“He has seen it,” Bright Wing mumbled, “but Tenskwatawa alone has it.”
“Why does my brother seek to go out alone?”
“At the order of the great Winnemac he goes to scout,” was the quick-witted reply.
“Ugh!” ejaculated the sentry, taking a step backward.
The nimble-footed Wyandot darted through the gateway and disappeared—just as the head of the column of braves came in sight.
Down the incline, across the swampy prairie, and up the slope leading to the camp of the whites, Bright Wing sped like the wind—never pausing until he drew near the line of sentries. The sky was thickly clouded; a gentle drizzle was falling. Dropping upon the ground, he watched and waited for a chance to elude the vigilance of the pickets. A white man would have given the alarm, by stepping forward and permitting himself to be challenged; but the proud Wyandot scorned to do anything of the kind. Minutes passed. Suddenly, a light footfall attracted his attention; and the next moment Duke’s cold muzzle touched his hand.
“Go ’way—go to master!” Bright Wing commanded in a stern whisper.
In answer the dog threw up his nose and sniffed the damp air. Then with a low growl, he bounded away toward camp.
“Duke him smell redmen,” the Wyandot muttered to himself. “Me must go in quick—right away.”
Little by little he wriggled forward—the sentry pacing his beat within a few feet of him. The next instant the intrepid young brave was upon his feet. Like a scudding cloud he glided to the barricade of wagons, and disappeared among them. A moment later he bent over the sleeping form of Ross Douglas and, shaking him roughly, cried: