“Why, it’s White Buffalo!” cried Dave in astonishment. And he stepped forward to greet his old Indian friend, while Henry did the same.
“How? how?” said the Indian chief, taking their hands in his own. “White Buffalo think it was Dave he see, but was not sure.”
“Do you know this Injun?” demanded Silvers.
“To be sure we do!” cried Dave. “He is White Buffalo, an under chief of the Delawares. He has often fought with us against the French, and he is well-known to Washington and to Sir William.”
“In that case, I reckon it’s all right,” said Silvers, and lowered his musket.
“Are you alone, White Buffalo?” questioned Henry, with interest.
“Yes, White Buffalo is alone,” replied the red chief. “He was out hunting and hurt his foot on the sharp rocks.” He showed the injury, which he had bound up with a bit of rag. “He could not get back to his followers, so walked down to the lake for water.”
“I reckon we can fix up that hurt a little better,” said Dave, and set to work without delay. While he did this, the Indian chief told of his adventures, and of how he had brought down a big deer with an arrow and how his followers had started back to the fort with the game.
“White Buffalo has seen the trail of the French around here,” he went on. “The white brothers must beware, or they will fall into a snare.”
“We’ll keep our eyes open,” answered Silvers.