THE FLIGHT.
The pass was steep and rugged,
The wolves they howled and whined;
But he ran like a whirlwind up the pass,
And left the wolves behind.--MACAULAY.
Moments like these,
Rend men's lives into immortalities.--BYRON.
For a few minutes, the Rifleman ran "like a whirlwind," supporting
entirely the weight of Edith, for none knew better than he the imminent
peril that menaced both. The wood was quite open, so that his way was
not much impeded, and he went at a terrific rate, well aware that all
depended upon gaining an advantage over the Indians at the start.
He had gone but a short distance, when he became convinced that his
only danger was from falling into the hands of his pursuers, as it was
their sole object to make him and Edith prisoners; as a consequence,
there was no danger from being fired at by them. When he deemed it
prudent, he released his hold upon her, and she, half running and being
half carried, flew over the ground at a rate as astonishing to herself
as it was to her pursuers. The latter kept up a series of yells and
outcries, amid which the discordant screeches of Zeke Hunt, now Simon
Girty, the renegade, could be plainly distinguished. Several furtive
glances over the shoulder gave him glimpses of some eight or ten
savages in pursuit, the renegade being among the foremost.
As Dernor was thus hurrying forward, he recalled that, less than half a
mile distant, the woods were broken and cut up by ravines and hills, as
though an earthquake had passed through that section; and, believing
that this would afford him a better opportunity of eluding his foes, he
turned in that direction and strained every nerve to reach it. As for
Edith herself, she seemed fired with supernatural strength, and sped
with a swiftness of which she never dreamed herself capable. Seeing
this, the Rifleman attempted to draw the charge out of his gun and
reload it. It was a work of great difficulty to do this while running,
but he succeeded in accomplishing it at last.
Constantly glancing behind him, in order to see his chance, he suddenly
whirled and fired with the rapidity of thought. Without pausing to
reload, he again placed his arm around Edith, and dashed forward almost
at the top of his speed.
Finding that the Indians, if gaining at all, were gaining very slowly
upon him, he half concluded that it was their intention to run his
companion down, well knowing that, although he was fully competent both
in speed and in bottom to contest with them, it could not be expected
that she could continue the rate at which she was going, for any length
of time.
"Ain't you tired?" he asked, hurriedly.
"Not much; I can run a great deal further," she replied, in the same
hurried manner.
"Keep your spirits up; we'll soon have different ground to travel
over."
Almost as he spoke, they came to the edge of a sort of ravine, too
broad for either to leap, and too precipitous to admit of an immediate
descent by either. Still retaining his hold upon her, Dernor ran
rapidly along the edge, until reaching a favorable spot, he lifted her
bodily from the ground, and bounded down to a rock over a dozen feet
below, and then leaped from this to the bottom of the ravine, Edith
sustaining no more of a shock than if she had been a feather.
Being now in the bottom of the ravine, where the ground was
comparatively even, the hunter placed the girl once more upon her feet,
and side by side they continued their flight from their merciless
pursuers. Their loud, exultant yells continued reverberating through
the woods, and glancing upward, Dernor saw the form of a huge Indian
suddenly come to view, on the edge of the ravine, some distance ahead
of him, and make some menacing motion toward him. As the ravine at this
point was a sheer precipice, the hunter did not believe he would
attempt to descend it, and feeling there was no danger of being fired
upon, he kept steadily onward.
But he was mistaken. Before he was opposite the savage, he came sliding
and tumbling down the ravine, as though some one had pushed him from
behind. However that may have been, he alighted on his feet without
injury, and made directly toward the fugitives, with the manifest
intention of checking their flight.
Lewis Dernor saw that a collision with the Indian was unavoidable, and
without the least hesitation prepared himself for it. The savage was a
Miami--a brawny, muscular warrior, fully six feet in height, of
matchless symmetry and formidable strength. When the combatants were
perhaps a dozen yards apart, he raised his tomahawk over his head, and
poising it a moment, hurled it, with a most deadly force, full at the
head of the hunter. The latter had not expected such a demonstration as
this, but had detected it in time to avoid it. He dropped his head the
instant the weapon left the savage's hand, and it whizzed over him,
going end over end, until it struck the solid rock, where the terrible
force of the concussion shivered it to atoms. Seeing this, the Miami
whipped out his knife and stood on the defensive.
"Now, my good friend," muttered Dernor, between his clenched teeth, "it
is _my_ turn."
He handed his rifle to Edith--who had paused, now that they were so
close to their enemy--and, drawing his own knife, made a sort of
running bound, coming upon the Indian with a panther-like spring, that
nearly drove him backward off his feet. There was a clashing of knives,
the scintillation of steel against steel, the deadly embrace, and
hand-to-hand struggle; and, as the Rifleman recoiled clear of his
fallen adversary, he reached out to Edith for his rifle.
"Come on," said he, in his ordinary voice; "I guess the way is clear."
"I--I am afraid," faltered Edith, "that I can not run much further."
"There ain't any need of it," said the hunter. "Lean on me, and we'll
walk awhile, if there's a thousand tearing Injins after us."
Edith panted and trembled violently from the exhausting efforts she had
been compelled to make, while the mortal terror she felt at the Miamis,
made her nearly wild with excitement. Their chilling yells, so
different from any thing ever heard among civilized beings, would have
crazed almost any person, but Dernor listened to them with as much
composure as he would to the songs of so many birds.
He became aware, shortly after, from the direction of these sounds,
that the Indians had entered the ravine, and were now coming along
again, at the top of their speed. He paused a moment, to determine
precisely the distance of these, and then looked into the gloomy,
terror-stricken face of Edith.
"I have rested," said he, "and if we don't get over ground faster than
this, them red-skins will have us both, in less than ten minutes. Let
me carry you."
She made no resistance, for she was barely able to stand, and
supporting her in such a manner that her feet hardly touched ground,
Dernor once more threw all of his astonishing energy into the flight.
Fully a quarter of a mile he ran directly through the ravine, and then,
reaching a point that would admit of it, he made a running leap, and
came up out of it, like a diver emerging from the sea.
He was now in the woods again, after having gained a considerable
advantage over his pursuers; but the Indians behind him were still
uncomfortably close, and he could not hope that all would pass the
point where he had left the ravine, without discovering the signs he
had left there of his flight. Knowing this, he was aware that the
golden moment was the present. The Miamis--to whom most of the pursuers
belonged--were "thrown off the scent" for the time. After having gone a
considerable distance, and having satisfied himself that they had not
yet regained it, Dernor determined to take advantage of this to give
Edith a portion of the rest she needed so much.
"I am not used to running like this," said she, leaning heavily on him,
"and I am afraid I can not bear it."
"I ought to be shot and scalped, for making you take this journey,"
said Dernor.
"Why, you did it for the best," she added, in surprise.
"Yes, I thought so--perhaps, the best for myself. I had no idea of
being pursued in this manner. It seems I have been a fool. I let that
Simon Girty make me believe he was an awkward countryman, and lead me
into this muss."
"You think we can keep out of their hands?"
"I trust so; the night ain't many hours away, and if we can only keep
clear till then, why, all right. I hain't seen the Injin yet, Miami or
Shawnee, that could foller a track in the night-time."
"They did not see us come out of the ravine. How will they know enough
of our direction to keep up the pursuit?"
"Injin is Injin, and the dirt I made in scratching out of there will be
seen by a dozen of their snaky eyes."
"How far, dear friend, did you say it is to the settlement?"
"Full twenty miles."
"We can reach it, then, by traveling all night?"
"Yes, very easy, if you can hold out till the darkness comes on."
"I hope I can, but I am so terribly worn out that I must go very
slowly. You said it was the best for _you_ that we should undertake
this journey alone, through the woods. What did you mean by saying
that?"
"I will tell you some other time," replied the hunter, in great
embarrassment. "I done so that I might be _alone with you_."
Edith looked earnestly at him, as though she would read his very soul.
She was about to speak, when the appalling yells of the human
bloodhounds sounded so fearfully near, that her very blood seemed to
curdle in her veins.
"Where shall we fly?" she asked, looking up imploringly in the face of
the hunter.
"Come on as rapidly as you can," he replied, again supporting her.
Great as were the apprehension and terror of Edith, she could but
notice the singular conduct of her companion. He kept constantly
looking around, not as though he expected danger, but as if searching
for something. The cause of this was soon manifest.
"Edith," said he, "it will be full two hours afore there'll be enough
darkness to do us any good. Can you stand it till then?"
"I can _stand_ it," she answered, with a sad laugh, "but I can not
_run_ it."
"We must either run or be took. Now, _my dearest_ _one_, you've done
enough to kill a dozen common women, and you shouldn't try to do more,
and I don't intend to let you."
"But how can---- Oh, Heavenly Father! hear those shouts--but how can
you prevent it?"
"I must leave you behind."
Edith's eyes dilated with horror, now doubly intensified.
"Don't think for a minute," the hunter hastened to say, "that I intend
to desart you. No, no; may the lightning strike me down if I could ever
do such a thing. What I mean is, that I must hide you till night, when
I'll come back, and we'll go on, taking things comfortably."
"It must be done quickly. Don't wait a minute."
The Rifleman led the way to some thick, dense bushes and without
approaching them very closely, signified her to enter them. She did so,
with considerable difficulty, and when she had entered and covered
away, he could see nothing of her.
"Stay there till I come," said he, "and be careful and not put your
head out, if you hear any noise."
"How shall I know whether it is you or not?"
"I'll be around as soon as it is dark enough, and will speak. Don't
forget what I said. Don't let any noise make you show yourself.
Good-by."
"Good-by;" and the hunter turned to attend to his own safety.