“Young men,” said Running Elk. “Braves. Old men in council; young men come afterward.” “That’s it,” cried Jack, grasping at the Cherokee hunter’s meaning. “Weatherford, chief of the Creeks, took his old men forward to hear and talk with Tecumseh and the prophet at the council fire. The young men, or warriors, were left a few days’ march behind; they were on their way to join their chief when we ran into them at the river.” “Worse luck for us,” grumbled Frank, his eyes on the advancing Indians. “What shall we do?” It was plain to Jack and Running Elk that the Creeks had used their superior knowledge of the country to their great advantage. They had seen the direction taken by the boys and knowing, very likely, the course they must take through the forest if they desired to make speed, the red men had cunningly thrown parties forward along various paths through the woods, short cuts known only to themselves and the wild things, and so had managed to form a ring about them when they had least expected it. To stand at the top of the grassy knoll and see the Creeks advance upon all sides was an experience the like of which Frank Lawrence had never undergone before. The sun glanced upon the oily bronze skins of the braves, their eagle and heron plumes nodded in the breeze, their buckskin leggings and quilled and beaded ornaments were interesting and picturesque. But Frank knew that there was something more than show in the force moving so slowly, so surely toward them; he knew that if they were not checked, their presence in such numbers meant almost certain death to him and his friends. “Do you think they are in range?” asked he, looking at Jack. Young Davis swept the distant Creeks with an estimating glance. “Not by fifty yards,” said he. “And we’ll give them twenty-five more than that, for we must not waste any ammunition.” But Jack did not give the Indians much attention at the moment; as soon as he had answered Frank’s question, he turned to a place at the top of the knoll which had caught his eye a few moments before. This was a bowl-like depression, possibly fifteen yards across and some four feet in depth. The young Tennesseean leaped into this, and walked about, trying it at various places for a view of the sloping sides of the knoll. “Just the thing,” cried he, excitedly. “Couldn’t have been better placed if it had been made for the occasion.” Catching Jack’s idea, the others also sprang into the depression. “Bully!” exclaimed Frank. “It’s quite a fort.” “Made for fort,” stated Running Elk, whose searching glance had been going about. “Long time ago.” At once the four horses were driven into the bowl, and made to lie down in the center; then the defenders gave their attention to the oncoming foe.