“Whoever it is, he don’t seem to be afeard of any thing, for he’s marching right along as if he owned the hull wood.”
“Let’s to timber,” said Boone, curtly.
A second more and the stalwart forms of the two scouts had disappeared. Like snakes they nestled in the grass and waited for the man who walked through the wood so carelessly.
The two did not have long to wait, for the sound of the steps grew louder and louder, and then an Indian warrior, decked in the gaudy war-paint and prepared for battle, stepped into the little glade whereon the moonbeams shone.
In his hand the warrior carried a tomahawk. The moonbeams danced upon the edge of the steel.
The warrior paused in the center of the glade and looked around him as though expecting some one. Then he spoke, defiantly:
“I am the White Dog, a great brave of the Shawnee nation. I seek the Wolf Demon in the forest. If he has a heart as big as a weasel’s, he will come from his lair and face me.”