“What do you want, stealing into our camp like this!”
“Me Par-o-wan—friend of paleface—me brudder.”
“You haven’t told me what you want,” repeated the impatient youth, with his gun half raised, for he was suspicious, and saw that the other held a rifle almost in the same position as his own.
“Par-o-wan brudder; sit down—talk wid brudder—lub brudder.”
“Dog of a Miami! leave at once! You have others with you! If you tarry we shall shoot every one of you!”
It was not George Shelton who uttered this warning, but Deerfoot, who appeared at his side so suddenly and noiselessly that the lad had no thought of anything of the kind until he heard the familiar voice.
“Par-o-wan friend ob Deerfoot—he no hunt him—he go away,” replied the Miami, plainly scared by the words and manner of the young Shawanoe, who now raised his rifle to a “dead level” and acted as if he meant to fire.
“Deerfoot knows you and those that are with you, Par-o-wan! You are the thieves who have come to steal our horses. Go quick or I shoot!”
In a panic of fear the Miami wheeled and dashed off so fast that he threshed through the undergrowth and wood like a frightened wild animal. Deerfoot waited a minute in the same vigilant attitude, and then quietly remarked:
“They will trouble us no more. Now Deerfoot will sleep.”