“Yes, I s’pose you’re right,” Joe admitted in a mollified tone. “We’ve got to keep on. Dang the redskins, anyway! The doctors says exercise is a good thing; but I ain’t hankerin’ fer any more of it, jest now. They say it’s a mighty powerful thing to give a feller an appetite; an’ I can believe that statement without half tryin’, fer them frogs in me has gone to croakin’ like sixty. That’s what made me so flustered an’ cantankerous. Well, Injin, lead on. I’ll foller you, if I wear my legs off up to my shoulders—I will, ’r my name ain’t Joseph Peregoy Farley!”
Once more they set forward. But they had gone only a hundred yards, when the Wyandot, with a startled grunt, came to an abrupt stop.
“What ’ave you diskivered now?” Farley inquired, stepping forward.
“A fresh trail!” Ross exclaimed, stooping and examining the moist earth and damp leaves.
The three comrades bent down and closely scrutinized the numerous tracks. The light in the forest was dim; and they painfully strained their eyes over the alarming discovery, as they attempted to read its meaning aright. After a minute’s examination, they arose and silently looked at one another. Presently Douglas said in an undertone:
“What do you make of it, Bright Wing?”
“Redmen,” was the emphatic reply.
“And quite a number of them.”
“Ugh!”
“Of course that trail was made by redskins,” Joe volunteered in a stage whisper. “’Cause ther’s nobody else in these parts to make it. An’ more’n that, there’s a score ’r more of ’em, an’ they’re movin’ in the direction we’re goin’. That trail ain’t more’n a few hours old, at most. I’ll tell you my explanation o’ the affair.”