"They were Youghtenunds," I said, in the low tones we used when we spoke at all, "and they went to the southward."
"We may thank our stars that they missed our trail," Diccon answered.
We spoke no more, but, leaving the stream, struck again toward the south. The day wore on, and still we went without pause. Sun and shade and keen wind, long stretches of pine and open glades where we quickened our pace to a run, dense woods, snares of leafless vines, swamp and thicket through which we toiled so slowly that the heart bled at the delay, streams and fallen trees,--on and on we hurried, until the sun sank and the dusk came creeping in upon us.
"We've dined with Duke Humphrey to-day," said Diccon at last; "but if we can keep this pace, and don't meet any more war parties, or fall foul of an Indian village, or have to fight the wolves to-night, we'll dine with the Governor to-morrow. What's that?"
"That" was the report of a musket, and a spent ball had struck me above the knee, bruising the flesh beneath the leather of my boot.
We wheeled, and looked in the direction whence lead come that unwelcome visitor. There was naught to be seen. It was dusk in the distance, and there were thickets too, and fallen logs. Where that ambuscade was planted, if one or twenty Indians lurked in the dusk behind the trees, or lay on the further side of those logs, or crouched within a thicket, no mortal man could tell.
"It was a spent ball," I said. "Our best hope is in our heels."
"There are pines beyond, and smooth going," he answered; "but if ever I thought to run from an Indian!"
Without more ado we started. If we could outstrip that marksman, if we could even hold our distance until night had fallen, all might yet be well. A little longer, and even an Indian must fire at random; moreover, we might reach some stream and manage to break our trail. The ground was smooth before us,--too smooth, and slippery with pine needles; the pines themselves stood in grim brown rows, and we ran between them lightly and easily, husbanding our strength. Now and again one or the other looked behind, but we saw only the pines and the gathering dusk. Hope was strengthening in us, when a second bullet dug into the earth just beyond us.
Diccon swore beneath his breath. "It struck deep," he muttered. "The dark is slow in coming."
A minute later, as I ran with my head over my shoulder, I saw our pursuer, dimly, like a deeper shadow in the shadows far down the arcade behind us. There was but one man,--a tall warrior, strayed aside from his band, perhaps, or bound upon a warpath of his own. The musket that he carried some English fool had sold him for a mess of pottage.