Both boys now saw Deerfoot’s plan. He was doubling on his tracks. The ground on the prairie was hard and along the surface of the earth ran a vein of solid rock. It would be almost impossible to follow a trail there, at least with any degree of speed, and Deerfoot had counted upon that as an aid. He hoped to gain a few precious moments by his strategy.
Safe within the shelter of the forest, once more the wily Pottowattomie called a halt. The three fugitives crouched behind the shelter of a bush and gazed eagerly out across the prairie. They were all out of wind and a chance to regain their lost breath was heartily welcomed.
“Think we’ve thrown them off the trail?” whispered Joseph.
“No for long,” replied Deerfoot quietly.
As he spoke an Indian bounded out of the woods, closely followed by several more. They all stopped and looked about them in a puzzled manner, and as more of their companions at that time joined them, a hasty consultation was held. They gesticulated and pointed in all directions, evidently at a loss what to do next. One of them pointed to the woods beyond the prairie, but evidently the others did not think their quarry could have gained enough ground to have reached that shelter.
“Come,” said Deerfoot, slinking away. “They find our trail soon.”
“No. Let’s not waste any time,” agreed Robert, and once more the flight was resumed. Soon they came to a brook. Into this Deerfoot plunged without any hesitation and began making his way down stream as fast as he was able. The two brothers followed closely behind, and, imitating their guide, they jumped from rock to rock when such a course was possible, and at other times they waded in the shallow waters of the stream. This was another trick to throw their pursuers off the trail. Evidently Deerfoot was using all his skill and cunning.
Down the stream they went for at least a third of a mile before Deerfoot decided to try the solid earth again. At a small rocky beach they left the brook and struck out through the woods once more. A short time later he once more entered the brook and went ashore on the opposite side. He was doubling on their tracks continually, and certainly no one but a skilled Indian could follow the course he was leading.
After a further flight they came to Fox River. Along its shores were marshes overhung with willows. From underneath one of these Deerfoot drew a canoe, skillfully hidden in the rushes, and a few moments later the three fugitives were seated in this frail craft, paddling swiftly down the stream.
“We fool them, I think,” said Deerfoot grimly. “We fool Black Hawk, all right. He no catch us now.”