“We might have crossed over and had a look at the Delawares’ Harvest Festival,” said John, stretching himself preparatory to beginning the homeward journey.
“Still, the art of minding your own business is often worth cultivating. It’s a pretty good idea, sometimes,” Kingdom answered with a smile, and picked up a paddle to shove the canoe off into deeper water. Just as he did so a piece of dried mud, such as would weigh an ounce or two, dropped into the little craft directly in front of him.
“Hello, here! Hello, Fishing Bird!” exclaimed John who, as he was facing the reed-lined shore, was the first to see whence the bit of dried earth came, and recognized at once an old friend from the Indian town.
“How now, Fishing Bird? We thought you were busy with the Harvest Festival that Lone-Elk planned so grandly. How come—”
Kingdom’s greeting, rapidly following John’s, was interrupted by the Indian placing a finger to his lips and shaking his head most earnestly.
“Paleface brothers listen, Paleface brothers not make any noise at all. Hear all Fishing Bird will say,” the Delaware began in a subdued undertone, keeping himself almost wholly concealed by the tall grass and reeds at the water’s edge.
“No! look other way!” he urged, speaking rapidly but low, as both the white lads turned toward him. “Maybe Lone-Elk watching. Lone-Elk says Little Paleface is a witch and must be killed. Big Buffalo is dead—found dead by Little Wolf in the bushes by the water—and now Lone-Elk says a cloud that was Little Paleface bewitched touched Big Buffalo with a tomahawk and so he died. So must Little Paleface go away—go far, heap far away. Go soon—right now! Lone-Elk come quick. Bye.”
A slight rustling of the grass was followed by silence. For a second the young white men waited, their faces turned away from the shore as the Indian had asked. When they no longer heard him, however, they quickly looked about, but only to find themselves alone. As quietly as he had come and as suddenly, had the Delaware disappeared.
Considerably perplexed and more than a little astonished, the boys looked at each other inquiringly.
“Real nice,” said John. “It appears that I’m a witch and that I touched Big Buffalo with a tomahawk and killed him! What d’ye think of that, now!”