As he spoke, his frown grew dark and gloomy, and he rose to his feet. His manner was fretful and impatient.
“Why don’t the fools come?” he muttered. “When there is no danger, who so bold as an Indian? Let them once get a good scare, and you cannot drive them into battle. It is beyond the chief’s time—no—there he comes. After all, the brutes keep faith.”
At the moment he uttered the last words, the stately form of an Indian chief stepped into the clearing, as if he had issued from the ground, and calmly advanced toward the recluse.
The new-comer was a Mohawk on the war-path, from his paint and other peculiarities. He carried a short rifle over his arm, and saluted the hermit with grave courtesy.
The white man opened the conversation with an air of authority to which the Indian submitted quietly.
“Bearskin is ready? Where are his warriors?”
The chief waved his hand toward the exit of the valley.
“My brothers are in wait by the white road that leads to the town. They await the Night Hawk’s orders.”
“Good. It is new moon. When the moon sinks, I will be there. Let them stop every one that passes by the road; but no firing. Let the arrow do its work silently. Is the town well watched all round?”
“Not a creature will escape. My warriors are like the web of the spider, the white men are like the flies. We shall suck their blood before morning, and the squaws will be tired of counting the scalps.”