OF course the rangers had conversed in whispers, which could not have been heard three yards away. And not for a second had they ceased to watch and listen with strained senses.
But they did not start. Another rifle spoke from the opposite side of the open space, the bullet passing near them. And during the succeeding moment or two, they detected movements at their left. For a short time longer they remained motionless and silent.
“These on our left ar’ goin’ up,” said Mace. “Ten to one most o’ the skunks ar’ above us now. I’m goin’ ter make stret across the openin’.”
Joe Hill undertook to whisper something; but the other had no time to hear him, being already creeping after Mace. Joe suppressed a wrathy exclamation and followed.
The nature of the ground was such that a practiced scout could steal over it without much danger of being heard. The greatest danger was being seen. Each went on hand and knee, moving slowly. They were nearly across, when Mace suddenly stopped and hugged close to the ground. Those behind followed suit.
They were not more than ten yards from the edge of the woods beyond, which was marked by deeper darkness. What had Mace discovered?
It was a silent query soon answered. A figure was moving forward, intent on crossing to the side they had just left. Evidently the author of the last shot.
The Indian came on slowly. He was not over-cautious, for his body was but half bent. Its dim outlines barely perceptible through the deep gloom, seemed twice the natural size. He probably had not, as yet, the faintest suspicion that enemies were so near him.
He was nearly past the motionless rangers, when suddenly he stopped. Was it instinct or his keen vision-sense that caused him to glance around?
Not the latter, evidently, for soon he moved on.
He had taken no more than three steps, when he again stopped and peered aside. He was now but little more than a yard from the side of Joe Hill. He gazed around for a moment, and then bent lower down. He meant to know if the almost imperceptible stir made by Joe Hill was only fancy.
The Indian was speedily undeceived. Two long arms suddenly shot up, clasping his neck and throat like a vice. No power to cry out; nor to struggle. Two forms rose quickly, near Joe, and prevented this. The knife of one was sent to the Indian’s heart. Half a minute later, Hill released his grasp, and was creeping forward after his companions.
They were shortly within the edge of the woods. At that moment three rifles spoke opposite the open space and above them. As though frightened by the commotion, two distinct cries of a night-hawk followed close upon the echoes of the reports.
“I was right!” whispered Mace. “That volley tells it. They don’t suspect we’ve crossed the openin’. Come on!”
“No—here; not that way,” said Revel. “Furder south, in the direction of the night-hawk’s notes. They were made by the Injun girl, an’ mean, come. We’ll find it safer in that direction!”
And the prediction proved true. As the rangers crept in the direction indicated, their practiced ears heard stealthy footsteps a few rods away, approaching the open space they had just left.
Acting on the supposition that the way was clear before them, they ventured on more haste. Twenty minutes passed, and they were far from the scene of their late struggle. And all the while Will Revel was looking for some sign of Moorooine’s presence. The section of forest they were now in was not very dense, and the stars overhead afforded a faint light around them.
“We’re less ’n a mile from the lake,” said Mace, halting. “Scarred Eagle must ’a’ heerd the shots, an’ orter be clus by ef he landed anywhar opposite us. I’ll venture on a signal, anyhow.”
But another signal was given before him—that of the Indian girl, meaning “beware!” She was evidently at some point between them and the opening they had left. Were the Indians following them toward the lake?
A few moments of strict silence convinced them of this. Savages at the right, left, and not a hundred yards behind them.
Their predicament was hardly less dangerous than half an hour previous. They were further from their foes, but the latter had them within an arc, with the lake-shore for a base.
To get out of this was the point. They began a hurried consultation; but it was quickly brought to an end. Behind them, and on either flank the Indians were approaching rapidly. That the latter were aware of their position, was evident from their bold movements.
The rangers glided directly forward, from tree to tree. Presently the ball was opened by the discharge of several rifles behind them. A bullet grazed the arm of Ben Mace, the others were untouched. Then came a chorus of fierce, loud yells, enough to curdle the blood; but not of these men, who were now on a full run.
They knew ten minutes would bring them into the denser portion of forest, skirting the lake. Once there, a better chance would open for concealing themselves or stealing past their enemies.
“Spread out!” said Mace. “Thar’ll be less chance o’ bein’ hit.”
“Let us turn on dthe domd apes,” cried Tim Devine, as a bullet grazed his shoulder. “Dthey be on us in a minnit.”
“No; r-r-r-r-run, durn ye!” blurted Hill.
A peculiar whistle at this moment rung out at quite a distance ahead. All knew it was that of Scarred Eagle, and pressed on for life.
Three minutes later.
“I—say—Mace, what d’ye think of—”
“Yis; down for a second and turn on ’em. Don’t waste lead!”
A number of Indians converging from the right were hardly thirty yards distant. Three or four of them had just fired, and a hasty glance behind showed them coming on in something of a cluster.
The pursued rangers suddenly stopped, dropped on foot and knee, and poured a volley into their pursuers. Then, amidst the echoes of yells and groans, they sprung onward again, like lightning. But the check they had given in one quarter was more than balanced by loss of time and the proximity of their enemies coming directly behind.
“Every man for himself, an’ devil take the hindmost!” The action of the borderers was in keeping with this old saying, at least. Knife in one hand, rifle in the other, they sped on, intent on penetrating the deeper lines of darkness ahead.
The Indians were fearfully near. The foremost were hardly thirty feet behind when a hatchet whizzed, striking Tim’s rifle and whirling him half round. He was barely in time to recover his balance and club his rifle.
“Take dthat! Och, here’s for betthur nor worse, thin!”
He had laid one of his assailants low, and the next instant was grasped by another. By great good-fortune he knifed this one, who in convulsive agony bore him to the ground. At the moment two rifles rung out and two savages fell headlong, rolling over both.
With desperate quickness, the Irishman sprung up in time to see one or two men vanish before him. He sprung after them, not certain whether they were friends or foes.
The matter was soon determined. A dozen bounds brought him to a natural barricade of prostrate tree-trunks, over which he tumbled in his excitement, his heels coming in contact with the head and shoulders of a man.
“Gi-gi-git—oh, cuss ye!” muttered Hill.
“Hish!” said a voice. “Crunch down hyur all on ye, an’ not stir onless—”
The voice was that of Scarred Eagle. He had not a chance to finish the sentence, for a dark body of savages were rushing on, not ten yards away. He himself dashed away with Goodbrand, leaving the men crouched under the fallen timber.
Every one of them understood Scarred Eagle’s object. His plan was the bold one of trying to draw the entire posse of Indians past them, running the risk of escaping himself afterward. And, indeed, the bounds of himself and Goodbrand, as they sped away, were enough to convince the pursuers that all their victims were yet running. But to make the deception more perfect, a loud, excited voice cried:
“Now—to the lake-shore for y’ur lives!”
The next moment a number of savages rushed past, on either side of the concealed men, and four or five sprung directly over them. One of these, unfortunately for himself, slipped and fell beside them. But the incident was unheeded by his companions, and before they were a dozen bounds away, the hand of Ben Mace stilled the savage forever.
Then every man reloaded as quickly as it was possible to do in the gloom.
“What d’ye think, Mace?” whispered Revel.
“We might ’s well skim back an’ git ter the bivouac ef we kin. The woods ’pears ter be full on ’em, cuss ’em!”
“Just what I think. Less you an’ me an’ Dan, try to find poor Hank an’ the rest, an’ make stret back.”
“An’ laive Scarred Aigle is it?” said Tim. “Divil blow yees, pwhat wan of ye—”
“Oh, shet up!” ejaculated Hill. “Him an’ Goodbrand ’ll uther dodge ’em or take th-th-the boat; blast ye, come on!”
They moved quickly and stealthily back on the course. There was no danger of their being heard, for the commotion made by the outwitted savages came every moment to their ears.
But they had not proceeded very far when the noise and commotion ceased. Mace paused and glanced back anxiously.
“Mebbe the murderin’ skunks begin ter suspict what’s happined,” he said. “Must be Rhodan an’ Goodbrand ’ll uther git back this way, ur take to thar canoe. But ef I thought—”
He suddenly ceased speaking and listened intently. A thrill war-whoop echoed through the woods in the direction of the baffled Indians. It was succeeded by a chorus of fierce shouts.
“One or both on’ ’em’s took!” exclaimed Mace, excitedly. “’Twas the price fur snatchin’ us frum death, an’ I fur one ’ll go back ag’in’ all odds!”
“Good, me hairty!” exclaimed the impulsive Irishman. “Tim Devine ’ud foller yees ef ’twas to dthe mouth of purgatory itself. Thrue as me father was a docthur!”
Ere the generous Celt had concluded, all of them had started. Each knew it might be his last tramp on earth. But not one of them would have hesitated even before more certain perils. And they hoped that Scarred Eagle might yet escape.
As they were hurrying on, a dark figure appeared suddenly before them.
“No go yit—wait,” said a low voice.
It was the Indian girl, Moorooine. And as she spoke the rangers were around her.
“What!” said Revel. “Do you know what has happened?”
“She kain’t do no good—come on,” exclaimed Mace. “We orter know what that war-whoop meant.”
“’Twas Miami whoop—but friendly one,” persisted the girl. “Warkechin. Know him. Called Goodbrand.”
Mace paused. “How d’ye know?” he said. “An’ yit—”
“I b’lieve it!” said Hicks and Revel, in a breath. “Ye know it mout be, Ben,” continued the latter. “The Miami is workin’ for Rhodan’s safety an’ his own.”
“Yes; tryin’ save both,” said Moorooine. “Now you know that—go on, help.”
She herself led the way, keeping in view before them for a few seconds, and then disappearing altogether. She seemed to move as noiseless as a bird.
Again every thing around was silent as a charnel-house. The rangers, scattered quite a distance apart, soon halted at a signal from Mace, and came together.
“Two kin go ahead an’ reconnoiter,” he said. “You an’ me, Revel. Ef Scarred Eagle is atween us an’ the Injuns he’ll show himself soon. Ef ’e don’t, we’ll—huh! Thet Injun girl ag’in, I reckon.”
It was, indeed, Moorooine, who had turned back to meet them.
“Both comin’—sure!” she said, hurriedly. “Moorooine’s ears have been open. She heard warriors talk. White Fox is prisoner at village. Evil Eye know where. Mus’ go there now, ’fore warriors suspect me. I will try for save White Fox till his brothers come to help me.”
Loud, fierce yells suddenly resounded through the dim aisles of the woods, from the direction of the lake. At the same moment the bounds of two men were heard close by.
“Friends most here,” added the girl. And as she dashed away, Scarred Eagle and Goodbrand sprung forward into their midst.