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Behind them resounded the shouts of their pursuers and the fugitives seemed to acquire renewed speed every time they heard the blood-curdling cries.

At length, however, they began to weaken. No one was able to maintain such a pace very much farther. At least that is what both Robert and Joseph were thinking. They still had their rifles, and they were determined to hold them at any cost. The guns were heavy, however, and undoubtedly prevented the boys from maintaining their speed.

The darkness increased and Deerfoot began steadily to draw away from his two young friends. Born and reared in the woods, and lightly dressed, he proved more than a match for the fast tiring brothers. They struggled desperately to keep up but they both realized that before long they would be compelled to stop. And ever nearer sounded the war whoop of the Sacs.

“I can’t go much farther, Deerfoot,” panted Joseph.

“Nor I,” gasped Robert.

At the word the flying Indian slackened his pace and waited for the boys to catch up.