Over the marsh rose the weird cry of an owl, and some water birds
called in lonely fashion.
Henry judged that the fugitives were now three quarters of a mile
away, out of the sound of rifle shot. He had urged Carpenter to
marshal them on as far as be could. But the silence endured yet
a while longer. In the dull gray light of the somber day and the
waning afternoon the marsh was increasingly dreary and mournful.
It seemed that it must always be the abode of dead or dying
things.
The wet grass, forty yards away, moved a little, and between the
boughs appeared the segment of a hideous dark face, the painted
brow, the savage black eyes, and the hooked nose of the Mohawk.
Only Henry saw it, but with fierce joy-the tortures at Wyoming
leaped up before him-he fired at the painted brow. The Mohawk
uttered his death cry and fell back with a splash into the mud
and water of the swamp. A half dozen bullets were instantly
fired at the base of the smoke that came from Henry's rifle, but
the youth and his comrades lay close and were unharmed.
Shif'less Sol and Tom were quick enough to catch glimpses of
brown forms, at which they fired, and the cries coming back told
that they had hit.
Pages:
228
229
230
231
232
233
234
235
236
237
238
239
240
241
242
243
244
245
246
247
248
249
250
251
252