Men paused cowering in this stour, and Crawford might have circled the camp and gone on his way had he not caught sight of Maclish stalking about. Sight of the man brought up Crawford’s gun, but he found that by some carelessness his powder-horn had come unstopped and was empty. With an oath he flung it away, hurled the musket after it, and settled down to wait. The storm raged on more fiercely, then gradually lessened as evening approached. When twilight fell the rain had become a steady downpour, the thunder had crept across the horizon, and Crawford was stealing down toward the glimmering fires, the noise of his approach drowned by the streaming swish of the rain. All too well was it drowned, in fact. Crawford was not a rod from the fires and the piled muskets, when an Assiniboine coming in with a load of wood went stumbling over him, and let out one startled howl ere the tomahawk took his life. Upon this, Crawford leaped down the hillside, a wild and dripping figure streaking down the slope in great bounds. The redskins raised frightened yells and broke in mad panic. In this confusion of shouts and rain-blurred figures, Crawford lost all sight of Maclish. Fury spurring him, he gained the nearest fire, scattered it, and sent the brands whirling in among the powder-horns--brand after brand, whirling and smoking and bursting into flame again with the fall. Next instant Crawford was away, heading blindly into the darkness, while the bellow of Maclish was drowned in the bursting explosion of the black sands of death. Then, as Crawford darted into the gloom, he lifted his head and sent up the fearful blood-yell which even to these far redskins was known in all its dread implication--the Mohawk war whoop. “_Sassakouay!_” he shrilled it, and again. “_Kouay! Sassakouay!_” Leaving that token to chill their blood, he struck out across the wet night. No man could follow this unseen trail with any speed; dripping branches slapped him as he ran, trees were thick, the darkness was impenetrable; yet Crawford kept going after a fashion. He had failed to smite Maclish, but in the destruction of their powder he had dealt the enemy a shrewd enough blow. Hour after hour he kept going forward, until toward dawn he halted and burrowed for shelter. He wakened with sun in his eyes and found the day clear as crystal, windless, incredibly warm; spring was at hand in the north, and the snows nearly cleared from the ground. Now Crawford made good progress, unarmed save for knife and axe, intent upon keeping ahead of the Stone Men, speeding toward the northwest. With afternoon, however, he made a frightful discovery. A musket-shot crashed out somewhere to his left, and two minutes later a wounded deer broke cover almost beside him, swerved in hot panic, and darted off. Crawford dropped from sight, in time to see an Assiniboine warrior pass on the trail of the beast.