"Oh, I must find some beads," Aunt Florence insisted. "Do you ever see Indians around here nowadays?"
"Oh, just tame ones," Billy was honest enough to say.
"You must be brave children," the young lady remarked, as she followed Betty through the gloomy forest.
"We're used to it," Betty sung over her shoulder, and Billy knew she was laughing. "Besides that, we can run like the wind if we have to. Then you know, auntie, the awful things that happened here happened over a hundred years ago, and there isn't any real danger now, of course. It just makes you feel shivery, that's all. Isn't it queer about Indian trails, how they wind in and out so often? This trail is exactly as it used to be. Did you ever read 'The Conspiracy of Pontiac,' auntie?"
"No, Betty, I never read it all; I simply know about the massacre here. Have you read it?"
"She knows it by heart," said Billy. "She can say bushels of Indian speeches. Tell her one, Betty. Tell her that one where the Indian said to Alexander Henry, 'The rattlesnake is our grandfather.'"
"Yes, do, Betty, only tell me first who Alexander Henry was."
"Why, auntie, don't you know? He was the English fur-trader whose life was saved by the Indian chief Wawatam. I like him best of any fur-trader I ever knew."
"Do tell me his story, Betty."