The Indians were about thirty rods distant. Ten, fifteen minutes passed, and then the fugitives approached the bank of Deep Creek.
“Foller me,” exclaimed the old trapper, as his horse plunged into the stream, followed by the others.
They were in the woods, so that their pursuers were hidden from view, and Kent was surprised to see that the trapper headed his horse up the stream, thereby going closer to the Indians, who were up the creek a short distance, and not far from the bank.
“Keep clus tew me,” said Wild Nat, “an’ keep perfectly still.”
“Are you mad?” asked the young man. “We are throwing ourselves into their hands.”
“Be we?” said the trapper. “Wal, I guess not. D’ye want tew be sculped?”
“Of course not.”
“Then foller me an’ keep still. Don’t shake yer jaw-bones so, Scip; they’ll hear yer teeth chatter.”
In dead silence the little party kept up the stream, while the yelling Indians followed their land-trail, and arrived at the stream about the time our friends were twenty rods above.
“Keep powerful still,” admonished Nat, as he turned his horse’s head to the shore. “Don’t make a sound. Ef ye do, we’re jest as good as baldheaded. Keep clus tew me.”