Gist halted. He knew that rifle-crack; so did the Hunter.
“That’s Scaddy’s barker; I can tell it among a thousand,” said Gist. “He’s after a scalp. Pshaw! Is he crazy? Now the woods will be alive. You wait here. I’ll spy ahead and see what’s what. If I’m chased, never mind me; take care of yourself, and go back to the camp.”
On went Gist, and disappeared in the timber at the top of the hill. Now the air beyond, toward the fort, was tremulous with yells. Scarouady had waked the enemy; the Ottawas and Hurons were pouring out. The Hunter stood listening. Where was Gist? He had no notion of going back without Christopher Gist; but this place was rather open to wait in.
He was near a big white-oak tree. Why not climb into that? Then he would be off the ground, and he might see around better. Wah! Hark! Those were pursuit whoops! The French Indians were upon a warm trail! They seemed to be coming, too!
The Hunter leaned his heavy flint-lock against the white-oak trunk, and sprang for the lowest branch. The woods were echoing to the shouts. He had hauled himself up and was about to turn and reach down for his gun, when the shouts burst louder; the brush crackled—Gist passed, running and darting, at one side, and while the Hunter held motionless, waiting, two Ottawas sped like hounds right under the tree, eager to cut the trail.
They did not see the gun, which was behind the tree trunk. Were more Indians to follow? The Hunter gently tried for his gun, and could not quite reach it. Listen! Would he have time to get down? No! He kicked at the gun and it fell flat, to lie as if it had been dropped; and he started to climb higher, out of sight, for there were Indians all about.
Then he stopped short, frozen where he was; for he heard the soft thud of moccasins. He did not dare to turn his head and look. After a moment the sound ceased. He could hear nothing, and he simply had to look.
Through the leaves and branches he could glimpse an Indian under the tree. The Indian had discovered the gun, and was gazing about. Perhaps he would go on. Robert certainly hoped so. The Indian’s eyes wandered up into the tree. He did not appear to see anybody there. They swept the ground again—hah! They began to read the prints there! They travelled back to the tree trunk—they saw something—maybe a place where the bark had been freshly torn by the gun-barrel, or by Robert’s kicks when he climbed or knocked over the gun.
Ugh! The Indian gradually raised his face, his eyes travelled on up—he made discovery again—his rifle pointed; and the Hunter found himself gazing down into the muzzle and into the painted, wrinkled face behind it of old King Shingis the Delaware.
Shingis knew him, and commenced to grin.