This was considered a good plan, and leaving the dead where they had fallen, those able to work quickly set the broken gate into place and propped it fast with some heavy logs. Then seven of the party, including the planter, Barringford, Dave, and Henry, left the post and took to the forest in the direction Jean Bevoir and his followers had gone. “Be careful,” warned Sam Barringford. “We don’t want to run into a trap. Remember, Jean Bevoir is foxy, an’ always was.” The night was still fairly clear, and they followed the trail through the wet snow with ease. Evidently the Frenchman had not imagined that he would be pursued, and so had not taken any precautions to hide his tracks. The trail led straight forward for nearly a mile, then curved in the direction of the river. “I believe he is bound for that Indian village I was at,” said Henry, who had, during the brief rest at the post, donned some dry clothing. “Perhaps he hopes to get aid there. Well, he will be disappointed, I think, although I am not sure.” As they drew closer to the village they advanced with increased caution, and each member of the party looked to make sure that his weapons were in proper order. All were tired out, and each was more or less wounded, but none thought of giving up the task they had undertaken. Dave was particularly eager to meet Bevoir and, if possible, make the rascally French trader a prisoner. He felt that Bevoir was the only one to give him all the particulars of his father’s death and burial, and he felt that if the Frenchman got away now he might remain away forever. At last they saw a distant gleam of light through the forest and knew that the Indian camp was not far off. They moved ahead slower than ever. “I see somebody moving around!” cried Dave, in a low voice. “I think it is an Indian.” “I see two Indians,” said Sam Barringford. “But they are old men and unarmed.” They drew closer still, until only a fringe of bushes hid the dark camp from view. The campfire had burned low, and they could see that the most of the wigwams had been taken down. Evidently what was left of the tribe were getting ready to leave that vicinity. Presently they heard sounds from the opposite side of the camp, and two Indians and three Frenchmen appeared, leading a number of horses. “There is Jean Bevoir now,” whispered Henry. “Yes, and those horses are our own,” answered his father. The horses were stopped at the doorway of one of the wigwams and an Indian went in, to appear a moment later leading the sick man whom Henry had seen but a few hours before. “Where are you going to take me?” asked the man, feebly. “You vill know zat in ze morning,” answered Jean Bevoir. “You shall ride a horse.” Then Bevoir entered another wigwam. Soon he came forth, dragging another man by the arm. “Don’t!” gasped the man, feebly. “Don’t! I—I cannot stand it! Have a little mercy, Bevoir, I—I beg of you!” And the man fell in a heap.