“Did ye see that fresh scalp hangin’ at that Buffalo varmint’s belt?” he asked. “That means blood. It means fightin’! I’ve seen many a Redskin, but I never seen a wickeder one than that Buffalo. An’ there’s no more play for Thomas Trout, which some calls Fish, my kittens, both! I tell ye now, that from what I seed, there was nothin’ kept us out of a fight this day but the friendliness o’ that chap Fishin’ Bird. If Big Buffalo had a’ dared, he’d a’ pitched onto us. Them’s my honest sentiments; an’ more’n that, did ye see the scalp at that red devil’s belt? Don’t tell me they ain’t been on the warpath! Did ye see that scalp, an’ the blood on it hardly more ’n dry? Oh, sorry day! Oh, sorry day—the blood on it hardly more’n dry. ’Cause I’m a plagued sight mistaken, kittens both, if I don’t know whose scalp that is! Oh, sorry day!”
Tom’s voice had sunk almost to a whisper and involuntarily John shuddered. The sinking sun cast thick, dark shadows in the narrow valley, and a death-like silence was broken only by the soughing wind and the tinkle of the brook.
These melancholy surroundings and the gruesome way in which Tom spoke, were enough to remove all cheerfulness which might have existed, but Tom said again, slowly and with a mournful emphasis, “I know—I know whose scalp it is, lads; an’ the blood on it hardly more’n dry.”
The rough woodsman put his arm across his eyes and leaned mournfully on his rifle, as he spoke.
CHAPTER X.
A Night With the Indians.
To shut out from his thoughts the horrid memory of the bloody scalp at Big Buffalo’s belt, Ree turned and busied himself with the fire, which had burned quite low, and soon a roaring blaze was leaping skyward, shedding good cheer around.
The woodsman still stood leaning on his rifle, a look of sadness on his face such as was seldom seen there. If John had noticed this he might not have asked in the tone in which he did: