“They must never get back to the other Indians with their news,” whispered Henry. “I hate to shoot men from ambush, but it's got to be done. Wait, they're coming a little closer.”
The two Senecas advanced about thirty yards, and stopped again.
“S'pose you fire at the one on the right, Henry,” said Tom, “an' me an' Sol will take the one to the left.”
“All right,” said Henry. “Fire!”
They wasted no time, but pulled trigger. The one at whom Henry had aimed fell, but the other, uttering a cry, made off, wounded, but evidently with plenty of strength left.
“We mustn't let him escape! We mustn't let him carry a warning!” cried Henry.
But Shif'less Sol and Tom Ross were already in pursuit, covering the ground with long strides, and reloading as they ran. Under ordinary circumstances no one of the three would have fired at a man running for his life, but here the necessity was vital. If he lived, carrying the tale that he had to tell, a hundred innocent ones might perish. Henry followed his comrades, reloading his own rifle, also, but he stayed behind. The Indian had a good lead, and he was gaining, as the others were compelled to check speed somewhat as they put the powder and bullets in their rifles. But Henry was near enough to Shif'less Sol and Silent Tom to hear them exchange a few words.
“How far away is that savage?” asked Shif'less Sol.
“Hundred and eighty yards,” said Tom Ross.
“Well, you take him in the head, and I'll take him in the body.”