CHAPTER V.
CONVERSATIONS AND PLANS.
The disappearance of the canoe, although singular in itself, had nothing supernatural about it. The shrubbery, which overhung the water on either shore, offered a secure and impenetrable hiding-place, and a few dexterous, vigorous strokes of the paddles were all that was needed to send it beneath their shadows. That this had been done, was plainly evident. Yet why had it been done? What motive was there for concealment? And why, if apprehensive of danger, had the Indians waited till they were in its vicinity?
These and numerous questions, I asked myself, as I carefully retraced my steps down-stream again. The whole proceeding was mysterious to me. I had, doubtless, exposed myself while watching the canoe and its occupants, and thus betrayed to an enemy our presence in their country. What would result from this, I could not conjecture, and determined to make everything known to the trapper. But then I felt somewhat fearful of this. He would, doubtless, be incensed at my imprudent thoughtlessness, which might compel him to leave a country offering such inducements to the trapper and fur-trade; and I argued it was not certain that I had really been seen by the Indians in question. If they meditated hostility, Biddon would be warned soon enough for all purposes—and so I decided to keep my own secret for the present.
But the question which occupied my thoughts, almost to the exclusion of everything else, was the identity of the female in the canoe. What could bring a white maiden to these wild regions of the northwest? What meant her appearance in the canoe with two savage Indian warriors? What if she was the child which Biddon had referred to, as being captured upon the night of the massacre? This thought intensified the interest I already felt in her. I believed she had seen me; and her silent look toward the shore had something more than curiosity in it. I imagined there was a mute, eloquent appeal in those dark eyes.
Still ruminating upon this all-absorbing theme, I reached the tree, and, stooping upon my hands and knees, crawled within it. The movement had well-nigh cost me my life. As my head entered, I encountered the alarmed visages of Nat and Biddon—the latter with his knife drawn, and just preparing to spring upon me.
“You liked to got rubbed out that time!” he exclaimed, replacing his weapon. “What made you forgit the sign?”
“It must have been because it did not occur to me,” I laughed; “I have had no occasion to use it before, and forgot it altogether; but I will remember it, you may be assured, in future.”
“You’d better, for I was just going to shoot, too,” added Nat, rising to his feet, and then seating himself again.
“You shoot!” repeated Biddon, contemptuously, “You’re shooter ain’t loaded!”