouts entered the woods; close after them the Indians, yelling like very fiends.
"Sep'rate—we'll meet you at the cave—by the river, chief," jerkingly uttered Boone.
No reply was made, but Lightfoot abruptly veered to the left, while Boone and Dare ran on side by side. All thought of caution was abandoned. The pursuers were too close for the fugitives to attempt dodging, or trying to lessen the noise of their crashing footsteps. So close were they that, when Lightfoot turned aside, the pursuers also divided, resolved to win their prey by stern, desperate racing.
For nearly a mile Lightfoot held his vantage with comparative ease, thridding the tangled forest with the skill and ease that none but a thorough woodsman can ever hope to attain. After that, he came upon smoother traveling, breaking from the wood out upon a level, grassy tract of open ground, fully a mile in width.
The race, thus far, had not breathed the iron-limbed scout, though thoroughly warming him up, removing the soreness he had begun to feel from his wounds and bruises. And now as he entered the open, a clear, exultant cry broke from his lips, and inhaling a deep draught of the cool night-air, he bounded away over the level space with the litheness and agility of a deer.
With answering yells the Osages followed, straining every nerve to overtake Lightfoot before he should reach the further side. Swift of foot were they—some of them of wide renown—yet, foot by foot, the outcast chief left them behind.
Over two hundred yards in advance, Lightfoot plunged into the forest again, uttering a taunting cry that half-crazed his pursuers. It seemed as though his escape was fully assured—even the Osage braves began to despair of overtaking him.