CHAPTER VII.

A DESPERATE ENCOUNTER.

“After us?” repeated Percy Vere, in some consternation.

“Just so,” replied Glyndon, calmly.

“Then we had better git up and ’git,” suggested Percy Cute. “Let’s get back to camp. I wouldn’t mind a scrimmage, but I think fifty against three is a leetle too hefty.”

“We can’t go back the way we came,” answered Glyndon. “They’re between us and the camp now. We’ll have to take to the river the other side of the cliff, and get back that way.”

These words revived the boys’ spirits.

“Oh! then there is a way out of the trap?” cried Percy Vere.

“I reckon; I never got into so bad a scrape but what I could find a way out of it. Let’s travel. We’ve found out enough, and the quicker we get back to the camp now the better. We know that there is a way up to the cliff’s top here, and we’ve found out that there’s a woman in the party, so we can understand something of Smoholler’s deviltry last night.”

“Yes, but this woman is a squaw, is she not?”

“Of course.”

“But the vision that appeared upon the cliff was _white_, how can you account for that?” urged Percy Vere.

Glyndon shook his head in a bewildered manner.

“I can’t account for it,” he answered, reflectively. “She was white, as you say, and if she wasn’t an angel she looked enough like one to be one. The sight of her face affected me strangely—I hain’t cried for years, and yet I felt the tears coming as I looked at her. It’s witchcraft, and this Injun Prophet just knows how to play it. I don’t wonder that the savages think he’s something great. I’d like to see him once, just to see what kind of a man he is; but I don’t want to see him just now—it might not be wholesome,” he added, dryly. “He might lift my ha’r without the formality of an introduction. It’s lucky I didn’t let you shoot at that elk when you wanted to. The sound of your rifle would have brought the whole squad down upon us.”

A peculiar cry arose on the air.

“What’s that?” asked Percy Vere; a presentiment of evil entering his mind as he listened to it.

“That’s some bird calling for its mate,” said Cute.

“Nary a bird,” cried Glyndon. “That’s an Injun. They’ve struck our trail, and they’re coming for us. Come on; we must get to the river, fast as we can travel.”

“Couldn’t we make a stand here and fight them?” suggested Percy Vere.

The old hunter shook his head.

“Madness, my boy,” he replied. “I like your spunk, but it can’t be done. I’m doubtful if we can all get back to the camp, but we’ll make a try for it. Our only hope is to make for the river upon the other side of the cliff.”

Percy Cute took off his hat, and felt of his hair, while his face assumed a rueful expression.

“I wish I had a photograph of it,” he exclaimed.

“Why so?” demanded Glyndon, in some surprise.

“Because I’m afraid that I will never see it again.”

Both the hunter and Percy Vere laughed at this sally. This dry humor in the face of threatening danger pleased Glyndon greatly.

“You’ll do!” he returned. “Good grit, both of you, and the Injuns shan’t get you if I can help it. Come along. We can make a stand at the river’s edge, and pepper some of ’em before we take to the water.”

They pressed rapidly forward, but their path was beset with many obstacles and obstructions. They had to clamber over huge bowlders, and force their way through thickets of cedar, and fir-trees, nor were brambles wanting in the way.

The numerous signals that now sounded behind them lent spurs to their exertions, for they told them that the Indians were following in swift pursuit.

As they approached the river’s brink the wood grew more open; there were less rocks scattered about, and the trees were taller. As they emerged into this opening, with only a fringe of trees between them and the river’s bank, the report of guns rattled in quick succession behind them, and a bullet went whistling by Glyndon’s ear.

“Great Cæsar!” he cried, “this won’t do. Turn at the trees, boys, and prepare for ’em. They’ll hit one of us next thing.”

They gained a clump of fir trees that grew close together, which afforded them a shelter, and an opportunity to fire their rifles between the trunks.

They were breathless with the exertions they had made, and were only too glad to avail themselves of this temporary rest.

“Phew! that’s what I call tall traveling,” cried Cute, panting to recover his wind. “I heard the bullets rattling around me like hailstones.”

“It’s a mercy we were none of us hit,” rejoined Percy Vere. “Well, we’re lucky so far.”

“But we ain’t out of it yet,” said Glyndon, and he looked grave. “They’ll make a rush for us, and when they come, fire your rifles, and then take your pistols. Don’t stop to load; if we can’t drive ’em back on the first fire, it’s all up with us. Give ’em every shot you’ve got, and then take the river—the current will carry us down to the camp, and we can’t be far above it. Maybe they’ll hear the firing and be ready to help us.”

“Hoop-la!” exclaimed Cute, excitedly. “Here they come. I’ll take that big fellow in front.”

A wild yell rung through the wood, and a score of painted savages bounded swiftly forward. They had determined upon a desperate charge, evidently; and this mode of attack so different from the customary warfare of the red-man provoked a cry of rage from Glyndon’s lips.

“Blast ’em!” he shouted, “somebody’s told ’em just how to beat us—but give ’em Jessie! Come on, you murdering thieves!”

The three rifles cracked simultaneously, and two of the advancing warriors went down in their tracks; but Cute missed the tall Indian, the leader of the party, and the savages came on unchecked, like a huge ocean wave. Our three scouts were instantly surrounded. The two boys fought back to back, with revolver and bowie-knife in either hand.

Glyndon clutched his long rifle by the barrel and swept the Indians from his path as he fought his way to the river. He reached the bank and plunged into its turbid tide. He was loth to leave the boys to their fate, but he knew he was powerless to help them—and self-preservation is the first law of nature.

Percy Cute received a blow from a tomahawk that stretched him upon the ground; and Percy Vere found himself clutched by the strong arm of the chief—a hideous-looking object in his war-paint. The warriors drew back, as if feeling that the boy could not cope with his formidable opponent.

Percy’s weapons were struck from his hands, and he was hurled to the ground. The hideous face of the savage glared over him, and his knee was pressed upon the boy’s chest, nearly suffocating him. Percy gave himself up for lost.

The chief clutched at his throat with his left hand, brandishing his scalping-knife in his right. His fingers came in contact with the ribbon that Percy wore around his neck, and the locket was pulled forth and sprung open.

The chief’s eyes fell upon the faces it contained, and a cry of amazement burst from his lips. He sprung to his feet.

A brawny savage was approaching Cute to give him his finishing-blow.

“Hold!” shouted the chief, in a voice that was shrill and loud, like a bugle-call. “Harm him not—harm neither—they are my captives, and their lives are sacred.”

A growl of discontent greeted these words.

“Why not kill the pale-face whelps?” cried one of the braves.

The chief stamped angrily upon the ground.

“They are mine, I tell you,” he answered, in peremptory tones. “They are the faces I have seen in my visions—and the White Spirit says they are to live.”