It was well toward noon when White Buffalo came in, he and his followers having had to make a wide detour, in order to escape another encounter with Moon Eye. White Buffalo had been struck in the left forearm by a tomahawk, an ugly but not a serious cut, and one brave had received an arrow in the fleshy part of the leg. “Do you think they are coming this way?” was Rodney’s first question. “There is no telling what they will do next,” answered the aged Indian chief. “White Buffalo and his followers drew them as far northward as possible—we could do no more. Rodney had better travel eastward as fast as he can. In that direction alone lies safety.” Without delay the march was once more begun, first to a fording spot across the stream and then directly eastward. They moved onward until long after sunset, covering at least fifteen miles, over a broken deer trail that was rough in the extreme. On the way one horse—that carrying Nell and little Tom—stepped into a hole and went down, throwing both children into the bushes. “Are you hurt, Nell?” asked Rodney, rushing up in alarm. “I—I think not!” she gasped. “But I don’t like such tumbles at all!” “Bad horse, to go down with Tom,” said the little boy. “He couldn’t help it,” answered Rodney. “I am glad you are not injured,” he added, heartily, and picked the boy up in his arms while Nell arose unaided. The horse was in a bad way, having broken his leg and dislocated his shoulder. To put him out of his misery, Rodney had one of the Indians kill him with several blows from a tomahawk. Then Nell and Tom were placed on another horse, and the party went on as before. The next day found them once more on the regular road. Not a sign of the enemy had been seen and all began to breathe a little easier. “I think we are out of it at last,” said Rodney. “We are getting pretty well on to the east now.” “Right you are,” answered Casbury. “That White Buffalo is a pretty good Injun after all, so he is,” admitted Malloy. They had now reached what in past years had been the foremost of the homesteads along the army road. The places were burned down without exception, only the blackened ruins showing where log cabins and stables had stood. The owners had long since either fled or been killed. “It may be a long while before this is settled again,” said Rodney. “Perhaps not, lad,” answered one of the frontiersmen. “As soon as it is known the Indians are under control some folks will come out again, and others will follow,” and this proved to be true. Inside of three years there were more settlements along the Forbes and the Braddock roads than ever before. Feeling themselves fairly free from danger, they did not push along quite so rapidly. This rested the horses and was also more comfortable for Sam Barringford, who had suffered more than he cared to admit.