“Tell Sir William that you met us,” said Silvers, “and tell him how the storm made us go into camp;” and this the Indian chief promised to do.
There was a strong, raw wind, and despite the rising sun they were glad to keep on their coats as they bent to the oars and sent the two rowboats speeding on their way. Once more they hugged the shore, Raymond stating that they might run into another squall at any moment.
Although they kept their eyes on the alert, no signs of white man or red were seen during the morning. Once they saw an overturned canoe resting in the mud, but by the appearance of the craft they came to the conclusion that it had been rotting there for several months, if not a year.
“The Indians have deserted this territory and the French have all sailed to the north shore of the lake,” said Dave. “It will be a long while before another village or trading-post is established here.”
But a few minutes later Shamer proved that Dave was wrong. Standing up suddenly, he pointed to a spot where the lake shore was thinly fringed with trees and brushwood.
“What do you see?” demanded Silvers.
“Redskins—three or four of them,” was the low answer.
“Where?”
“Back of those trees. They are gone now.”
“If that is so, we must be on our guard,” said the leader of the expedition, and called to those in the second boat to pull further out into the lake.