A few moments later the canoe beached itself and the two paddlers sprang ashore. The one who had occupied the bow of the craft was an Indian—young, lithe, and strong. His forehead was high and narrow; his nose, slightly aquiline. His eyes were small, black, and piercing; his brawny chest and muscular arms were bare. His straight, blue-black hair—braided and ornamented with beads and perforated shells and coins—reached his waist. Breeches, leggings, and moccasins of tanned buckskin constituted his dress. In his belt were tomahawk and scalping-knife; and he carried a heavy rifle. He belonged to the Wyandot tribe, and was an adopted son of the noble chief, Leatherlips.
The Indian’s companion was an American—tall, active, and sinewy. His complexion was swarthy; his steel-gray eyes were bold and keen. But the stern cast they gave to his countenance was relieved by a pair of smiling lips, indicating gentleness and great good-nature. A mass of soft brown hair clustered in short ringlets about his temples and rippled down upon his broad shoulders. The well-fitting suit of buckskin that he wore revealed the rounded contour of his shapely limbs; and the broad-brimmed soft hat that surmounted his silky curls set off his dark beauty to the best advantage. His weapons were of the finest workmanship, and gave evidence of the loving care their owner bestowed upon them. Apparently he was about twenty-eight years old.
The man who had hailed the two voyagers—and whom they now stood facing—was a typical backwoodsman of middle age. His face was oppressively ugly—prominent nose, wide mouth, and pale-blue, watery eyes. His hair was scant and straw-colored; his body and limbs, were long, lank, and ungainly. His garb was in keeping with his character—hunting shirt and breeches of coarse linsey-woolsey, heavy cowhide boots, and peaked fur-cap. He was a grotesque, incongruous bundle of bones and sinews—a whimsical, eccentric hunter and trapper. But a more valiant, loyal, and loving heart, than Joe Farley had, never beat in man’s bosom.
Now he stood leaning upon his long rifle, a quizzical smile illuminating his rugged features.
“What do you want, Joe?” Douglas demanded briskly.
“Want to know where you’re bound fer,” came the drawling reply.
“I told you—to Vincennes, to join Harrison’s army,” Ross answered, a shade of annoyance in his tone.
“You don’t mean it?”
“But I do.”