The little window at which Dick stood was neither glazed nor papered. He went out through it, feet first; hung for a moment by his fingers to the ledge, then dropped to the ground below, fell on his side, scrambled to his feet, turned his back to the house of shrieking slaughter, and ran across the field towards the nearest woods. Though the direction in which he went took him farther from his grandfather's, he nevertheless did not stop or turn, on reaching the woods, but ran straight on, as fast as the irregularities of the ground would let him, and for once with reckless disregard of possible snakes, his only thought being to put the greatest distance between himself and the yelling murderers behind him.
After a long run, he stopped for lack of breath, and began to consider his situation, as well as the rapid beating of his heart would allow him to do. He regretted that he had not taken Rover with him to White's,—if he had done so, he might now have at least the comfort of the dog's society. At last he decided to make for his grandfather's, by a détour which would take him far from the house where the savages were now holding their carnival of blood. This détour required several hours, as his bare feet suffered from contact with stones, thorns roots, and the rough bark of fallen branches. Finally, on hearing a sound as of a horse's foot crunching into stony soil, a little to the left and ahead, he stopped and stood still. The sound continued. Could it be that he was near a bridle-path and that this sound indicated some solitary traveller? As yet he could see nothing moving through the thick forest. While he waited, a slighter sound close at hand, that of an instant's movement among bushes, suddenly drew his glance. From a mass of laurel near the ground, gleamed a pair of eyes directly at him, on a level with his own. He started back, thinking they might belong to a wildcat or some other crouching animal.
Instantly the owner of the eyes swiftly rose, and stood erect from the bush,—a naked Shawnee, daubed yellow, and carrying knife and tomahawk. Dick turned and ran, casting back one look, in which he saw the Indian hurl the tomahawk after him. The boy fell forward on his face just in time to feel the wind of the hatchet instead of the hatchet itself, which cleft the air directly over his head and lodged in a tree-trunk in front of him. The Indian, abandoning his intention of remaining in the bush, for which he had doubtless had his own reason, now glided after Dick, who had not half risen when he felt the Shawnee's fingers grasp his long hair, and saw the knife describe a rapid circle in the air in preparation for its descent upon his scalp. The boy cast one despairing look up towards the Indian's implacable face.
The stillness of the woods was suddenly broken by a loud detonation. Something dug into the Indian's breast, a horrible grimace distorted his face, a fearful cry came from his throat, his knife-blow went wide, and he leaped clear over Dick, retaining some of the boy's hair in his clutch as he went. The next moment he lay sprawling, face downward, some feet away. He stiffened convulsively, and never moved again.
Dick looked towards the direction whence the shot had come. In a little opening among the trees he saw a horse standing; on its back a tall, gaunt, brown-faced stranger, from whose rifle-muzzle a little smoke was still curling. The newcomer was apparently about forty years old; wore an old cocked hat, a time-worn blue coat, whose long skirts spread out over the horse's rump, a red waistcoat, patched green breeches, and great jack-boots that had known much service. His long brown hair was tied in a queue, and, besides his rifle, he carried before him an immense pistol. A long, projecting chin gave a grotesque turn to his features, whose grimness was otherwise modified by amiable gray eyes.
"Sure, sonny," he called out to the astonished and staring Dick, "it's the part of Providence I played towards ye that time; in return for whilk favor, tell me now the way to one Alexander Wetheral's house, if ye ken it."
Not sufficiently learned in dialects to note the stranger's mixture of Scotch and Irish with the King's English, Dick eagerly proffered his services and said that Alexander Wetheral was his father.
"What, lad! Gie's your hand, then, and it's in front of me ye shall ride hame this day. It's a glad man your father 'ull be, when he sees ye bringing in Tom MacAlister as a recruit, and no such raw one, neither!"
