“Serves 'em right,” said Tom Ross. “I remember what I saw at Wyoming.”
“Whether they kin do it or not,” said the practical Sol, “it's time for us to git out o' here, an' go back to our men.”
“True words, Sol,” said Henry, “and we'll go.”
Examining first at the window and then through the door, opened slightly, they saw that the Iroquois village bad become quiet. The preparations for departure had probably ceased until morning. Forth stole the three, passing swiftly among the houses, going, with silent foot toward the orchard. An old squaw, carrying a bundle from a house, saw them, looked sharply into their faces, and knew them to be white. She threw down her bundle with a fierce, shrill scream, and ran, repeating the scream as she ran.
Indians rushed out, and with them Braxton Wyatt and his band. Wyatt caught a glimpse of a tall figure, with two others, one on each side, running toward the orchard, and he knew it. Hate and the hope to capture or kill swelled afresh. He put a whistle to his lip and blew shrilly. It was a signal to his band, and they came from every point, leading the pursuit.
Henry heard the whistle, and he was quite sure that it was Wyatt who had made the sound. A single glance backward confirmed him. He knew Wyatt's figure as well as Wyatt knew his, and the dark mass with him was certainly composed of his own men. The other Indians and Tories, in all likelihood, would turn back soon, and that fact would give him the chance he wished.
They were clear of the town now, running lightly through the orchard, and Shif'less Sol suggested that they enter the woods at once.
“We can soon dodge 'em thar in the dark,” he said.
“We don't want to dodge 'em,” said Henry.
The shiftless one was surprised, but when he glanced at Henry's face he understood.