The fowl being by this time well roasted, the scout now removes it from the ramrod, which serves for a spit, and falls to devouring it with a keen relish.
But he had scarcely commenced this when, with the quickness of thought, he drops the duck and snatches up his rifle. At the same time he turns his piercing eyes toward the river, as if trying to see something that is not there. What he hears is only a low ripple in the water—or a sound, rather, as of a fish leaping above the surface—but the experienced ear of Kirby Kidd does not recognize it as such. He sits still and listens, with his gun pushed forward ready to leap to his shoulder on a second’s notice. Soon the smothered croak of a bull-frog, three times in succession, comes from the water’s edge. Instantly the hunter’s face brightens up with a gleam of recognition, and, running his fingers across his lips while he whistles, he thrills forth a soft imitation of the robin’s song.
Now a tufted head rises slowly into view, followed by the body of an Indian. The savage slips lightly up on the bank, without further hesitation, and walks toward the fire with a graceful, dignified step, exhibiting a form of faultless mold and muscular development.
It is Wapawah, the friend and companion of the white hunter.
“Wal, chief,” says the ranger, “ye’ve been gone long ’nough to l’arn how the ground lies outside o’ this hole. Cuss me, ef I hadn’t begun to think some bloody cuss had tuck a notion to them feathers o’ yourn.”
“Me busy,” replied the Wyandott, briefly.
“Sartin ye wur. Mought knowed nothin’ else ’ud keep you away, arter sayin’ ye’d be back in a hurry. Thar’s Injuns around, but ye’re an Injun yerself, an’ sharp enough to keep out o’ thar clutches, I take it. But how did ye succeed, chief? I s’pose the party reached the island in safety long ’fore mornin’?”
“Yes—dey all dere.”
“Did ye go over to the island?”
Wapawah nods his head.