“My young men are about to start upon a hunt,” said he. “It were well if the white brothers went with them.”
The hunting party was already making ready; and in half an hour or so it filed out of the camp and along a buffalo track which led toward the west. The two white men trudged along the track, Boone whistling a snatch of an old English air, Stuart morose and heavy of brow.
Finally the latter spoke.
“Why are we taken out with a hunting party and provided with no weapons? It hasn’t a reasonable look!”
Boone stopped his whistling.
“The whole idea of this party is just a little game of the redskins. It’s not their purpose to hunt,” said he.
“Not their purpose to hunt?” echoed the other.
Boone nodded.
“Just keep your eye peeled,” spoke he. “Do you see how the varmints go along—careless and never noticing us? Never a look do they give us, so far as I can see. But,” and he covertly clutched his companion’s arm in his strong grip, “they’re noticing us, never fear. They see everything we do, every look we give away from the track we’re following. This is not a hunt, comrade; it’s a test of our intentions. They are trying us. And the trial will go on in different ways for days. Some one will always be watching us; to try and escape will mean death for us.”
“A pleasant outlook,” said Stuart, gloomily.