As the little band of whites headed back for the camp by the First Lake, there was silence for some miles. Colonel Dodge rode at the head of the column, evidently rapt in thought. But his face was serene, and it was clear to all that he was well pleased with the parting words of the Winnebago, White Crow.
“Colonel,” spoke up Bill Brown, abruptly spurring his horse to the officer’s side, “I kin see that you set great store on the Crow’s promise.”
“I do, Brown; and why not?”
“I think he’s lyin’.”
“Pshaw, man! His words had the ring of truth.”
“I still maintain that he’s lyin’, sir.”
“Advance your reasons,” demanded Dodge fretfully, “that is, if you have any.”
“It’s this-a-way, Colonel. Jest afore we reached the Crow’s village, we passed a bark-canoe, headin’ south down the lake.”
“Hm! I did notice it. But what about it? Canoes are a common sight in the Indian country.”
“Mebbe so, but that canoe didn’t have no common paddlers in it.”