“We’d better stop here, and eat in shelter and have a little rest, major,” Gist said. “We can’t reach Murthering Town before dark.”
The logs and all were wet, and they ate without a fire, and lay down in their blankets. But Washington was impatient. As seemed to Robert he hardly had dropped off into a shivery doze when Gist and Washington were up, making ready to start on.
“We might as well move as freeze,” Washington was saying.
Up staggered Robert. The night brooded coldly. Throughout the forest the limbs of the trees were cracking like gun shots. But the sky had cleared, so that when they hobbled out the black sky was sparkling with stars shining on the white snow. Washington looked at his watch and said it was two o’clock.
The sun was rising when they arrived at Murthering Town, and stopped to eat and get dry. The Delawares and Mingos of this town Robert did not know; they did not act very friendly, either.
“The French have been at work here,” said Gist. “We’ll have no help from these people.”
Pretty soon an Indian came to them, very friendly, and shook hands with Gist, saying in Mingo:
“Hallo, Oak-That-Travels,” which was Gist’s Indian name.
He shook hands with Washington, too, and sat down and began to talk.
“Watch out, major,” Gist said to Washington. “This fellow’s not to be trusted. He was at Venango when we went through, the first time. I remember his face.”