Little happened during the first half of the trip. Then, on a sudden in a cloudy day, Aroas, who was leading with gun in hand, stopped short.
“Wah!” he said, to White Thunder. “This is it.”
“Yes,” replied White Thunder, stopping also. “This is it. It is alive?”
“Men have passed,” said Silver Heels. “And not long ago.”
They both studied the trail. The trail was a narrow one, wending right on amid the great trees of the silent, sunless forest. Something about the trail, and the manner with which Aroas and White Thunder held back from it struck the Hunter like a sensation of lurking death.
They two were bending forward, reading the trail. The Hunter himself could see that there were tracks in it—moccasin tracks lightly printed upon the soft soil and pressing twigs into the mud and leaves.
“Do we fear the Delaware?” he asked.
“No,” answered White Thunder. “This is not their land. The land once given to them by the Iroquois has flowed through their stomachs, for they sold it to the English for rum. They wear petticoats. Here is a danger trail.”
“What is that?”
“It is the Catawba Trail. Be silent.”