The three turned their horses, and were about to retrace their steps, when Tom’s horse gave a slight whinny.
Instantly the Indians raised their heads, and our travelers were discovered. Without a word the redmen sprang to their feet, and, with a wild whoop, that was well calculated to send terror to the hearts of the fugitives, started in pursuit.
When the three reached the river-bank the Indians were close behind.
“Stop!” shouted the foremost Indian, the tall warrior who had been seated beside the boy.
It was one of the four English words which he knew.
The command might not have been obeyed, but that it was reinforced by a gun drawn to the shoulder and leveled at Lycurgus Spooner, whom he took to be the leader of the party, in virtue of his age and dignified bearing.
“The game’s up,” said Brush. “We may as well give ourselves up, and not wait till we are shot.”
“There is no hope of escape,” said Lycurgus, reigning in his horse by the river-bank.
“We might get across,” said Tom.
“And be shot in doing it? No; it’s a bad business, but it can’t be helped.”