“To talk with the Mingos and the tribes west as far as the Miami, and win them from the French. Do we pass on?”
“Yes,” said the Black Rifle, “you may pass on. These are Mingos. My war is with the Delawares and Shawnees; but keep your Injuns close, for all copper skins are apt to look alike over my rifle sights. Are the French seizing the river?”
“So they say.”
The Black Rifle laughed harshly as he stepped aside.
“Beware of the Injuns, then. They will talk fair, and then act as they please, for the sake of scalps and plunder. But go ahead; and when you have to fight the French and Injuns both, there will be need of the Black Hunter.”
He sprang backward, and was gone; gone were his men, and the forest was silent.
“Wah!” Scarouady exclaimed, breathing hard. “It was he, the killer of the trail. I thank my brother for sending him away.”
“The name of your father the King is powerful,” answered Gist. “He suffers no harm to come to his children the Indians.”
“Well,” uttered Scarouady, “let my father the King count his Injuns, then, and ask the Black Rifle what has become of those not found. There can be no peace while the trail is bloody.”
The year was late when they all toiled down the hills to old Shanopin’s-town beside the Allegheny River just above the Forks.