“But they had rights which neither the French nor the English have respected.”
“Do you stick up for such a wily wretch as Pontiac?”
“No, but I stick up for such a noble red man as White Buffalo.”
“Oh, well, if they were all like White Buffalo there wouldn’t be any trouble.”
They sat by the fire a good hour, talking about the Indians, the departure of James Morris for the trading post, and about the folks at home and other matters. Then they grew sleepy, and lay down to rest, never realizing the double peril so close at hand.
CHAPTER XVI
SAVED BY A WINDSTORM
The two young hunters had been asleep perhaps ten minutes when a form stole forward from behind a corner post in the old council-house.
The form was that of a young Seneca warrior, Boka the Fox, a red man known for miles around for his skill in hunting and fishing. No matter who went out with him Boka the Fox usually got the biggest turkey, the biggest deer, and very often the biggest fish.
Boka the Fox was alone. He had been spying in the vicinity of Fort Pitt, and was now on his way westward to report what he had seen. The storm had overtaken him, and fancy had caused him to seek shelter in the deserted village. He had come up just at the arrival of Dave and Henry and had heard the gunshots when the rabbits were brought down.
Despite the snowstorm, Boka the Fox waited around patiently for some chance to do the whites an injury. He had only his hunting knife with him—a weapon taken from a murdered frontiersman some months before. His bow had been broken the day before and his tomahawk had been lost during a wild flight to get away from some soldiers who had seen him on the trail and fired several shots after his retreating form.