Both white men hastily arose and ran to meet their red comrade, who came bounding up the slope, with the speed and grace of an antelope. Ere they reached his side, they saw him place his finger upon his lips, in token of silence. “What is it?” Douglas asked in an anxious whisper. Bright Wing drew a full breath and replied: “Scar Face and many braves.” “Where? How far away?” “Three—four gunshots.” “And upon our trail?” “Ugh!” “Are they moving rapidly?” “Ugh! Soon be here. Scar Face, bad Shawnees and Pottawatomies. Come fast; soon be here.” “Let’s be off, then,” Ross said calmly. “We have no time to lose.” “Grab up that piece o’ meat, Injin, an’ put it in y’r pouch,” Joe cried, excitedly. “You can eat it on the run. We’ve had our sheer. Dang the varmints, anyhow! They mean to give us a long an’ hot chase.” Quickly they descended the eastern slope, worked their way through the fringe of bushes surrounding its base, and set off at a rapid pace through the forest. Bright Wing led the way. They bore toward the southeast. With the foresight and cunning of trained woodmen, they exercised all the arts of their craft to throw their pursuers off their trail. Here they followed the bed of a stream, soaking their moccasins in the icy water to hide their faint footprints; there they doubled on their track and took a new direction. At intervals, they separated and made wide detours from the main course, only to meet again further on. Occasionally they paused momentarily, to drink from some running stream or to strain their senses for sight or sound of their enemies. Then on again—swiftly, tirelessly. The noon hour came and went. The sun—now veiled by scudding clouds, now shining brightly—began a descent of the western arc of the heavens. The wind rose raw and disagreeable. Black cloud banks began to pile up on the horizon, indicating an approaching snowstorm. The short winter day advanced rapidly. The topography of the country again changed. The surface of the land grew flatter; open glades appeared here and there in the thick woods. At last Joe stopped and remarked complainingly: “I’ve gone ’bout as far’s I’m goin’ in one day—I have, by Molly! My feet’s wet an’ cold, an’ I’ve got a crick o’ the rheumatiz in my back, that’s pesterin’ me like the nation. Feels like a swarm o’ hornets had took a roost there. We hain’t got nothin’ to eat, which is purty sad; but we can build a fire an’ rest an’ roast our shins, which ’ll be some sort o’ comfort, anyhow. I’m o’ the ’pinion we’ve throwed the redskins off our track; we hain’t heerd n’r seen nothin’ of ’em sence we broke camp. I’ve purty nigh come to the c’nclusion that you was mistaken, Injin—that you didn’t _see_ no one follerin’ us.” Bright Wing’s beady eyes flashed.