A MOMENT OF PERIL
"WE are done for!" cried Roger, as vociferous yells from various
quarters told of the sudden peril that had burst upon them.
The pioneer boys had often, when sitting at the knees of their fathers,
heard how the crafty Indians along the Ohio River, wishing to coax
the settlers ashore when they drifted down the stream in their shanty
boats, would resort to a ruse.
There were white renegades among the natives, men like Simon Girty, who
had been chased out of the settlements for wrong-doing, and who, hating
their kind, had joined fortunes with the red tribes.
One of these turncoats would disguise himself, and set up a plaintive
appeal for help, claiming to be an honest man, who had just escaped
from the torture post of the Indians, and begging the newcomers not to
forsake him.
In a few instances his appeals would touch the hearts of the whites,
so that, even against their good judgment, they were known to work
the flatboat near the bank. Of course an attack always followed, the
Indians springing up from their places of concealment.
Dick remembered those thrilling stories now, when he and Roger were
victims of a ruse along similar lines. That dummy deer had been placed
so it could be seen by those in the canoes. The master mind capable of
conceiving this trick knew well that the two lads were born hunters,
and, in the need of fresh meat for the camp, could hardly resist the
temptation.
The game had worked only too well. So cleverly had the dead deer been
arranged that even their sharp eyes had failed to detect anything
wrong, except that the animal seemed to remain persistently in one
spot, and never raised his head.
Almost immediately, flitting forms were seen among the trees. The boys
did not stop to count them, but there must certainly have been a full
dozen of the enemy.
Two figures they glimpsed that were not copper-colored, and nearly
destitute of clothing, as was the case with the Flat Head braves. There
was no need to call out and announce their discovery, for both boys
realized in a flash that they were once again face to face with the
evil genius of their lives, the French trader, François Lascelles,
together with his equally unscrupulous ally, Andrew Waller.
Roger, with his customary impulsiveness, felt a wave of hot indignation
sweep over him. This man, whom they had never sought to harm, had
followed them ever since they set out from their homes on the lower
Missouri, bent on saving the Armstrong property. Many times had they
suffered from his persecution, and no one could really blame Roger for
feeling bitterly toward the trader.
Influenced by his impulsive and headstrong nature, he hastily threw his
gun up to his shoulder, and, covering the advancing Frenchman, pulled
the trigger.
No report followed, which at the moment was a bitter disappointment to
Roger, with his mind so set on settling the score then and there. Of
course, it flashed upon him that he could not expect his gun to load
itself, since he had just fired the one bullet it contained into the
deer that had been used as a decoy.
With a cry of anger he turned, and, almost before Dick knew what was
up, had snatched the loaded rifle from his hands, thrusting his own
useless weapon into his chum's grasp.
But the two renegades saw him do this, and realized their danger,
for, though the exchange took but a couple of seconds, they had had
sufficient warning to put stout trees between themselves and the angry
boy.
When Roger whirled around, bent on carrying out his design, he was
just in time to see Waller vanish behind a tree. It was a foregone
conclusion that the quick-witted Lascelles had been even faster in his
movements, since he knew well that he must be the object of the lad's
blind anger.
Indians there were in sight, running toward them, and brandishing their
tomahawks and spears threateningly, at the same time dodging behind
various trees as if to confuse the "palefaces."
Evidently they feared those wonderful sticks that spat out fire, and
made a sound like unto the near-by thunder, as well as mysteriously
slew whatever they were pointed at.
"We must run for it, Roger!" cried Dick, seeing that it was folly to
think of trying to stand off a dozen savages with but one loaded gun
between them.
"All right!" gasped Roger, as he swung around and put himself in
motion, for it was plain to be seen that not a second should be lost if
they hoped to outwit the enemy.
No sooner was their intention evident than a new burst of wild yells
told that the Indians were in hot pursuit. High above the fiendish
cries Dick could hear the heavier voices of the two treacherous white
men, and he knew that Lascelles and Waller must be keeping in the van
of their pursuers.
The boys might have turned and tried to frighten the Indians off by a
second shot, but it would be losing precious time, and every second
must count when their lives hung in the balance.
The boys were clever runners, and under ordinary conditions might have
been able to keep well ahead of the fleet-footed Indians. There was one
unfortunate thing, however, that promised to hamper them sadly, and it
concerned Roger's ability to keep up the pace.
Several days before, almost a week in fact, he had turned his ankle,
and had ever since complained of feeling it pain him from time to time,
especially if he gave that foot any sort of a wrench.
He had not taken a score of leaps when his toe chanced to catch in a
root, and, while the boy did not measure his length on the ground, he
did feel a sharp pain shoot through that weak ankle.
It made his heart sink to realize that he was bound to feel it worse
with every bound he took, and that in the end it might be the means of
their downfall.
Dick had kept close to the river-bank in his flight. He did this for
several good reasons. In the first place, they had come that way, and
knew the ground more or less. Then, again, the camp lay up the river,
and, if help was to meet them part way, they must head straight for the
boats.
He was inclined at first to try to shout, in the expectation that those
in camp would come to their assistance the faster; but, on second
thought, he realized it would only be wasting his breath. Surely they
must have heard the sound of Roger's rifle, and those wild whoops
bursting on their ears soon afterwards would tell their friends what
had happened.
He fully believed Captain Clark would sally forth with some of the men,
bent on attempting their rescue. It was only a question of keeping
ahead of their persistent pursuers long enough to allow the others to
come up.
"Faster, Roger, faster!"
Roger heard his comrade say this and he strove his utmost to obey, but
the injured ankle was giving him more trouble every second and, despite
his efforts, he failed to keep up to his usual standard of speed.
"My ankle--I've hurt it again!" he called out, between his set teeth.
Dick heard this with a thrill of horror. It seemed to seal their fate,
for, if they could not increase their speed, the Indians were bound to
overtake them long before any help might arrive.
He tried to catch hold of Roger's arm, as though his first thought was
to render assistance; but that was impossible when running as they
were. Roger indeed shook himself free.
"Save yourself, Dick! I'm nearly done for!" he exclaimed.
Dick did not try to answer. He needed all his breath to carry him
along; but, if he had spoken, it would have been to scorn indignantly
the suggestion that he leave his chum behind, and look out for himself.
Dick was not that kind of boy; and if need be he would stand by Roger,
fighting to the end.
There was the swift-running river just beside them. Dick wished from
the bottom of his heart that they could in some way make use of it in
order to give their pursuers the slip; yet he could not decide how it
could be accomplished.
If they jumped in, and attempted to swim across, there were undoubtedly
among the half-naked braves many who could make faster progress,
unhampered as they would be with clothes. Oh! if only one of the boats
would shoot into view, manned by a couple of the brave fellows whose
guns would soon work havoc among the natives and put them to flight!
Dick saw no chance of obtaining help from that quarter. The ground
underfoot was now slippery, and he remembered that they had passed over
a place where the earth seemed spongy.
He could only see one hope left. This was for them to seek refuge
behind trees, and try to hold the enemy at bay long enough to enable
their friends to arrive on the spot. And, since the Indians might rush
them despite their threatening guns, this seemed almost like a forlorn
hope.