“White boy beware,” he said, in a low voice. “Red Bird here two days ago.”
“Yes, I know that,” answered Dave. “But what of it?”
“Red Bird friend to French—Red Bird does not like the English. Red Bird tell the French all he sees and hears.”
“You are sure of this?”
“Yes, Swiftwater is sure,” grunted the warrior.
“Where is Red Bird now?”
“Yesterday he went to the post of Jean Bevoir. He did not come back.”
This was all the warrior had to tell, but it was enough, for Dave now remembered how sneakingly Red Bird had acted, and how he had asked many questions out of the ordinary, about the furs on hand, and about when James Morris was expected back.
“I don’t like this thing,” he said to Sam Barringford, that evening. “If I remember rightly this Red Bird and Fox Head belong to the same tribe, and Fox Head is father’s enemy and always has been.”
“Thet’s true, Dave,” was the old hunter’s answer.