“Nothin’ more to see,” averred Bill at length. “Tain’t wuthwhile to lay here any longer.”
They slid away down the far side of the ridge, and continued their travel toward the camp of Shaubena.
“What’s the meaning of that war-dance, Bill?” asked Ben, after an interval.
“I’m a doin’ some heavy thinkin’.”
“Could it be,” conjectured the boy thoughtfully, “that the Wolf and his Sacs have got word from Black Hawk that he has taken the war-trail?”
“A smart guess, Ben,” declared Tom. “I’ll bet my hat that you’ve hit it. Else why should they daub themselves all over with that white clay and everything?”
“Mebbe so, lads,” admitted Bill Brown. “I wouldn’t bet a plugged nickel that you ain’t right.”
About a half-mile beyond the Wolf’s encampment, where the path dipped into a shallow hollow, near the river edge, there was a low rustling of the bushes, beside the trail. Shouldering into the thicket, Bill Brown found two squaws crouching in the greenery, trying hard to conceal themselves from sight.
They were greatly relieved when the stalwart scout addressed them in the Pottawattomee tongue.
“What are you doing here?” he questioned.