Both the white boys laughed at this unhesitating declaration; their nags loped easily forward over the velvet-like sward toward the creek; they were intent only upon camp, a good supper and a comfortable rest after the long ride through the wilderness. Suddenly Running Elk reined in his sorrel horse so sharply as to throw it back upon its haunches. With a gesture of warning he threw up one hand.
“Stop!” said he.
The white boys scarcely needed the spoken warning; they had noted the young brave’s sudden stop; and their own was almost as short. They were at the top of a hill.
“What is it?” asked Frank, surprised.
But Jack Davis had no need to ask; his sharp eyes, as accustomed as an Indian’s to the signs of the forest, swept the growth of trees ahead, and at once saw the cause of Running Elk’s action.
“Look there,” said he, pointing.
Frank followed the direction of the indicating finger; from above the softly waving tops of the trees curled a slim column of smoke.
“Hello!” said he. “Some one else has camped there.”
All three drew back into the cover of a clump of beech; Jack dismounted and began to examine the ground. And as he worked over it, going from place to place like a keen-scented hound, Frank joined him.
“Any tracks?” he inquired with interest.