“Blood-red hand is sign,” answered Bright Star, “that the Hawk kill and scalp enemy when boy only fifteen years old.”
“Whew! he must be quite a warrior. Awful big and strong, I reckon.”
“Not tall.” Bright Star shook his head. “Not heavy. But big nose. Hair plucked out. Only scalp lock left. Brave, heap brave! Pale-face run like rabbit when he raise war-whoop.”
The Pottawattomee seemed on the verge of saying more, but suddenly closed his lips tightly, leaped to his feet, and again caught up the fishing spear which he had thrown to one side when he sat down to eat.
While the young chief again took post on the rocky ledge, spear ready, looking down sharply into the lake waters, the two white boys got out their lines, with hook and sinker attached to each.
“Guess we’ll have to catch some grasshoppers for bait,” mused Tom.
“Maybe so,” agreed Ben, “but grasshoppers don’t make the best bait in the world. Little Bennie is no Isaac Walton, but he knows that much about fishing.”
At this, the keen-eared Bright Star again threw down his spear on the ledge, and with a few long bounds stood beside them.
“Me get bait,” he said. “Heap good bait.”
For a moment or two he walked along the shore, carefully surveying the rocks at his feet. Finally he bent down and turned over a flattish stone.