"Don't leave a scrap behind.

Quick, lads, there's not a minute to be lost.
It's a case of legs, now.

There's no hiding the trail of thirty men from redskin eyes." In a couple of minutes, all were ready for the start, and Rogers at once led the way, at a long slinging trot, straight back from the lake, first saying: "Pick your way, lads, and don't tread on a fallen stick.

There is just one chance of saving our scalps, and only one, and that depends upon silence." As James ran along, at the heels of Nat, he was struck with the strangeness of the scene, and the noiselessness with which the band of moccasin-footed men flitted among the trees.

Not a word was spoken.