Scarouady, in full war paint, had been lying like a panther beside the trail. He said severely:
“What do you do here alone in the woods, carrying your scalp in your hand?”
“I bear word from Washington to Tanacharison,” panted Robert. “The French are near.”
“That is no news,” Scarouady grumbled. “But come. The trail needs no more watching.”
The Hunter did not know where he was, exactly, until he had followed Scarouady to the warrior camp. This was in the lee of Big Rock—a high ledge upon the south slope of Laurel Hill. He had circled almost back to the Great Meadows.
Tanacharison and five or six Mingo warriors were sitting around a little fire that hissed in the pelting rain. The night promised to be bad.
Half-King listened to the word from Washington.
“Very well,” he said. “Maybe the English are going to do something at last. You wait here and eat and rest. The Buck and Guyasuta are out upon the fresh tracks of two French. We want to hear what they have to say.”
It was a miserable wait. The rain grew worse, the wind moaned, and the fire against the rock flared and sputtered. There were French somewhere near, preparing to attack Washington. Everybody knew that. Whether they would move in the rain, or would try to hide, had to be found out.