The Scouts of the Valley by Joseph A. Altsheler (books for 7th graders TXT) 📖

felt his heart pierced with sadness at the tale that the tracks in the soft mud told so plainly. But despair was not the only emotion in his heart. The silent and brave man meant to act.

“Henry,” he said, “see these tracks here in the soft spot by the creek.”

The young leader read the forest page, and it told him exactly the same tale that it had told Tom Ross.

“About a day old, I think,” he said.

“Just about,” said Tom; “an' I reckon, Henry, you know what's in my mind.”

“I think I do,” said Henry, “and we ought to overtake them by to-morrow night. You tell the others, Tom.”

Tom informed Shif'less Sol, Paul, and Long Jim in a few words, receiving from everyone a glad assent, and then the five followed fast on the trail. They knew that the Indians could not go very fast, as their speed must be that of the slowest, namely, that of the children, and it seemed likely that Henry's prediction of overtaking them on the following night would come true.

It was an easy trail. Here and there were tiny fragments of cloth, caught by a bush from the dress of a captive. In one place they saw a fragment of a child's shoe that had been dropped off and abandoned. Paul picked up the worn piece of leather and examined it.

“I think it was worn by a girl,” he said, “and, judging from its size, she could not have been more than eight years old. Think of a child like that being made to walk five or six hundred miles through these woods!”

“Younger ones still have had to do it,” said Shif'less Sol gravely, “an' them that couldn't-well, the tomahawk.”

The trail was leading them toward the Seneca country, and they had no doubt that the Indians were Senecas, who had been more numerous than any others of the Six Nations at the Wyoming battle. They came that afternoon to a camp fire beside which the warriors and captives had slept the night before.

“They ate bar meat an' wild turkey,” said Long Jim, looking at some bones on the ground.

“An' here,” said Tom Ross, “on this pile uv bushes is whar the women an' children slept, an' on the other side uv the fire is whar the warriors lay anywhars. You can still see how the bodies uv some uv 'cm crushed down the grass an' little bushes.”

“An' I'm thinkin',” said Shif'less Sol, as he looked at the trail that led away from the camp fire, “that some o' them little ones wuz gittin' pow'ful tired. Look how these here little trails are wobblin' about.”

“Hope we kin come up afore the Injuns begin to draw thar tomahawks,” said Tom Ross.

The others were silent, but they knew the dreadful significance of Tom's remark, and Henry glanced at them all, one by one.

“It's the greatest danger to be feared,” he said, “and we must overtake them in the night when they are not suspecting. If we attack by day they will tomahawk the captives the very first thing.”

“Shorely,', said the shiftless one.

“Then,” said Henry, “we don't need to hurry. We'll go on until about midnight, and then sleep until sunrise.”

They continued at a fair pace along a trail that frontiersmen far less skillful than they could have followed. But a silent dread was in the heart of every one of them. As they saw the path of the small feet staggering more and more they feared to behold some terrible object beside the path.

“The trail of the littlest child is gone,” suddenly announced Paul.

“Yes,” said Henry, “but the mother has picked it up and is carrying it. See how her trail has suddenly grown more uneven.”

“Poor woman,” said Paul. “Henry, we're just bound to overtake that band.”

“We'll do it,” said Henry.

At the appointed time they sank down among the thickest bushes that they could find, and slept until the first upshot of dawn. Then they resumed the trail, haunted always by that fear of finding something terrible beside it. But it was a trail that continually grew slower. The Indians themselves were tired, or, feeling safe from pursuit, saw no need of hurry. By and by the trail of the smallest child reappeared.

“It feels a lot better now,” said Tom Ross. “So do I.”

They came to another camp fire, at which the ashes were not yet cold. Feathers were scattered about, indicating that the Indians had taken time for a little side hunt, and had shot some birds.

“They can't be more than two or three hours ahead,” said Henry, “and we'll have to go on now very cautiously.”

They were in a country of high hills, well covered with forests, a region suited to an ambush, which they feared but little on their own account; but, for the sake of extreme caution, they now advanced slowly. The afternoon was long and warm, but an hour before sunset they looked over a hill into a glade, and saw the warriors making camp for the night.

The sight they beheld made the pulses of the five throb heavily. The Indians had already built their fire, and two of them were cooking venison upon it. Others were lying on the grass, apparently resting, but a little to one side sat a woman, still young and of large, strong figure, though now apparently in the last stages of exhaustion, with her feet showing through the fragments of shoes that she wore. Her head was bare, and her dress was in strips. Four children lay beside her' the youngest two with their heads in her lap. The other two, who might be eleven and thirteen each, had pillowed their heads on their arms, and lay in the dull apathy that comes from the finish of both strength and hope. The woman's face was pitiful. She had more to fear than the children, and she knew it. She was so worn that the skin hung loosely on her face, and her eyes showed despair only. The sad spectacle was almost more than Paul could stand.

“I don't like to shoot from ambush,” he said, “but we could cut down half of those warriors at our firs fire and rush in on the rest.”

“And those we didn't cut down at our first volley would tomahawk the woman and children in an instant,” replied Henry. “We agreed, you know, that it would be sure to happen. We can't do anything until night comes, and then we've got to be mighty cautious.”

Paul could not dispute the truth of his words, and they withdrew carefully to the crest of a hill, where they lay in the undergrowth, watching the Indians complete their fire and their preparations for the night. It was evident to Henry that they considered themselves perfectly safe. Certainly they had every reason for thinking so. It was not likely that white enemies were within a hundred miles of them, and, if so, it could only be a wandering hunter or two, who would flee from this fierce band of Senecas who bad taken revenge for the great losses that they' had suffered the