The outlines and figure received enough of the firelight to cause him to look like a dim painting against a dark background. He was holding a rifle in one hand and appeared to be contemplating the lads, as if seeking to learn their identity before he advanced or performed some action.
"Sh! don't stir," whispered Fred, softly raising the hammer of his gun, "I see him,—I'll drop him!"
With the utmost caution he brought the gun around in front until it was almost to his breast. Then as quickly as he could he raised it to his shoulder and aimed at the daring redskin.
But the latter was invisible, he had vanished like the picture on the slide of a magic lantern.
As you may suppose, the boys began to feel queer. There was something so peculiar about this business that, as Terry expressed it, he was "crawly all over." What they might have done can only be guessed, for before they could move away from the fire, Deerfoot the Shawanoe, who had been having a little amusement at their expense, advanced from the gloom and addressed them.
"The heart of Deerfoot is glad when he sees his brothers do not sleep; he has watched them, but their eyes are open."
"Wal, be the powers!" muttered Terry Clark, hastily rising to his feet, as did Fred; "the spalpeen that plays that trick on me has got to fight it out."
And he began taking off his coat and spitting on his hands, to show that the matter could only be settled by a bout at fisticuffs. Deerfoot had extended his hand to Fred and he smiled at the combative Irish lad, who put up his fists and began dancing about him in the most belligerent fashion.
"Give him a trial," whispered Fred, with a laugh.
"Deerfoot loves his brothers; he can not hurt them."