“Perhaps not. I am a sort of compulsory guest, but I will say adieu,” and bowing, he disappeared in the shrubbery; but his last glance said he would find them again.
“Who was it?” The woman looked from one to the other.
“He is French, and a prisoner. The chief is Black Feather. But the young man comes from Detroit.”
She gave a nod, as if she knew this much already.
Elk Horn and Black Feather had cemented a friendship over their whiskey. They would start the next morning. The word was given to be early astir, and the woman roused them.
“Every step takes us farther away,” said Wawataysee regretfully. Yet they would be in the company of Valbonais, who had resolved upon escape.
She walked slowly down to the river’s edge, holding Renée by the hand. Black Feather caught sight of her. Her tall, lithe figure, her airy step, the poise of the head, had a touch of familiarity. Ah, yes! and the name. The pretty Firefly had been taken away from the strait by a white trader, and her brother had been unsuccessful in his attempt to capture her. Ah, if this was she, then he was truly in luck!
He did not attempt to come nearer, but saw her and the child step into the boat. Elk Horn took command of this. Black Feather gathered his small force together, and his boatload of treasures of different kinds with which he could purchase supplies, and the other looked on with envy.
All day Black Feather watched warily, more and more certain that this girl would prove a treasure to him if he managed rightly. He would buy her of Elk Horn.
“What do you know about her?” he inquired. “She comes from St. Louis. Who was her father? for she has Indian blood, and I am sure I know her tribe.”