“No; there were none here.”
The slight hesitancy, a certain peculiarity that accompanied this reply, convinced Jo, on the instant, that the Indian was telling a downright falsehood, and that, after all, he was gaining a slight clue to the trail of the missing maiden.
His conclusion was that there were a few Indians among the hills, but that the greater majority had left before daybreak. Precisely why they had done so was more than he could understand; but their departure unquestionably had something to do with the disappearance of Lizzie Manning.
Jo was rather abrupt in his questioning, for the next was the pointed demand:
“Tell me where the great chief, Swico-Cheque, is; I want to raise his hair.”
The look that crossed the coppery face of the savage said as plainly as words could have done, that he would have been extremely delighted to see the scout attempt such a thing.
“I don’t know where he is,” he replied, without any embarrassment in his manner; “he went away before the light came.”
There it was! the incautious Indian had let it out after all. Swico-Cheque had taken his departure with the band that went off in the stillness of the night.
The red-skin seemed entirely unaware of the slip he had made, and awaited the further questioning of his captor as the heroic martyr awaits the creeping up of the consuming blaze.
“I don’t know as I want any thing more of you,” remarked the scout, “so I guess you can travel. It would be hardly the thing to scalp you after I look you prisoner, though I’m sure you deserve it.”