Then began the real test between the two runners, red and white, neither of whom had ever before found his match. For a time John turned his head frequently, keeping watch upon his pursuers, and he soon learned that the distance between them, little by little, was shortening. The Indian was gaining because he did not look back; his eye was steadily on the white man. John Martin thought:
"I must not turn my head, but look steadily forward, and trust my ears to measure the space between us. If I find that he is nearing me, I will stop and fight; my little knife against his long one and the hatchet."
Now the space does not grow less, and to the Indian, who had expected an easy victory, this is maddening. John hears him muttering curses in his own language, and they sound musical. Then he calls in broken English,
"White man, stop talk; me no kill."
His only purpose is to secure a moment's pause; but to all appearance the other hears not. The Indian leaps and bounds in his rage, but nothing can he gain. The long quick steps of the white man have the steady movement of an eagle's wing; they flag not, nor does he turn his head till he has leaped the fence and given the promised yell. Almost on the instant he hears the whiz of a bullet and the crack of Mary's rifle. The ball grazes a tree behind which the Indian has suddenly skulked, really dodging a shot truly aimed. Then, with a cry of baffled rage, he springs into the forest and is seen no more.
When Stephen left his brother's side, he felt that he was put upon his mettle as never in his life before. He had recovered his "second wind," the swiftest of the Indians had gone the other way, and he had great hope that he could win the race. He must win, for if John should fail, who but himself could warn the people of the fort. Left alone, he suddenly became cool, calculating, and self-reliant. Before him was a bit of thicket. He turned suddenly behind this, as though seeking to hide along a ravine which bore away to the right, and as quickly again resumed his course. The Indians were deceived, and turned, as they supposed, to cut him off, and by this he gained considerably. Then, in plain sight, he took a curved path, knowing that across the shorter way were many trailing vines and low shrubs. In these the foremost savage became entangled, and lost his position in the race. And now the lad had only to make a supreme effort, the clearing was in sight; he heard his brother's voice, and the report of his sister's rifle. All was well, and he would have gone unscathed, but in leaping the fence he tripped and fell headlong. As he rose and started forward, the foremost Indian threw a tomahawk, the blade of which cut his shoulder, while the handle struck his head, stunning him, and he fell again.
The savage, eager to secure a scalp and recover his weapon, sprang over the fence, unaware of the risk he was taking, for by this time John had given the point of his brother's approach, and the brave mother was on the watch. The Indian's feet had but touched the open ground when she drew a bead upon him, and as he paused to draw his scalping-knife the rifle sent its messenger to his breast. He fell at Stephen's feet, mortally wounded, and died in a few moments.
The mother began reloading her piece. "We may need another bullet," she said, as she rammed one "home." "Help the boy in, and I'll keep an eye on the woods."
But no other foe appeared, and Stephen, whose wounds though bleeding and painful were not dangerous, soon was resting on a couch before the fire.
Notwithstanding the excitement he had passed through, he immediately fell asleep from utter exhaustion. When at sunset he awoke and saw his mother by his side he placed a hand in hers, and there was a world of love and admiration in his eyes.