The fires alone remained. They showed evidence of being disturbed in the confusion of the hasty decampment. The red embers were strewed over the grass—their last flames faintly flickering away.
The scouts continued to advance among the trees, till they had made the full circuit of the little opening. For a hundred yards around it the woods were searched with caution and ease; but no enemy was encountered—no ambuscade. We had arrived too late, and the savage foes had escaped us—had carried off their captives from under our very eyes.
It was impossible to follow them in the darkness; and, with mortified spirits, we advanced into the opening, and took possession of the deserted camp. It was our determination to remain there for the rest of the night, and renew the pursuit in the morning.
Our first care was to quench our thirst by the pond—then that of our animals. The fires were next extinguished, and a ring of sentries—consisting of nearly half the number of our party—was placed among the tree-trunks, that stood thickly around the opening. The horses were staked over the ground, and the men stretched themselves along the sward so lately occupied by the bodies of their savage foes. In this wise we awaited the dawning of day.
To none of our party—not even to myself—was this escape of the enemy, or “circumvention,” as he termed it, so mortifying as to old Hickman, who, though priding himself upon his superior cunning and woodcraft, was obliged to confess himself outwitted by a rascally Redstick.
Chapter Eighty Two.
A Dead Forest.
My comrades, wearied with the long ride, were soon in deep slumber—the sentries only keeping awake. For me, was neither rest nor sleep—my misery forbade repose.