“About ten—with packhorses, and lodge poles.”
This latter statement seemed to attract the young warrior’s attention. His keen eyes went in the direction of the curling column of smoke as it was lifted above the tree tops.
“Not hunters,” said he. “Party from long way off.”
“What makes you think that, Running Elk?” asked Frank.
“Hunters no carry tepee; pack meat on horses’ backs.”
From their concealment behind the clump of beeches, the three watched the ascending smoke for some little time; then as the sun sank below the line of forest and the shadows began to gather, Jack said:
“Well, it looks as though we couldn’t venture down to the creek, at this point, anyhow; so, if we’re going to have any supper, we’d best be looking for another camping place.”
Remounting, they headed away to the west; darkness came upon them as they reached a narrow ravine. Here they built a small fire, carefully masked so as not to be observed by a chance prowler; some small game, shot during the afternoon, was roasted upon their ramrods, with flour cakes baked upon the gray coals. While they ate, Frank looked soberly at Jack.
“I suppose we’ve been very fortunate in not coming upon any roving Indian bands before now,” said he.
Jack nodded.