“I can’t hear clearly,” replied Joe. “I might go down a little further.”
“Don’t do it—it isn’t safe,” was his companion’s warning.
But Joe was curious, and as the murmur of voices continued, he noiselessly lowered himself until he was halfway down to the roots of the monarch of the forest.
Leaning over a limb, he strained his ears to catch what was said. The dialect of the red men was somewhat new to him, yet he caught the words “camp of the palefaces,” “Long Knife has commanded it,” and a little later “his scalp shall be mine.”
It was a good half-hour before the Indians moved away, having been joined by three others. All were in warpaint, as Joe could see by a smoky torch which one of the number carried. Luckily the Indians had tramped around the bottom of the tree so much that the trail of the two youths was completely obliterated.
When Joe returned to where he had left Harry, the pair discussed the situation in an earnest whisper.
“The whole thing is clear in my mind,” said Joe. “Long Knife has ordered a raid on our camp, and one of the redskins has a particular grudge against one of our crowd and is going in to get his scalp. The question is: what are we to do?”
“What can we do, Joe?”
“I don’t know what we can do, Harry, but I know what we ought to try to do.”
“Get back to camp and warn everybody?”