“I don’t see any here,” replied the young borderer. “They may have come another way.” Upon his hands and knees, taking advantage of the tall grass, fallen trees and hummocks of earth, he made his way to the right of their own trail. “Keep as close to the ground as you can,” he warned Frank, who followed him. “We don’t know who they are, and as they are almost sure to be on the watch, we don’t want to be seen until we know they’re friends.”
About two score yards from their original stopping place he paused.
“Injuns!” said he.
Frank looked at the signs; there were the hoof tracks of a dozen or more horses; and the broad drag of the poles in the midst of these was unmistakable.
“I suppose none but the redskins drag their camp stuff on poles at their horses’ heels that way, eh?” asked he.
“No,” replied Jack Davis. “But there are other signs, too. If you’ll notice, they rode in single file; Injuns almost always do that and white men never, unless the trail is narrow. And look where one of the redskins dismounted! See the print of his moccasin in the dust? Only Injuns have feet shaped like that.”
They made their way, in the same cautious fashion, back to the place where the young Cherokee guarded the horses.
“They’re Injuns,” said Jack.
Running Elk nodded; he did not seem at all surprised.
“Red Sticks,” spoke he. And then: “How many?”