After a pause of a few moments the warrior uttered a contemptuous exclamation.
“The Wolf Demon should wear the skin of the muskrat; he skulks in the dark and fears to meet his foe face to face.”
The chief turned upon his heel and thrust his scalping-knife into his girdle as if to depart.
One single step he made, and then a sound fell upon his ears that made him pause; made him draw the keen-edged knife again from his belt; made him prepare for battle.
The quick ear of the Indian—trained from infancy to note the noises of the forest, the plain and river—heard a stealthy step prowling through the thicket.
The noise came from behind him. Quick as thought the warrior turned and faced the point from whence the noise proceeded.
No form stepped from the timber into the little glade, whereon the soft moonbeams fell, but the Indian still heard the sound of the stealthy steps.
The steps seemed to come no nearer, and yet the sound grew no fainter.
Whoever was within the wood was circling around the Indian as if to attack him in the rear, and by surprise.
The chief guessed the truth, and as the unknown foe moved, he moved. Slowly he turned, keeping his face always in the direction from whence came the sound of the steps.