“Why do you say that?”
“Winnebagoes make tracks.”
And the Indian pointed to the fresh trail.
Stooping and passing his finger over a moist spot of bare earth, Bright Wing replied triumphantly:
“See, moccasin track. No Shawnee moccasin, no Pottawatomie moccasin; Winnebago moccasin.”
In silent wonder the two white men stood staring at their red friend. At last Farley burst forth:
“Well, if that don’t beat me! The idee o’ tellin’ one moccasin track from another! I’d as soon think o’ tellin’ one bear’s track from another—I would, by Hanner Ann! It’s easy to tell a wolf’s track from a fox’s, but to tell one redskin’s track from another’s is a thing I never learnt; an’ I never could, if I lived a thousan’ years. But no doubt the Injin’s right, Ross Douglas. It’s prob’ly a huntin’ band o’ the Winnebagoes that’s loiterin’ ’round in this neck o’ woods. An’ we’ve got redskins behind us, an’ redskins before us. Now what ’re we goin’ to do? That’s what I’d like to know.”
“It will soon be dark; we must push forward,” Ross replied.
“An’ tumble plump into the clutches o’ the Winnebagoes,” Joe answered. “They’re devils to fight; an’ as cruel an’ bloodthirsty as the Shawnees.”