The sound of the last word still lingered in the air when the Prophet suddenly leaped erect; his tomahawk was snatched from his belt, his right arm went back like lightning. There was a whistling hum of the weapon as it flew through the air; then the sharp blade bit deep into a branch of the gum tree close to Jack Davis’ head. CHAPTER III THE WILDERNESS TRAPPER The haft of the hatchet was still a-quiver from the Prophet’s cast when Jack Davis’ long rifle spoke in reply. Then, with a hiss, an arrow from the bow of Running Elk found its mark; Frank’s piece cracked sharply, and then all three turned and darted away through the trees. Behind them arose a terrific din; the Creeks, amazed at the unexpected happening, could, for a space, do nothing but yell their surprise and anger. Then they seized their weapons; arrows began to sing their swift flights over the heads of the running boys; a few rifles spoke spitefully; but in the darkness the aim of the Indians was bad. As swiftly as they could travel, the lads tore through the woods; emerging from this their way was easier and they could make better time. When about a half a mile from the camp of the Creeks, Jack paused and his comrades drew up beside him. After listening a moment, the youthful borderer said: “They are not after us; we must have given them a scare.” “Creek not know how many,” said Running Elk. “Him think plenty white man.” “Well, I’m glad enough for that,” spoke Frank, as he mopped his face with a handkerchief which he wore about his neck. “It would not be any too comfortable with that crowd pounding at our heels.” They waited for perhaps a half hour for some sounds of pursuit; but as none came, they resumed their course toward the abandoned camp where their horses were tied. “At daylight the Creeks will be stirring,” said Jack, “and then they’ll find our tracks and learn how few there are of us. So the best thing we can do is to mount and be on our way before they know too much about us.” “A good idea,” said Frank. “Creek good trailer,” admitted Running Elk. “Find track, like wolf.” Accordingly they saddled, untied and mounted their horses; then in Indian file they rode away in the semi-darkness of the coppery sky. Jack Davis and Frank Lawrence had been friends for almost ten years. Jack’s father was a prosperous farmer with a great tract of land which he had won from the wilderness of Tennessee, and the boy had been brought up at the plow in the planting season, harvesting the crop in the autumn, and in the fall and winter ranging the woods with his rifle, accompanied by friendly Indians, or by some old trapper who had spent his life in the wilds.