An Indian stood there—an ancient savage, clad in skins upon which were painted queer symbols. Strings of amulets, bears’ claws and the teeth of foxes and wolves hung about him; his face was lined with the deep wrinkles of great age, his eyes were small, black, and glittered coldly like those of a snake.
“What, Gray Lizard!” said Boone, in surprise. “Are you here?”
The old Indian advanced a step or two, supporting himself by a long staff. Keenly the serpent eyes gazed at the three whites.
“Death will meet the paleface,” said he. “He will never build his lodge in the country beyond the mountains. Let him once pass the great gap, and he is no more.”
Boone laughed.
“I’ve been through the gap, Gray Lizard,” he said, good-naturedly; “and so have other white men. And we still live.”
The cold eyes fixed themselves upon the resolute face; one skinny finger was lifted until it pointed at Boone’s breast.
“You have,” said Gray Lizard. “You have, and you are marked. Let your rifle once more break the silence of the hills or ring over the waters of the red man’s rivers, and your death song is sung.”
Then he turned to Colonel Henderson, and continued:
“And you, white chief, take care! The Gray Lizard has known these many moons of what you mean to do, and now he warns you. If you love your friends, do not send them beyond the Laurel Ridge. For in the wilderness their fate awaits them at the hands of the Shawnees.”