The next moment they bounded into the grayish forest, with a hundred fiends yelling at their heels!
CHAPTER V.
IN THE HANDS OF FATE.
The Indians, consisting of representatives from each of the avenging nations, had reached the top of the bank in less time than we could record the movement, and gained perceptibly upon the flying whites from the first.
The trio kept close together, and ever and anon glanced backward to behold their dusky foes nearing them with a rapidity which betokened swift doom.
Still the wood stretched before them, and no covert, no natural stronghold in which they might attempt a defense presented itself; and no succoring volley burst upon their ears. Had they been as fresh as their pursuers were, they might hope to elude the red hands; but the respective tramps from Fort Chartres and Cahokia had fatigued them, and, even when flying for life, they felt the terrible lack of strength.
“They’re going to catch us!” said Bob Somerville, the young scout, glancing over his shoulder at the howling legion.
“If we say so—yes,” said the giant. “What do you say, Blount? As for myself, I’ll never throw down my rifle, an’ cry quarter to that troop of man-skinners. But you have a daughter, an’ as they bear you but little hatred compared to that which they bear old Doc Bell, p’r’aps you’d better give up—you an’ Bob, here.”
“What! I surrender to them!” cried the young scout, shooting a look of indignation at the giant at his side. “Never! I’m going to stay with you, Doc. Let us run on!”
On, still on they went, and all at once the big hunter cried: