"Thank God! lad," cried the old man. "I gave you up for dead when you fell off the tree." When Nathan had told his story, Barnabas declared that it would be both useless and perilous to pursue Simon Glass. "We'll settle with the ruffian another time," he said. "To think of his creepin' down here to make sure you was dead! But that's jist like him. An' now, if you're able, we'll be gettin' back to the party." Nathan was all right except for a slight weakness, and with a little assistance he made fair progress up the bank. As they climbed, Barnabas told what had happened. "We got under cover too quick for the enemy," he explained, "an' while they thought we was hiding in the wood we were making for the ford on a trot. It was round a bend of the creek, and luckily we got across without bein' seen. Then we circled around to the camp, and surprised the British from the rear as they were getting to saddle. We dropped three in their tracks, an' shot another on the bridge, an' the rest cut an' run fur life. It's a pity Simon Glass wasn't there then." "Any of our men killed?" asked Nathan. "Evan Jones," Barnabas answered, soberly. "He was shot by a little chap that fired as he run." By this time they were at the captured camp, and Nathan was warmly greeted. He examined the four dead dragoons, but Godfrey was not among them. "What did the man look like who was shot on the tree?" he asked. "He was my age, and had a heavy mustache," replied Reuben Atwood; and the lad's mind was relieved. It was considered expedient to start while the five survivors of the enemy were scattered, and before they could get together. Three horses had been killed in the assault--they being in direct range--and a fourth was so badly crippled as to be useless. The five that remained were just enough for the party, now reduced by two. While the men gathered up what muskets, ammunition, and other stuff had fallen into their hands, Barnabas dressed Nathan's skin-wound and squeezed his clothes partly dry. Once in the saddle the lad felt quite himself again, though he shuddered frequently to think of his narrow escape. The victory was not without its sting. Poor Lindsay and Jones had answered their last summons, and the bodies had to be left where they had fallen. Their comrades would gladly have buried them, but duty to the imperiled settlers at Wyoming forbade a moment's delay. The sun was just peeping above the horizon when the little band mounted the captured horses and rode away from the scene of death and bloodshed. For the first two miles they kept close watch as they trotted along the bridle-road, and then, the chance of a surprise being now past, they urged their steeds to a gallop.