“No fish made it,” I whispered.
“No fish,” he agreed. “There!”
The splashing came from across the several hundred yards of the Ohio’s deep and silent current. It was repeated until it became almost continuous, and it gradually grew louder.
“Rafts!” shrilly whispered Cousin.
“They are paddling fast.”
“No! But there are many rafts,” he corrected.
We retreated up-stream a short distance and concealed ourselves in a deep growth. To the sound of poles and paddles was added the murmuring of guttural voices. Then for a climax a raft struck against the bank and a low voice speaking Shawnee gave some sharp orders.
“One!” counted Cousin.
As he spoke another raft took the shore, and then they grounded so rapidly that it was impossible to count them. Orders were given, and the Indians worked back from the river and proceeded to make a night-camp. The landing had been made at the mouth of the creek, but the savages had spread out, and some of them were due east from us.
“There’s a heap of ’em!” whispered Cousin. “Lucky for us they didn’t fetch any dawgs along, or we’d be smelled out an’ have to leg it.”