A thin gray color like a mist was appearing in the east.It was the herald of day, and now the Indians would be able to find his trail.But Henry was not afraid.His anger over the loss of time quickly passed, and he ran swiftly on, the fall of his moccasins making scarcely any noise as be passed.
It was no unusual incident.Thousands of such pursuits occurred in the border life of our country, and were lost to the chronicler.For generations they were almost a part of the daily life of the frontier, but the present, while not out of the common in itself, had, uncommon phases.It was the most splendid type of white life in all the wilderness that fled, and the finest type of red life that followed.
It was impossible for Henry to feel anger or hate toward Timmendiquas.In his place he would have done what he was doing.
It was hard to give up these great woods and beautiful lakes and rivers, and the wild life that wild men lived and loved.There was so much chivalry in the boy's nature that he could think of all these things while he fled to escape the tomahawk or the stake.
Up came the sun.The gray light turned to silver, and then to red and blazing gold.A long, swelling note, the triumphant cry of the pursuing warriors, rose behind him.Henry turned his head for one look.He saw a group of them poised for a moment on the crest of a low hill and outlined against the broad flame in the east.He saw their scalp locks, the rifles in their hands, and their bare chests shining bronze in the glow.Once more he sent back his defiant cry, now in answer to theirs, and then, calling upon his reserves of strength and endurance, fled with a speed that none of the warriors had ever seen surpassed.
Henry's flight lasted all that day, and he used every device to evade the pursuit, swinging by vines, walking along fallen logs, and wading in brooks.He did not see the warriors again, but instinct warned him that they were yet following.At long intervals he would rest for a quarter of an hour or so among the bushes, and at noon he ate a little of the venison that he always carried.Three hours later he came to the river again, and swimming it he turned on his course, but kept to the southern side.When the twilight was falling once more he sat still in dense covert for a long time.He neither saw nor heard a sign of human presence, and he was sure now that the pursuit had failed.
Without an effort he dismissed it from his mind, ate a little more of the venison, and made his bed for the night.
The whole day had been bright, with a light wind blowing, and the forest was dry once more.As far as Henry could see it circled away on every side, a solid dark green, the leaves of oak and beech, maple and elm making a soft, sighing sound as they waved gently in the wind.It told Henry of nothing but peace.He had eluded the pursuit, hence it was no more.This was a great, friendly forest, ready to shelter him, to soothe him, and to receive him into its arms for peaceful sleep.
He found a place among thick trees where the leaves of last year lay deep upon the ground.He drew up enough of them for a soft bed, because now and for the moment he was a forest sybarite.He was wise enough to take his ease when he found it, knowing that it would pay his body to relax.
He lay down upon the leaves, placed the rifle by his side, and spread the blanket over himself and the weapon.The twilight was gone, and the night, dark and without stars, as he wished to see it, rolled up, fold after fold, covering and hiding everything.
He looked a little while at a breadth of inky sky showing through the leaves, and then, free from trouble or fear, he fell asleep.
