They crossed a narrow swale, still running at top speed, and, continuing eastward, came at length to a small meadow which extended to one side of the plateau. The thickening dusk had become darkness. Far behind them they could hear only faintly the noise of the attack. The red glow of the burning cabin had almost subsided. The three boys tumbled in the grass and lay still. Their breath came in choking gasps. Perspiration oozed out from every pore in their bodies.
Pausing only for a short rest, they hurried on again, turning more to the northward. Once or twice Dick or Sandy stopped to listen, fearful lest the two Indians they had encountered might be following them.
“I can’t believe we’ve managed to get away so easily,” Dick declared.
“It doesn’t seem possible,” replied Sandy. “They’ll be sure to follow us.”
They struggled on. It was difficult now to pick their way without stumbling into ruts and slipping over rocks. They had left the meadow behind. On every hand, boulders, stones, tall jagged cliffs surrounded them. Their brisk walk had changed to a mere snail’s pace.
“We no get on very fast,” complained Toma at the end of another half hour. “I think mebbe we made mistake come this way. Take all night to go one, two miles.”
“Let’s turn more to the left,” suggested Dick. “That may lead us out of here.”
Toma’s keen sense of hearing was responsible for their next full stop a few minutes later. Groping out with his two arms he caught Dick by the sleeve and Sandy by the back of his coat. Frantically, he pulled them back.
“I think I hear someone.” His whispered warning was scarcely audible. “Don’t move unless want to die. Somebody come.”
A small stone rattled down the sharp incline immediately ahead of them. A guttural voice broke across the stillness.