Suddenly, however, they both heard the sound of another rifle on the left, and Walter exclaimed, "Woodchuck has got one, too!" But the report was followed by a yell very different from the snarl or growl of a wounded beast. "That's no panther's cry!" exclaimed Walter Prevost, his cheek turning somewhat pale. "What can have happened?"
"It sounded like a human voice," said Lord H----, listening, "like that of someone in sudden agony. I trust our friend the Woodchuck has not shot himself by some accident."
"It was not a white man's voice," said Walter, bending his ear in the direction from which had come the sounds. But all was still, and the young man raised his voice and shouted to his companion.
No answer was returned, however, and Lord H----, exclaiming, "We had better seek him at once--he may need help!" darted away toward the spot whence his ear told him the shot had come.
"A little more to the right, my lord, a little more to the right!" said Walter. "You will hit on a trail in a minute." And raising his voice again, he shouted: "Woodchuck! Woodchuck!" with evident alarm and distress.
He was right in the supposition that they should soon find some path. They quickly struck an Indian trail crossing that on which they had been previously proceeding, and leading in the direction in which they wished to go. Both then hurried on with greater rapidity, Walter rather running than walking, and Lord H---- following, with his rifle cocked in his hand. They had not far to go, however, for the trail soon opened upon a small piece of grassy savanna, lying close upon the river's edge, and in the midst of it they beheld a sight which was terrible enough in itself, but which afforded less apprehension and grief to the mind of Lord H---- than to that of Walter Prevost, who was better acquainted with the Indian habits and character.
About ten yards from the mouth of the path appeared the powerful form of Captain Brooks, with his folded arms leaning on the muzzle of his discharged rifle. He was as motionless as a statue, his brow contracted, his brown cheek very pale, and his eyes bent forward upon an object lying upon the grass before him. It was the form of a dead Indian, weltering in his blood. The dead man's head was bare of all covering except the scalp-lock. He was painted with the war colors, and in his hand, as he lay, he grasped the tomahawk, as if it had been raised in the act to strike the moment before he fell. To the eyes of Lord H---- his tribe or nation was an undiscovered secret, but certain small signs and marks in his garb, and even in his features, showed Walter Prevost at once that he was not only one of the Five Nations, but an Oneida. The full and terrible importance of the fact will be seen by what followed.
For some two minutes the three living men stood silent in the presence of the dead, and Walter exclaimed, in a tone of deep grief: "Alas! Woodchuck, what have you done?"
"Saved my scalp," answered Brooks, sternly, and fell into silence again.
There was another long silence, and then Lord H----, mistaking in some degree the causes of the man's strong emotion, laid his hand upon the hunter's arm, saying: "Come away, my friend. Why should you linger here?"