He must
stop and turn around for his shot, while the Iroquois, without
even checking speed, could fire straight at the flying target,
ahead.
Nevertheless, he took the chance. He turned deftly on the
snowshoes, fired as quick as lightning at the swift Mohawk, saw
him fall, then Whirled and resumed his flight. He had lost
ground, but he had inspired respect. A single man could not
afford to come too near to a marksman so deadly, and the three or
four who led dropped back with the main body.
Now Henry made his greatest effort. He wished to leave the foe
far behind, to shake off his pursuit entirely. He bounded over
the ice and snow with great leaps, and began to gain. Yet he
felt at last the effects of so strenuous a flight. His breath
became shorter; despite the intense cold, perspiration stood upon
his face, and the straps that fastened the snowshoes were chafing
his ankles. An end must come even to such strength as his.
Another backward look, and he saw that the foe was sinking into
the darkness. If he could only increase his speed again, be
might leave the Iroquois now. He made a new call upon the will,
and the body responded. For a few minutes his speed became
greater.
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