Forth stole the three, passing swiftly among the houses, going,
with silent foot toward the orchard. An old squaw, carrying a
bundle from a house, saw them, looked sharply into their faces,
and knew them to be white. She threw down her bundle with a
fierce, shrill scream, and ran, repeating the scream as she ran.
Indians rushed out, and with them Braxton Wyatt and his band.
Wyatt caught a glimpse of a tall figure, with two others, one on
each side, running toward the orchard, and he knew it. Hate and
the hope to capture or kill swelled afresh. He put a whistle to
his lip and blew shrilly. It was a signal to his band, and they
came from every point, leading the pursuit.
Henry heard the whistle, and he was quite sure that it was Wyatt
who had made the sound. A single glance backward confirmed him.
He knew Wyatt's figure as well as Wyatt knew his, and the dark
mass with him was certainly composed of his own men. The other
Indians and Tories, in all likelihood, would turn back soon, and
that fact would give him the chance he wished.
They were clear of the town now, running lightly through the
orchard, and Shif'less Sol suggested that they enter the woods at
once.
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