She sprung to her feet, frightened but calm.
“Wayne,” she said, steadily, “you do not tell me all. I am not afraid. How near are they?”
“Forty or fifty rods,” was the answer. “We must make haste. Are you ready?”
“Yes.”
He assisted her to mount, the other three men being already in the saddle, and then springing to his seat, they were off.
It was dark—so dark that they were in some danger of encountering foes, or making some noise that might betray them; but, the dexterity of the old trapper carried them safely to the edge of the plain, where they halted a moment to make sure of their bearings.
“All right, this way,” said Wild Nat, in a suppressed voice, as he led the way in the darkness. “Keep powerful still.”
Fortunately, the trapper’s expertness and knowledge of woodcraft enabled them to avoid the Indians, who were lurking on the opposite side of the timber, unaware, as yet, of the proximity of the whites.
Silently the little band, led by Wild Nat, kept on in the darkness, and were soon two miles distant from the grove, and under the shelter of some low hills and timber. The east was beginning to grow light, and morning would soon be there. They kept on at a sharp trot for a few miles, the darkness slowly lifting till the eastern horizon was bathed in rosy light, and the last shadows of the night vanished in the west.
A desultory conversation was maintained by the rest, in which Wild Nat did not join. He appeared unusually grave and preoccupied. Marion watched him furtively, and at length thinking his grave demeanor caused by apprehensions of danger from the Indians, she spoke to him.