“He’ll never get through!” exclaimed Daniel Poe.

“Oh, yes, he will!” said Henry confidently.  “Bring all the men Wareville can spare, Jim, and fall upon them while they are besieging us at the Table Rock.”

Little more was said.  Had the train afforded paint, they would have stained Jim’s face in the Indian way; but the utmost that they could do was to draw up his hair and tie it in a scalp lock, like those of the Shawnees.  Fortunately, his hair was dark, and his face was so thoroughly tanned by weather that it might be mistaken in the night for an Indian’s.  Then Long Jim was ready.  He merely shook the hands of his four comrades and of Daniel Poe, and without another word went forth.

The night was at its darkest when Jim Hart slipped under one of the wagons and crept across the open space.  The heavy clouds had grown heavier, and now and then low thunder muttered on the horizon.  The fitful lightning ceased, and this was occasion for thanks.

Jim Hart crept about twenty yards from the circle of the wagons, and then he lay flat upon the earth.  He could see nothing in the surrounding rim of forest, nor could he hear anything.  A light hum from the camp behind him was all that came to his ears.  He slipped forward again in a stooping position, stopped a moment when he heard a rifle shot from the other side of the camp, and then resumed his shambling, but swift, journey.  Now he passed the open space and gained the edge of the woods.  Here the danger lay, but the brave soul of Long Jim never faltered.

He plunged into the gloom of the bushes and trees, slipping silently among them.  Two warriors glanced curiously at him in the dark, but in a moment he was gone; a third farther on spoke to him, but he shook his head impatiently, as if he bore some message, and only walked the faster.  Now his keen eyes saw savages all around him, some talking, others standing or lying down, quite silent.  He was sorry now that he was so tall, as his was a figure that would cause remark anywhere; but he stooped over, trying to hide his great height as much as possible.  He passed one group, then two, then three, and now he was a full four hundred yards from the camp.  His curving flight presently brought him near three men who were talking earnestly together.  They noticed Hart at the same time, and one of them beckoned to him.  Long Jim pretended not to see, and went on.  Then one of them called to him angrily, and Jim recognized the voice of Braxton Wyatt.

Long Jim stopped a moment, uncertain what to do at that critical juncture, and Braxton Wyatt, stepping forward, seized him by the arm.  It was dark in the woods, but the renegade, looking up, recognized the face and figure.

“Jim Hart!” he cried.

Long Jim’s right hand was grasping the stock of his rifle, but his left suddenly flashed out and smote Braxton Wyatt full in the face.  The renegade gasped and went down unconscious, and then Long Jim turned, and ran with all the speed that was in him, leaping over the low bushes and racing among the tree trunks more like a phantom than a human being.  A shout arose behind him, and a dozen rifle shots were fired.  He felt a sting in his arm, and then blood dripped down; but it was only a flesh wound, and he was spurred to greater speed.