e the mouth of the Scioto and
she was for placing more distance between us and that river at once. But
it was impossible to travel all the time. Now we were foot-free, and as I
had my rifle the Shawnees would pay high before catching up with us, I
assured her. I had been at Four-Mile Creek the year before to survey five
hundred acres of good bottom-land for Patrick Henry, and was of course
familiar with the locality.

Five hundred yards back from the Ohio was an old fort. I took the girl
there to rest while I patched our moccasins. The Indians said this
structure was so ancient that no one knew who built it. As a matter of
fact it was the remains of George Croghan's stone trading-house. Traces of
an Indian town, antedating the fort, were also to be observed. Very
possibly it was occupied by the Shawnees before they built their first
town at the mouth of the Scioto on the west bank. It was from this Scioto
town that Mary Ingles escaped in 1755, and the history of her daring and
hardships rather belittled my feat in bringing Patricia from the upper
town.

The poor girl continued extremely nervous and I feared she would collapse.
Now that she had tasted freedom she feared the Indians were hot on our
trail. Her gaze was constantly roving to the Ohio. She was fearing to
behold the Shawnees paddling across to recapture us. The moccasins had to
be mended, however, as the night travel down the Scioto path had sadly
damaged them.

As I sewed the whangs through the rips and hastily patched the holes I
could see her worriment was increasing. That period of delay was more
trying to her fortitude than when we were making the detour around
Chillicothe and our very lives hung on luck, or the mercy of her manito.

"There is something in the river," she whispered, her slight figure
growing rigid.

"Only a log," I told her.

"Look! Isn't there something moving in the bushes?" And she clutched my
arm.

"Only the wind ruffling the tops," I soothed.

She was silent for a few minutes and then confessed:

"I dread and hate the river, Basdel. I wish we could get out of sight of
it."

"It's a short trip in the canoe to the Big Sandy."

"And with the possibility of an Indian hiding behind every stump and log
along the shore!"

"Then we will hide the canoe and strike across the bend. A few creeks to
cross, and inside of two days we should reach the Big Sandy. It's about
thirty-five miles and there is the blaze left by the surveyor