Suddenly Boone raised his head. The yells of his pursuers were echoed back from the opposite side of the pond. Faintly glimmering through the undergrowth he could distinguish a camp-fire. Evidently a party of savages had been resting there until aroused by the shouts of their kindred, and were now spreading out to intercept the game that was afoot.
Even had he not resolved upon it, there was now no other course open to the Wood King but to seek refuge in the pond, and he hastened on, bounding from one tussock to another like a deer in full flight. Suddenly he disappeared from view of the savages who had paused at the edge of the pond. He had sunk down in the water, crawling forward until the dense grass was reached. These he carefully replaced behind him, and then listened intently.
All was still save the rustling of the fresh breeze swaying the grass and reeds. What devil's plot were the savages hatching? Why did they not search for their prey? This course Boone had counted upon their following, feeling sure that while they were thus engaged he could manage to steal away unseen. While wondering, he cautiously loaded his rifle, and then, noiselessly as possible, pushed on toward the middle of the pond.
For half an hour he stood waist deep in the water, anxiously listening for some sound by which he might judge of the enemy's movements, but in vain. But then his face was upturned, and he sniffed quickly at the air. A faint trace of smoke was perceptible—and yet the wind was blowing away from the camp-fire he had seen. Could it be? An involuntary exclamation of horror broke from his lips. Only too plainly he read the truth.
The Indians were setting fire to the reeds and grass!
But would it burn? Eagerly Boone felt of that growing so thickly around him. It cracked and crumbled beneath his hand. It was dry as tinder to within a foot of the water. And now the smoke was thicker and more dense.
Hastily he plunged on, seeking for a spot where was open water, but in vain. The reeds grew everywhere. Then he paused. A warning sound came to his ears. It was the roaring, rushing voice of the devouring element, crying aloud for its victim.
Crushing a handful of the stuff, he placed it upon the pan, then discharged his rifle. A spark caught. Tenderly he blew his breath upon it. It flickered—grew larger—then died out. And the roaring of flames grew louder and nearer, and the smoke was almost unbearable.
Slinging the rifle on his back, Boone cut and slashed at the stout-stemmed grass and reeds, flinging them from him in handfuls, clearing a space around. The sweat rolled from his face—not alone from the violence of his exertions, for the air was now hot and parching—like that of an oven. Already he found it difficult to breathe.
Sinking beneath the surface, he tore at the muddy bottom, scooping up great handfuls, and then daubing it over his head and face. Then he tore off the woolen hunting-shirt and wound it round his head and neck. He could breathe more freely now, since the smoke was excluded. And, too, it shut out the horrible glow that now lighted up the scene, and deadened the sickening roar.