“Ho, ho,” laughed Scarouady. “We will go and see.”
So he picked up his hatchet, and they back-tracked, and found the bear place. But no bear was here, and no Cherokee. The ground was torn and bloody. The bear might be dead, somewhere; and the Cherokee might be badly hurt, somewhere. Anyway, both had had enough, according to the signs.
“That was a smart trick, Hunter,” Scarouady praised. “After this you must not kill a bear. The bear is good to you. Wah! The Cherokees will go home lacking one man, maybe two. They thought to strike the Delaware. Instead, they met the Mingo. Scarouady saw them. A man and a boy drove them like deer. I have hidden a turkey that I killed with my hatchet. We have a scalp. We will go on and find Washington.”
They travelled on, and camped that evening, and travelled again the next day.
“Where does this Washington live?” Scarouady asked.
“I don’t know,” answered Robert. “He was at the River Potomac, marking English lands.”
“Such a man will be known to others,” said Scarouady. “We are getting near the Potomac. See? The English have been here. They have marked the trees with hatchets. We will follow the hatchet marks and come to somebody.”
The hatchet marks were new, marking a line along an old buffalo trail that seemed to lead between the Potomac and the Monongahela in the west.
“There will be English at the other end,” said Scarouady. “Maybe Washington himself. He is marking lands still.”