"I'd like to give 'em a shot--they deserve it," muttered Dave.
"Don't you do it," interposed Henry, hastily. "They'd be on us like a wind-fall."
"What do you suppose has become of Mr. Risley and his wife?"
"Heaven alone knows, Dave. I trust they have escaped."
"If that was Mr. Risley shooting, do you suppose his wife is with him?"
"There is no telling. Perhaps he wasn't home when the Indians came up. If that's so then Mrs. Risley is either dead or a prisoner."
"I think so--at least I didn't hear of anybody going over lately."
"I wonder if we can't get a bit closer without being seen? Perhaps we can learn something to our advantage."
"We might skirt the timber a bit. But be careful, and if the Indians come for us we had better run without stopping to fire,--unless, of course, they get too close," added Henry.
Once again he led the way, slowly and cautiously, flitting from one tree to another in absolute silence. The fire was now at its height, lighting up the sky for a long distance around. The sparks were blowing in their direction, but the light fall of snow had wet the trees and brushwood, so no harm was done.
Presently they found themselves again close to the brook, which at this point crossed a garden patch that Uriah Risley had gotten into shape the season before. At the side of the brook was a roughly constructed milk-house, made of large stones for walls and untrimmed timbers for a roof. Behind this the boys crouched, to take another view of what was going on in the center of the clearing.
The Indians who had been drinking from the demijohn were growing hilarious and their wild whooping could be heard for a long distance. At the start of the fire some furniture had been hauled forth, a chest of drawers and a bureau, and now some of the redmen set to work to break open both articles, to see what they contained.
"They are after everything of value they can lay hands on," muttered Dave. "What a shame! Do you see anything of----?"
The young hunter broke off short, for at that instant came a low moan of pain from the interior of the milk-house.
"Are you--you white people!" came in a gasp. "If you are, for the love of heaven--sa--save me!"
"It's Mrs. Risley!" burst out Dave, for he remembered that voice well. He raised his head up to a crack in the rude planking. "Mrs. Risley, are you alone?" he questioned. "It is I, Dave Morris, who is speaking."