CHAPTER XXVII
WISCONSIN HEIGHTS
The object to which John Mason pointed was not very startling in itself. It seemed entirely harmless and innocent as it lay on a tuft of grass beside a large tree. It was an earthen pot like many that were used by the Indians in their camps.
“You see they are beginning to throw away their own belongings,” exclaimed Mason. “They must know we are close behind them and are trying to make time.”
“There are some blankets too,” cried Robert. “They evidently don’t intend to carry any more weight than necessary.”
The trail was soon littered with baggage and paraphernalia of all kinds. Everything pointed to the fact that the Indians were now in dire straits. The troops pushed on eagerly, every man spurred forward by the knowledge that their opponents were weakened and must soon be overtaken. Nature seemed to impose almost every difficulty imaginable in the way of the pursuers, but nothing discouraged the men any more. Frequently it became necessary to dismount and wade in mud and water shoulder deep. A violent thunder storm and cloudburst struck the little army, but undismayed they fought their way along.
“There’s an Indian!” exclaimed Joseph suddenly.
“Where?” cried Robert excitedly. The two boys were in advance of the others, for their knowledge of woodcraft learned from Deerfoot had enabled them slightly to outdistance the rest of the army.
“Just ahead there,” said Joseph quickly as he raised his gun to fire.
“Wait, Joe,” cried Robert. “He’s holding up his hands.”
The Indian was seated on a pony, and, as Robert had said, was holding up his hands in token of surrender. Joseph quickly lowered his rifle.