Slowly and painfully, then, the four vacated their position, and with eyes fixed on the Indians, crawled down to the right. Fortune favored them, however, and they were congratulating themselves, when the most terrible adventure of the night occurred.
The party was suddenly brought to a halt by a low sign of danger from Clearwater, who led the van.
They were crossing a spot of ground upon which dimly fell the light of the funeral torches.
“What’s up?” whispered Doc Cromer, who covered the little band.
“Somebody’s abroad,” answered the young avenger. “We lie on the brink of destruction now.”
The footsteps which had startled Clearwater’s acute ear came nearer, and told that something was walking painfully slow.
It came from the north west, directly toward the breathless quartette, who griped their knives with determination.
At last they saw the outlines of the night-hawk.
It was an Indian.
He was making for the torches of his scarlet brethren, and our imperiled ones felt a sense of relief when they beheld him swerve to the right and bid fair to miss them.