“This is our game,” went on Joe, and still keeping his gun leveled with one hand, he took the other and pointed first at the dead buck and then at himself and Harry.
Again the Indian shrugged his shoulders, and then shook his head slowly. At last he pointed to a tree, and then at himself, and then at Joe and Harry, and shook his head.
“He means to say he found it in a tree, and didn’t know it belonged to us,” said Harry. “Well, that’s the truth, I suppose, but it wasn’t his game, even so.”
“What shall we do with the fellow, Harry? We can’t shoot him down in cold blood, and it wouldn’t do much good to march him back to the fort.”
“Well, take his arrows from him, and march him off about his business, Joe. That’s the best I can think of.”
While Joe kept the Indian covered with his gun Harry strode forward and made the fellow give up eight fine arrows he carried. The bow he let the red man retain, since it would be useless until he could provide more arrows for it.
To show that they did not take the arrows for their own use, Harry broke the shafts over his knee. This caused the Indian to scowl deeply, but he said nothing.
“Now march, and don’t you turn around to look back,” said Joe, and he pointed up the brook beyond the rapids. Yellow Blanket understood, and with downcast countenance walked off.
They watched him out of sight, and then, without loss of time, picked up the buck between them and hurried towards home, but not by the route they had previously traveled.
“That Indian may take it into his head to come back on the sly,” said Joe. “We don’t want to run the risk of having our heads split open by his tomahawk.”