"Our best hope is in our heels."
"There are pines beyond, and smooth going," he answered; "but if
ever I thought to run from an Indian!"
Without more ado we started. If we could outstrip that marksman,
if we could even hold our distance until night had fallen, all might
yet be well. A little longer, and even an Indian must fire at
random; moreover, we might reach some stream and manage to
break our trail. The ground was smooth before us, - too smooth,
and slippery with pine needles; the pines themselves stood in grim
brown rows, and we ran between them lightly and easily,
husbanding our strength. Now and again one or the other looked
behind, but we saw only the pines and the gathering dusk. Hope
was strengthening in us, when a second bullet dug into the earth
just beyond us.
Diccon swore beneath his breath. "It struck deep," he muttered.
"The dark is slow in coming."
A minute later, as I ran with my head over my shoulder, I saw our
pursuer, dimly, like a deeper shadow in the shadows far down the
arcade behind us. There was but one man, - a tall warrior, strayed
aside from his band, perhaps, or bound upon a warpath of his own.
The musket that he carried some English fool had sold him for a
mess of pottage.
Putting forth all our strength, we ran for our lives, and for the lives
of many others. Before us the pine wood sloped down to a deep
and wide thicket, and beyond the thicket a line of sycamores
promised water.
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