“What’s that?” the Highland officer said, so suddenly that the scout started in affright.
“Nothing,” said the Indian; “the wind, perhaps.”
“Sticks cracking in the laurel—a bear, perhaps,” suggested MacDonnell, taking up a loaded musket and laying it across his knee. Then “Only a bear,” he repeated reassuringly.
“Choolah ought to leave more men here,” said the Etissu.
“It’s nothing!” declared MacDonnell, rising and looking warily about. “Perhaps Choolah on his way back.”
The scout was true to his vagrant tendencies, or perhaps because of those tendencies he felt himself safer in the dense, impenetrable jungle, crawling along flat like a lizard or a snake, than seated perched up here on a bluff by a flaring camp-fire with only two other men, a mark for “Brown Bess”—the Cherokees were all armed with British muskets, although they were in revolt, and perhaps it was one reason why they were in revolt—for many a yard up and down the Tennessee River. “I go see,” he suggested.
“No, no,” said MacDonnell, “only a bear.”
“I come back soon,” declared the Etissu, half crouching and gazing about, “soon, soon. Alooska, Ko-e-u-que-ho.” (I do not lie, I do not indeed.)
MacDonnell lifted his head and gazed about with a frowning mien of reluctance “Maia cha!” (Go along) he said at last. Then called out, “Come back soon,” as his attention returned to the priming and loading of a pistol which he had in progress. “Soon! remember!”