"Maybe they will think I don't amount to enough for them to bother with, and they may let me go, though I know there is no chance of ever getting my rifle back again. I am glad of one thing--they didn't catch Will or Jack."
The thought of them led George to glance behind and in front, as though he expected to see them approach. Natural as was the act on his part, it was noticed by the Wyandots (such was their tribe), who may have supposed that he expected some of his friends to come to his relief. They looked sharply at the boy, and then resumed their talk.
"We agreed," thought George, recalling their parting, "that we should all keep up the hunt until we learned what we wanted. So Jack or Will will prowl around this camp until they see what a scrape I'm in, and then, what will they do?"
Ay, what could they do?
"They'll run home and tell father," thought the captive, continuing his line of thought, "and he may set out to get me, but what can he do against all this crowd? He may go up to the settlement and bring a lot of the folk to help, but before they can come within reach of these people my fate will be settled."
There was every reason to believe that George Burton was quite right in the latter conclusion.
The conversation of the Wyandots, whatever its nature, lasted only a few minutes longer. Then the one who was occupied in filling his pipe when George first caught sight of the camp came forward, and stopped in front of him.
Most of the red men who live along the frontier soon pick up a few words of English, but it is seldom that one is seen who spoke so readily as did he who now addressed the captive. Doubtless on that account he was called upon.
"Where paleface come from?" he asked, with such a good accent that George looked up at him in surprise.
"From my home over yonder," was his prompt reply, as he pointed to the northward--the direction in which his home lay.