“He is a soldier captain, but he stays at home. He cannot travel,” said Christopher Gist. “There is another brother who stays at home upon his lands, also. This young Washington likewise has lands of his own, but he prefers the woods, that he may learn how to care for himself without help. He is a good hunter and trail finder. I look for him to be a great chief.”
“We shall see,” replied Scarouady. “He shows much sense.”
They marched on, into the north. Gist was sick and had to make stops. And one day Scarouady, leading, leaped back; at the same time Gist’s horse shied, almost throwing him. A man stood in the trail. Scarouady cried out:
“The Black Rifle!”
The man was the man that the Hunter remembered; a very large man, black in hair and in beard, and of eye blackly glowing and of skin dark; clad in leather he was like an Indian, with fur cap upon his head. He held his long rifle ready, but lifted his free hand in the talk sign.
“Who are you and what do you want?” he demanded of Gist.
“I am Christopher Gist from the Virginia settlements, and travel on the King’s business,” said Gist boldly. “Who are you?”
“Captain Jack of Pennsylvania. The Injuns know me as the ‘Black Rifle’ or the ‘Black Hunter.’ How many of the varmints with you?”
“You see two, a chief and a boy,” answered Gist. Now other men appeared, among the trees and bushes near—wild, eager men, poising their guns and searching with their eyes. “They guide me and are under my protection. You’re an Injun killer, I take it.”
“I am,” said the Black Rifle. “The Injuns killed mine, I kill them. Where are you going?”