"You're a mighty clever Indian; I will be ever so much obliged to you," said Linden; "I will write a few lines to my boy, which will explain our trouble, though I have no doubt you could take the message just as well; but it is such an unexpected one that the boy might doubt it unless it was in my own writing. See?"
The Shawanoe nodded his head to signify that it was all clear to him. Linden passed within the cabin, where he hurriedly wrote the few lines that are already known to the reader, folded the paper, and wrote on the outside:
"FREDERICK LINDEN, **ususual
Grevil."
He then handed it to Deerfoot, saying:
"There is no special hurry, and if you are in the neighborhood of Greville, and can make it convenient to leave that at my house, it will be a great kindness to me."
"If the Great Spirit does not will different it shall be in his hands before the setting of three more suns, but," added Deerfoot, looking at the superscription on the back of the paper, "has not my brother made a mistake?"
"What do you mean?"
"When Deerfoot writes the word 'Greville,' he adds two letters more than does my brother; perhaps, though, Deerfoot is wrong."
No pen can describe the amazement that appeared on the faces of Linden and Bowlby. Here was a young Indian teaching a white man old enough to be his father how to spell in the English language! Was the like ever known?
For a full minute neither of the hunters spoke. They were sitting on the log, while Deerfoot was standing in front of them. He held his rifle in his right hand and the folded piece of paper in his left, while he looked inquiringly down in the faces of the two men, whose mouths and eyes were open, as though they could not believe the evidence of their own senses. Finally, with a deep sigh, Linden slowly rose to his feet—