Bright Wing had learned all he desired. He turned to slip away unmolested, and had reached the edge of the crowd and was rapidly making his way toward the palisade, when he came face to face with a white man. The Wyandot uttered a grunt of surprise, as he recognized the form and features of Hiram Bradford.
“Hello!” cried the latter. “Where are you running so fast, my red friend—and what are you doing here?”
The young Indian haughtily drew himself erect and retorted:
“Bright Wing among his people. What paleface scout do here.”
“Good—very good!” Bradford chuckled huskily. “Well, I’ll answer your question, Wyandot, and then you shall answer mine. I’m here as an agent of the British, and I’m doing what I can to help your people to recover what belongs to them. Now, what are you doing here?”
“Bright Wing come help, too,” was the quick reply.
“Y-e-s,” the scar-faced scout answered doubtingly, “but you’ve been among the palefaces—I saw you there, you know. You’ve been scouting for them.”
“Ugh!” Bright Wing grunted. “You scout for palefaces, too. Me see you there.”
Bradford was disconcerted by the Wyandot’s shrewd replies. Now he cried irritably: