“We’re followed,” he said.  “I thought we would be.”

“Yellow Panther, uv course!” said Tom Ross, with emphasis.

“Of course!  And like as not Braxton Wyatt is among those who are with him.”

Sol Hyde looked at Henry.  There was a queer light in the eyes of the shiftless one.

“Do we want ’em to ketch us?” he asked.

“I think we’d better wait and see.”

It was in no tone of boasting that either spoke.  Three borderers such as they could shake off the pursuit of any men who lived.

“S’pose we lead ’em on a while,” said Tom Ross.

Henry nodded, and the three ran in a sort of easy trot toward the southeast.  They took no trouble to hide their trail, and as the forest at this point was free from undergrowth, they were visible at a considerable distance.  This easy trot they kept up for hours, and the extraordinary powers, or intuition, of Henry Ware told him that the Miamis were always there, a quarter of a mile, perhaps, behind.  But the three men were never troubled.  There was no fear in their minds.  This was only sport to them.

They crossed brooks and little creeks, and at last, when they came to one of the latter a little larger than the others, Henry Ware said: 

“I think it’s time to bother ’em now.  We’ll wade here.”

They entered the creek, which had a hard, pebbly bed, and walked rapidly against the stream for at least a quarter of a mile.  Then they emerged in dense undergrowth, and turned backward in a course parallel to that by which they had come.  But before going far they sank down in a dense thicket, and lay quite still.  Then they saw the Miami band pass—­fifteen or sixteen warriors, led by Yellow Panther, with Braxton Wyatt trailing at the rear.  “The renegade!” said Shif’less Sol savagely, under his breath.

The band passed on, but the three borderers did not stir.  They knew that the trail would be lost presently, and some, at least, of the warriors would come back seeking it.

Fifteen minutes, a half hour, passed, and then they heard distant footsteps.  Henry Ware, peering above the bushes, saw a face that belonged to a white youth, and suddenly a daring project formed itself in his mind.  Braxton Wyatt was alone!  Other members of the Miami band must be near, but they were not in sight, and, above all, Braxton Wyatt was for the present alone!  Only a few minutes were needed!

“Watch what I do!” whispered Henry Ware to his comrades—­he knew that their keen minds would need no other hint.

Braxton Wyatt came back, looking on the ground, his rifle lying loosely across his shoulder.  He dreamed of no danger.  The three suspected belt bearers must be fleeing fast.  Moreover, Yellow Panther and his Miami friends were near.  He walked on, and the fiend he served gave him no warning.

He came to a dense clump of bushes, and turned to go around it.  There was a sudden rustling in those bushes, and he looked up.  A terrifying form threw itself upon him and bore him to the ground.  A heavy hand was clapped upon his mouth, and the cry that had risen to his lips died in his throat.  He looked up and saw the face of Henry Ware.  Beside him stood two others whom he knew—­Tom Ross and Shif’less Sol.  He became blue about the lips, and expected a quick death.