Looking behind him, he could not see the outlines of the building which he had just left. For the sake of safety Colonel Preston allowed no light burning within the block-house, which itself was like a solid bank of darkness.
"It would be easy enough now for me to make my way to Wild Oaks," reflected Stinger; "for, when the night is like this, three hundred Indians could not surround the old place close enough to catch any one crawling through. But it is no use for me to strike out for the Ohio now, for the boys could not get here soon enough to affect the result one way or the other. Long before that the varmints will wind up this bus'ness, either by going away, or by cleaning out the whole concern."
Jo Stinger unquestionably was right in this conclusion, but he possessed a strong faith that Colonel Preston and the rest of them in the block-house would be able to pull through, if they displayed the vigilance and care which it was easy to display: this faith explains how it was the frontiersman had ventured upon what was, beyond all doubt, a most perilous enterprise.
Jo, from some cause or other which he could not explain, suspected the Wyandots were collecting near the well, and he began working his way in that direction.
It was unnecessary to scale the stockade, and he therefore moved along the western side, until he reached the angle, when he turned to the right and felt his way parallel with the northern line of pickets.
Up to this time he had not caught sight or sound to show that an Indian was within a mile of him. The fine particles of snow made themselves manifest only by the icy, needle-like points which touched his face and hands, as he groped along. He carried his faithful rifle in his left hand, and his right rested on the haft of his long hunting-knife at his waist. His head was thrust forward, while he peered to the right and left, advancing with as much care as if he were entering a hostile camp on a moonlight night, when the overturning of a leaf is enough to awaken a score of sleeping red men.
A moment after passing the corner of the stockade something touched his elbow. He knew on the instant that it was one of the Wyandots. In the darkness they had come thus close without either suspecting the presence of the other.
"Hooh! my brother is like Deerfoot, the dog of a Shawanoe."
This was uttered in the Wyandot tongue, and the scout understood the words, but he did not dare reply. He could not speak well enough to deceive the warrior, who evidently supposed he was one of his own people.
But there was the single exclamation which he could imitate to perfection, and he did so as he drew his knife.