“You stay here,” said Sam to Dan as he started away.  “We ’ll be back soon with your father if the pesky red-skins have n’t got him.”

“Or if they have,” added another man grimly, and off they went.

Goodwife Kittredge now took charge of Dan and Zeb, while her son, a boy of eleven, tied Penny to a tree beside their cabin.  Zeb recovered at once when she offered him a generous slice of brown-bread, but Dan was too anxious about his father to eat.  He stood beside Penny, rubbing her neck and soothing her, with his eyes constantly on the trail and his ears eagerly listening for the sound of shots.  It seemed an age, but really was not more than half an hour, before he saw the men come out of the woods, and, oh joy! his father was with them!

Leaving Penny nibbling grass, he ran to meet them and threw his arms about his father’s neck, crying, “Oh, dear father, art thou hurt?”

“Nay; the Lord was merciful,” answered the Goodman.  “I fired but one shot, and hit one of the red-skins, I am sure, for they both dived back into the woods at once.  I hid myself in the thick underbrush on the other side of the trail and waited, thinking perhaps I could creep along beside it out of sight, but Zeb’s roaring must have frighted the Indians.  Doubtless they knew it would rouse the countryside.  At any rate I saw no more of them, and when these Good Samaritans came along I knew I was safe.”

“The lungs of that blackamoor are worth more to thee than many guns,” laughed Sam Kittredge. “’T is a pity thou couldst not bottle up a few of his screeches to take with thee when thou goest abroad.  They are of a sort to make a wildcat sick with envy.”  The men laughed heartily, and, leaving the Goodman and Daniel with Sam, returned to their interrupted tasks.

Goodwife Kittredge insisted on their resting there for the night before resuming their journey.  “You must be proper tired,” said she, with motherly concern, “and if you go on now ’t is more than likely those rascally knaves will follow you like your shadow.  You ’ll stand a sight better chance of safety if you make an early start in the morning.”

“Your horse needs rest, too,” added Sam.  “I ’ll rub her down and give her a measure of corn when she ’s cooled off.  Get to bed with the chickens, and start with the sun, and to-morrow night will find you safe in your own home again.”

To this plan the travelers gladly agreed.  Early next morning, after a hearty breakfast in the Kittredges’ cheerful kitchen they set forth once more.  The roosters in the farmyard were still crowing, and the air was sweet with the music of robins, orioles, and blackbirds when they again plunged into the forest trail.  All day they plodded steadily along, delayed by bad roads, and it was not until late that evening that they at last came in sight of the little house, where Nancy and her mother slept, little dreaming how near they were to a happy awakening.  When, at last they reached the cabin, the Goodman, fearing to alarm his wife, stopped on the door-stone and gently called her name.  He had called but once when a shutter was thrown open and the Goodwife’s head was thrust through it.