"'Pears you can sleep here though, the way your head was bobbin' around. Been up late at night, I s'pose?"
"No sleep now—meet 'Hara, white brother," said he, with an expression of joy upon his swarthy countenance.
"Yes, I smelt the smoke of your fire, and follerin' it up I cone onto you. 'Pears to me it was rather careless kindling your fire here in broad daylight. Ain't there any Injins in the neighborhood?"
"Woods full of 'em—Shawnees, Miamis, Delawares, all over, like leaves of trees," replied the savage, sweeping his arm around him.
"Ain't you afeard they might come down on you?"
The Rifleman indulged in an inward laugh, for he well knew the reply that would be made. The dark face of the Huron assumed an expression of withering scorn as he answered:
"Oonamoo don't know fear—spit on Shawnee and Miami—he sleeps in their hunting-grounds, and by their wigwams, but they don't touch him. He scalp their warriors—all he meets, but Oonamoo never lose scalp."
"Don't be too sure of that; that proud top-knot of yours may be yanked off yet, Mr. Oonamoo. Many a Shawnee would be proud to have that hanging in his lodge."
"He never get him though," replied the Huron, with great readiness.
"I hope not, for I'd feel sorry to see such a good warrior as you go under when he is needed so much. You ain't on a scout or hunt just now, then?"