“White boy drop knife!”
The unexpected command, issued in a guttural tone, came from a clump of brushwood behind Dave. The young hunter swung around, but could see no one.
“White boy drop knife, or Indian shoot,” were the next words spoken, and now Dave saw the barrel of his own gun pointed at his breast.
“Who are you?” he asked.
“White boy drop knife, or shoot him sure!” was the only answer, and now the muzzle of the gun was shoved a little closer to the youth’s breast. Looking through the brushwood, Dave made out the repulsive features of a savage and saw the wicked gleam of his black eyes.
There seemed to be no help for it, and the hunting knife dropped to the ground. The Indian gave a grunt of satisfaction and then stepped into the opening, still, however, keeping the gun levelled at Dave’s breast. He was a brawny warrior of the Senecas, arrayed in his war-paint and feathers, and he carried a tomahawk and a knife in his girdle and a bow with arrows across his shoulders.
“Where white boy come from?” he asked, abruptly.
“I came from Fort Pitt,” answered Dave. “Why did you steal my gun?”
At the last question the red man gave a grunt that might mean anything. He looked Dave over with care and made him back away, so that he could secure the lad’s hunting knife, which he placed beside his own.
“White boy sodger, um?” went on the savage, noting the tattered uniform.