He thought it out and made his decision inside a few seconds of deliberation. The very idea of attempting to do something gave him physical strength. He advanced toward the kettles. Little Beaver followed and overtook him as he halted as if waiting for his breakfast. The chief patted him on the shoulder. Knight met the smoldering gaze and smiled and nodded his head. The Indians averted their gaze to hide their amusement. The white man was believing them to be friendly. With a final pat Little Beaver dropped his hand to his side. Knight’s hard fist, starting from his hip, came up with terrific force under the chief’s chin and fairly lifted him off his feet. Then with a leap, and a jump to one side, and a left-handed smash in the face of a man he could not dodge, he was bursting through the fringe of bushes and plunging into the gloomy woods. The complete surprize of it all dazed the warriors some seconds. Then they followed their first impulse, to run down and recapture their man. As they took the woods, whooping and howling, and armed only with their knives and axes, Knight fought against panic and even slowed his gait to prevent a collision with the faintly outlined trees. One of the warriors yelled for the men to secure their guns. Some ran back to do this. It was too dark for those pressing the chase to pick up the trail, and quite to his amazement Knight found himself on the bank of the creek. The infuriated yells and howls suddenly ceased and Knight at once imagined the foe were all but upon him. Still he practised enough self-control to slip into the icy waters of the creek and noiselessly make his way to the opposite bank. He started at right angles from the stream and soon came to a long, sloping ridge, where there was more light. Up and along the ridge he ran until it did seem as if his pounding heart would burst. For the first time he ventured to look back. He could discover no signs of pursuit, but he realized he must now sacrifice speed for cunning. Once the light strengthened, the Indians would pick up his trail and follow it at a run. He walked on ledges whenever possible. He took care not to break off twigs and small branches in passing through bush-dotted openings. He was young and in excellent physical condition. He was spurred on by the fear of something worse than death. He kept his back to the sun, and he chased after the sun. Late in the afternoon he came to a stream he knew must be the Scioto.[3] [Footnote 3: Near Piketon, Pike County, Ohio.] He did not believe he could lift one foot ahead of the other, but fear told him he must place the river between him and his enemies. On the western bank he told himself he had done all that mortal could; and, flogged on by thoughts of Little Beaver’s terrible rage, he walked with staggering steps into the sunset.