When Paul and Henry were together they
once heard a light sound in a thicket, which at first they were
afraid was made by an Indian scout, but it was a deer, and it
bounded away too soon for either to get a shot. They could not
find other game of any kind, and they came back toward the
camp-if a mere stop in the woods, without shelter of any kind,
could be called a camp.
The sun was now setting, blood red. It tinged the forest with a
fiery mist, reminding the unhappy group of all that they had
seen. But the mist was gone in a few moments, and then the
blackness of night came with a weird moaning wind that told of
desolation. Most of the children, having passed through every
phase of exhaustion and terror, had fallen asleep. Some of the
women slept, also, and others wept. But the terrible wailing
note, which the nerves of no man could stand, was heard no
longer.
The five gathered again at a point near by, and Carpenter came to
them.
"Men," he said simply, "don't know much about you, though I
know you fought well in the battle that we lost, but for what
you're doin' now nobody can ever repay you. I knew that I never
could get across the mountains with all these weak ones.
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