“Yes, _go_!” Harrison said, grasping the woodman’s calloused hand. “I discharge you here and now. And may the Almighty’s protecting power accompany you!” “Amen! Thank you, gov’nor—an’ good-by,” Farley answered. That afternoon Farley and Bright Wing shouldered their rifles and set out on the trail of the Indians. The next day the army started upon the return journey to Fort Harrison and Vincennes—the wagons loaded with wounded soldiers. The campaign had been short, sharp, and effective. [Illustration] CHAPTER V. On that fateful morning of the battle of Tippecanoe, Ross Douglas fought in the front ranks until the savages broke and fled. Then he joined in the hot pursuit. Duke kept close at his master’s side, growling and baying viciously. In the charge Bright Wing got separated from his white comrade, and returned to camp. Ross impetuously pressed onward, keeping his eyes upon the flying foe and glancing neither to the right nor the left, until he found himself at the foot of the slope leading up to the Indian village. He looked around in surprise—he and the dog were alone. He beheld the troops—a dense, dusky mass—a half mile away. “Cowards!” the young man muttered scornfully. “Why have they given up the pursuit? Now’s the time to win a glorious victory and make a lasting peace. Fools! To come hundreds of miles to indulge in a mere skirmish. They should follow up their success, and annihilate the Prophet and his bloodthirsty band. If they stop at this, nothing will have been accomplished. But I may as well go back with the others. Ah! who’s that? Bradford!” It was indeed the scar-faced scout. At full speed he came running down the slope, gesticulating wildly. What could it mean? Ross had just reloaded his rifle. Now he rested his finger upon the sensitive trigger and wonderingly awaited the deserter’s approach. “Flee—flee for your life, Douglas!” Bradford shouted excitedly. Duke, who had been trying to warn his preoccupied master of approaching danger, by a series of—low hoarse growls, now began to bark furiously. Ross hastily glanced around him. He was almost surrounded by a party of Indians. They had been in hiding behind a clump of bushes near the foot of the incline, awaiting the chance to cut off the retreat of some venturesome white. The gray fog rising from the marshy prairie had helped to conceal them. While the unsuspecting Douglas had stood gazing at the walls of the town, his cunning enemies had risen from their hiding-place, and like silent specters glided out upon the soft prairie and thrown themselves in a semicircle around him. Now they yelled exultingly and began to close in. Ross did not wait to see or hear more. Instantly he resolved to make a dash for liberty. “Come, Duke!” he cried; and with the fleetness of a deer sprang away, attempting to break through the line of his foes. Bradford was at the bottom of the slope. “Hold!” he shouted frantically. “It’s too late—you’ll throw away your life!”