A disappointed shout arose behind him, and several
shots were fired. But the bullets fell a hundred yards short,
and then, as he passed over a little hill and into a wood beyond,
he was hidden from the sight of his pursuers.
Henry knew that the Iroquois could trail him over the snow, but
they could not do it at full speed, and he turned sharply off at
an angle. Pausing a second or two for fresh breath, he continued
on his new course, although not so fast as before. He knew that
the Iroquois would rush straight ahead, and would not discover
for two or three minutes that they were off the trail. It would
take them another two or three minutes to recover, and he would
make a gain of at least five minutes. Five minutes had saved the
life of many a man on the border.
How precious those five minutes were! He would take them all.
He ran forward some distance, stopped where the trees grew thick,
and then enjoyed the golden five, minute by minute. He had felt
that he was pumping the very lifeblood from his heart. His
breath had come painfully, and the thongs of the snowshoes were
chafing his ankles terribly. But those minutes were worth a
year. Fresh air poured into his lungs, and the muscles became
elastic once more.
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