“A man was here,” said Natchez. “I think he look for you.”
“A man, looking for me!” Tom was startled, and darted a quick look all about. “You must be mistaken.”
Natchez shook his head.
“No,” said he positively; “he look for you. He come here once, twice, three times. And every time he look for you.”
Tom sat down upon the bench and looked at the old man. There was no one, save his own party, who knew that he was at the Indian’s Head—but, stay; perhaps Marion desired to convey some word to him, and suspecting that he would halt at the inn, had sent a rider after him. However, this could soon be ascertained.
“Did the man have the signal?” asked he.
“No,” answered Natchez, “no signal.”
That put the question at rest; the man was not from Marion.
“What sort of a man was he?” asked he, at length.
“Old man—gray hair—one eye—wooden leg.”