The Indian who had shouted before repeated his hail.
"Them Keepers done gone away, Red," declared Tom. "Mebbe some Maquas[[1]] come dis way. The Keepers chase 'em out o' hyuh."
[[1]] Hostile term for Mohawks.
"——! I'm agoin' to find out," returned Bolling.
He trotted out of the mouth of the trail into the open space on the brink of the muskrat swamp.
"Nobody here," he called back after a casual look around. "Guess you was right, Tom. The Keepers got after somebody—or else the lazy dogs have turned in for a sleep. I'll find out later for sure. Now you rustle them packs up, and I'll get the dugout ready."
He dragged a canoe hollowed from a tree-trunk from its hiding-place in a bed of reeds, and produced two paddles from the prostrate trunk of a hollow tree. But we paid scant attention to him. Our eyes were fastened upon the odd procession which emerged from the trail in obedience to his summons.
First walked the negro Tom, a huge pack bowing his enormous shoulders. After the negro, in single file, came eight Cahnuagas, each with a large pack braced on a ga-ne-ko-na-ah, or burden frame. They carried their muskets in their hands.
"We've got to hurry if we're goin' to get everything ferried over the swamp tonight," grumbled Bolling. "Waall, what's bitin' you?"
This question was addressed to a Cahnuaga who, in unslinging his burden-frame, had chanced to see the arrow in the ground which the Keepers had shot in their first attempt to bait us.