Henry sprang at once upon dry land, whence he cast back a single
swift glance. He saw the chief standing rigid and gazing in the
direction from which the sound had come. Other warriors were
just behind him, following his look, aware that there was an
unexpected presence in the forest, and resolved to know its
nature.

Henry ran northward. So confident was he in his powers and the
protecting darkness of the night that he sent back a sharp cry,
piercing and defiant, a cry of a quality that could come only
from a white throat. The warriors would know it, and he intended
for them to know it. Then, holding his rifle almost parallel
with his body, he darted swiftly away through the black spaces of
the forest. But an answering cry came to his, the Indian yell
taking up his challenge, and saying that the night would not
check pursuit.

Henry maintained his swift pace for a long time, choosing the
more open places that he might make no noise among the bushes and
leaves. Now and then water dripped in his face, and his
moccasins were wet from the long grass, but his body was warm and
dry, and he felt little weariness. The clouds were now all gone,
and the stars sprang out, dancing in a sky of dusky blue.
Trained eyes could see far in the forest despite the night, and
Henry felt that he must be wary. He recalled the skill and
tenacity of Timmendiquas. A fugitive could scarcely be trailed
in the darkness, but the great chief would spread out his forces
like a fan and follow.

He had been running perhaps three hours when he concluded to stop