"
A hideous figure sprang before them. Sol struck her face with
his open hand, and with a shriek she went down. He leaped over
her, although she clawed at his feet as he passed, and ran on,
with Paul at his side. Shots were now fired at him, but they
went wild, but Paul, casting a look backward out of the corner of
his eye, saw that a real pursuit, silent and deadly, had begun.
Five Mohawk warriors, running swiftly, were only a few hundred
yards away. They carried rifle, tomahawk, and knife, and Paul
and Shif'less Sol were unarmed. Moreover, they were coming fast,
spreading out slightly, and the shiftless one, able even at such
a time to weigh the case coolly, saw that the odds were against
them. Yet he would not despair. Anything might happen. It was
night. There was little organization in the army of the Indians
and of their white allies, which was giving itself up to the
enjoyment of scalps and torture. Moreover, he and Paul were,
animated by the love of life, which is always stronger than the
desire to give death.
Their flight led them in a diagonal line toward the mountains.
Only once did the pursuers give tongue. Paul tripped over a
root, and a triumphant yell came from the Mohawks.
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