At last they emerged from the shelter of the forest onto the prairie. Far ahead of them it stretched like the waters of a huge lake, apparently boundless in its extent. Bushes formed the only cover on this vast expanse of level country and both Joseph and Robert could not help wondering what they should do if their enemies should discover them while they were crossing this plain. There was no choice, however, if they wished to reach Dixon’s Ferry, and the chance must be taken.
Soon their progress was more rapid. Swiftly they walked and as the moon broke from behind a cloud its rays made the three figures look like ghosts, as, bending low, they hurried forward on their perilous journey. Mile after mile they covered and scarcely a word had been spoken since they left Deerfoot’s hut on the island in the swamp. Finally, however, the Indian called a halt.
“We rest here,” he exclaimed, pointing to a clump of bushes nearby as he spoke.
“Good,” said Joseph heartily. “That was a fast pace, Deerfoot.”
“Huh,” grunted the Indian. “Must hurry.”
“Are we going to travel all day, too?” inquired Robert. He had sunk to the ground as soon as their march had ceased, and now, stripped of his gun, he lay at full length upon the earth.
“No,” said Deerfoot in response to Robert’s question. “We stay Scott’s today.”
“Scott’s!” exclaimed Robert. “Where is that?”
“On prairie,” replied Deerfoot. “You know Scott’s.”
“I do,” said Joseph, turning to his brother as he spoke. “Don’t you remember that family that stopped at our house about five or six years ago, Bob? They had come from Virginia and we heard later that they had settled out on the prairie here. You must remember them.”