A terrible yell arose, and many warriors, trained runners of the forest, with muscles of steel and a spirit that never tired, darted after him.  But Long Jim, bending his head a little lower, raced on through the dark, his strength growing with every leap and his brain on fire with energy.  He passed two or three savages—­far-flung outposts—­but before they could recover from their surprise he was by them and gone.  Bullets sang past him, but the long, slim figure cut the air like an arrow in the wind.  After him came the savages, but now he was beyond the last outposts, and the footsteps of his pursuers were growing fainter behind.  Now he opened his mouth, and emitted a long, quavering, defiant yell—­answer to their own.  After that he was silent, and sped on, never relaxing, tireless like some powerful machine.  The pursuit died away behind him, and though some might hang on his trail, none could ever overtake him.

The low thunder still muttered, and the fitful lightning began to flare again.  Now and then there were gusts of rain, swept by the wind; but through all the hours of rain and dark the runner sped on, mile upon mile.

Day dawns and finds him still flitting!  But now there is full need of thy speed, Jim Hart!  Five hundred lives hang upon it!

Speed ye, Long Jim, speed ye!

CHAPTER XXII

THE LAST STAND

Henry Ware and the others, listening at the circle of the wagons, heard the flare of shots, and then, a little later, a lone but long and defiant cry, that seemed to be an answer to the others.

“That’s Jim Hart, and he’s through!” exclaimed Henry exultantly.  “Now he’ll fairly eat up the ground between here and Wareville.”

That night another attack, or rather feint, was made upon the train; but it was easily beaten off, and then morning came, raw and wet.  The woods and grass were dripping with the showers, and a sodden, gray sky chilled and discouraged.  The fires were lighted with difficulty and burned weakly.  The women and children ate but little, casting fearful glances at the rain-soaked forest that circled about them.  But Paul, as usual, with his bright face and brighter words, walked among them, and he told them a good tale.  Long Jim Hart, with muscles and a soul of steel, had gone forth that night, and he would bring help.  They were to march to a place called the Table Rock, where they would stay until the relief came.  Gradually downcast heads were lifted and sunken spirits rose.

The gantlet began in the usual fashion an hour later, and throughout all that long, dismal morning it was a continual skirmish.  The savages pressed closer than ever, and all the vigilance and accuracy of the riflemen were needed to drive them off.  One man was killed and several were wounded, but the borderers merely shut their teeth down the harder and marched on.

Toward noon they saw a flat-topped hill, with a stony surface, a little stream running down its side, and Henry uttered a cheerful shout.