His sudden onslaught nonplused the Indians. They dared not shoot, for their own brethren were likely to receive the balls, and only those nearest Cohoon could get a sight of him.
He cleared a path for his daring feet.
Like Simon Kenton, among the savages of early Ohio, he fought his way to the river bank, and then disappeared!
But not uninjured!
His escape from death seemed miraculous. It was his sudden onslaught that saved him. It confused the savages, and almost in the twinkling of an eye he was gone.
They could swear that his trail was marked with his own blood, and when they returned to their chief, who was recovering from the spy’s attack, it was to tell him that his foe would never cross his path again.
This brave had sunk his knife into the scout’s side; that one had shot him in the back as he fell into the stream, and a third had crushed one shoulder with a clubbed carbine.
Not a savage could be found who had not inflicted some wound upon the brave ranger, and amid the bestowal of self-praise, Jack rose to his feet and pointed to the two captives still remaining in his hands.
“Scar-face,” he said, “take them to the little spring cave, and let the eyes of three of my best braves regard them until I command further.”
Scar-faced Charley sprung to his task, and with the assistance of four braves whom he selected from the band, the two helpless captives were borne from the cave.