Side by side, the two men ascended the slope and entered the unguarded gateway of the palisade. Duke accompanied them. An extraordinary spectacle met their gaze. Hundreds of armed warriors—Shawnees, Winnebagoes, Miamis, Wyandots, and others—were swarming promiscuously about. Squaws and children bearing bags and bundles hurried hither and thither. All was bustle and confusion. The whole resembled a hive of angry bees into which some venturesome youngster had thrust a stick.
“What’s the meaning of all this?” Ross inquired of his companion.
“They are preparing to abandon the town,” was the reply.
“Shall we go with them?”
“If we’re alive at the time—yes.”
They elbowed their way through the throng, attracting no little attention.
“Scar Face,” muttered a Winnebago, as they passed.
“Fleet Foot,” grunted a Wyandot.
“Does he mean you?” asked Bradford turning to his companion.
“Yes.”