The hunter’s mind was made up on the instant.
“I’ll follow him,” he said to himself. “I’ll dog his footsteps, nor let him leave my sight. I’ll do even more than that, for I think—yes, I’m sure—that he may be easily deceived.”
He slipped out from behind the tree, and started off in the tracks of the unsuspecting ruffian, taking care to keep the latter in sight as he followed.
“Low, cowardly traitor!” he hissed, as if addressing the man in front of him; “who would have thought you were leagued with that most terrible of the white man’s enemies? Wicked as I knew you to be, I am surprised to learn that you are a friend of the Indians, and doubly so that you are a confederate of the worst apostate and murderer that ever lived. Wretch! Fiend! I can not believe God will permit you to succeed, and if the stain on Russell Trafford’s name is not purged away before the setting of to-morrow’s sun, I have overrated my ability. Poor Isabel Moreland! She shall not fall into the hands of that man if I can prevent it, nor shall the massacre be so complete as they have pictured it. I will put them on their guard, and I believe they can build fortifications that will enable them to repulse the assailants without loss. They will be astonished when I tell them Simon Girty is to lead the attack.”
Thus cogitating, Nick Robbins followed the villain for some time longer, neither allowing the distance between them to diminish nor increase. At length Jim McCabe emerged from the woods, and stood upon the bank of the river.
The hunter did not hesitate then, but strode boldly forward and, without the least ceremony, laid his hand on McCabe’s shoulder.
CHAPTER X.
THE TWO SCOUTS.
On this same morning another fire had been kindled for the preparation of breakfast. This one is, at least, a mile below the Indian encampment, and, unlike the latter, is close to the bank of the river, where the rufescent flames cast a reddish light upon the water. Hemmed in on three sides by a semi-circular ledge of rocks, this fire can not be seen from any other point than the river in front, or its opposite shore. And the author of it has shown his slyness, and knowledge of Indian perspicacity, by using the material that causes the smoke to become very nearly invisible by the time it reaches the hight of the rock. As we have intimated, the fourth side of the glen opens toward the river, and the least experienced in wild life could not but be struck with the appropriateness for a camping-ground, or a place of concealment from the savages.
It is used for both this morning. There is but one man in the glen, a grizzled old hunter, whose stature and general appearance approach the gigantic, and he sits quietly by his fire, busily engaged in roasting a wild duck. The man is Kirby Kidd. This we instantly observe as we look upon his honest brown face, with its clear, penetrating eyes, long, shaggy beard, and its expression of candor, simplicity and good humor. A disposition of kindness and plain truthfulness is one of Kirby Kidd’s characteristics, and it is ever reflected, not only in his countenance, but also in his words and deeds, winning the love of all whom he meets on a friendly footing. As he sits on the ground with his trusty rifle lying across his lap, preparing his morning meal with that skill that can only be the result of experience, he frequently lifts his head and darts a glance at the opening in the rocks, so searching that nothing within its scope escapes notice. True, he might do this at any other time, through force of habit, but on this occasion a keen observer would detect more than ordinary anxiety in his look.
“Time Wapawah was back,” mutters the ranger, at last. “He went away before daylight, an’ said he wouldn’t be gone long, but the sun’s up now, and still he don’t show his noddle. Mold me into buckshot ef ’tain’t beginnin’ to look a trifle suspicious! Maybe the cuss have poked his mug into some sort of a diffikilty, an needs the ’sistance o’ these arms, while I’m a-setting hyur as cool as a cowcumber in Jinawary, toastin’ this duck fur the good o’ my stummick. A cuter red don’t walk the ’arth, I allow, but thar’s times when the oldest on ’em gets hauled in. Bah! I might gab in that strain from now till the world comes to an eend, an’ I’d never make myself believe the cuss could be so blind as to put his foot in a trap. In course thar’s Injun sign ev’rywhar jest now, but that don’t signify danger to him. Sunkthin’ different from that keeps him away, bet my skulp on’t, an’ when he does kum he’ll have a chapter o’ news to relate, or I miss my guess. I wonder whar Nick Robbins are, ’bout this time? He! he! ho! That ’ar coon’s sharper’n a steel-trap, an’ he’s did first rate so fur, but I’m a leetle afeard he’s goin’ too fast to succeed. Time’ll show, howsomever, an’ ef I ain’t powerful mistook the thing will kum out all right in the eend. Wish the Injun ’ud return. I ain’t oneasy, ’cause he knowed the woods wur full o’ sign ’fore he went out, an’ it don’t stan’ to reason ’ut he’ll be keerless; but then I want to hear what he’s l’arned.”