rty safely reached the eastern shore.

CHAPTER FIVE: IN THE WOODS

You have not forgotten what I told you about the mountain range, which
shuts in Wyoming Valley on the east. It is a thousand feet in height,
abounding with ravines, clefts, rocks, boulders and the most rugged kind
of places.

The fugitives who fled from the Susquehanna to escape the Indians had
to make their way over these mountains, and then find their way through
sixty miles of trackless woods to the Delaware River. A great many
succeeded in doing so, but the deaths and sufferings in the vast stretch
of forest gave it the dreadful name of "The Shades of Death," by which
it is often referred to even to this day.

Omas swam at the rear of the small canoe, as I told you, with Mrs.
Ripley and her two children seated inside and balancing themselves
with great care to prevent the heavily loaded craft from sinking or
overturning.

More than one Seneca or Oneida Indian, or perhaps a Tory, that had
chased some terrified fugitives to the edge of the river, halted and
made ready to fire upon the canoe, whose occupants were seen to be three
white persons.

When they looked again, however, they observed the head and shoulders of
an Indian warrior, who was plainly propelling the craft in front of him.
That was enough to satisfy them.

On the way over, Linna, the little Indian girl, amused herself by diving
under the canoe, sometimes appearing on one side and then on the other,
sometimes in front and then at the rear. She even ventured to impose
upon her father by splashing water in his painted face. She did little
of that, and he paid no attention to it.

The sun had not yet set when the grim warrior and his child emerged on
the eastern shore, their garments dripping, but caring nothing for that.
The boat was drawn far enough up the bank to prevent its being swept
away by the current, and then all stood side by side, and as if by a
common impulse, looked back at the shore they had left.

The smoke from the burning Fort Wintermoot still rested on the calm
surface of the river, and filtered among the green vegetation near the
scene of the battle. Other buildings had been fired, and mingled their
vapor with it.

Here and there, every minute or two, sounded the sharp crack of a rifle.
This too often meant that some fugitive had been run down by his cruel
pursuer, who listened to no pleadings for mercy. A good many had taken
refuge on Monacacy Island, fr