Dave was particularly eager to meet Bevoir and, if possible, make the rascally French trader a prisoner. He felt that Bevoir was the only one to give him all the particulars of his father’s death and burial, and he felt that if the Frenchman got away now he might remain away forever.
At last they saw a distant gleam of light through the forest and knew that the Indian camp was not far off. They moved ahead slower than ever.
“I see somebody moving around!” cried Dave, in a low voice. “I think it is an Indian.”
“I see two Indians,” said Sam Barringford. “But they are old men and unarmed.”
They drew closer still, until only a fringe of bushes hid the dark camp from view. The campfire had burned low, and they could see that the most of the wigwams had been taken down. Evidently what was left of the tribe were getting ready to leave that vicinity.
Presently they heard sounds from the opposite side of the camp, and two Indians and three Frenchmen appeared, leading a number of horses.
“There is Jean Bevoir now,” whispered Henry.
“Yes, and those horses are our own,” answered his father.
The horses were stopped at the doorway of one of the wigwams and an Indian went in, to appear a moment later leading the sick man whom Henry had seen but a few hours before.
“Where are you going to take me?” asked the man, feebly.