The old Indian servant who had attended to the horses had observed nothing, and he was greatly surprised when he was informed that the guide was missing.
"I will look for him," he said.
"No, you quickly pack the horses and get things in readiness, while
Agnes and I will look for the guide. Matthew, you saddle the horses."
"Come, sister," Fred said, "let us investigate this mystery. Perhaps the guide has only gone after a rabbit, wishing to prepare us a dainty surprise for breakfast."
But Agnes shook her head. "It is not a Mohican arrow, but a Pequot one," she said. "It was driven into the tree by a warbow. See, how deeply it entered the tree! And how strong the flint is and how well preserved, in spite of its being driven into the hard wood. That arrow was sent to kill a man."
"We must not paint the devil on the wall," Fred said cheerfully; but suddenly he became pale, for at his feet the grass was crushed down, and two forms were lying on the ground covered with blood.
One was that of the guide, whose hand gripped the throat of his foe, a large and burly Pequot Indian.
The Pequot was dead, choked by the steel clasp of his enemy's hand. All around, the grass was trodden down, and the ground showed what a fierce struggle had been carried on in silence, while the rest slept in peace.
Suddenly Agnes bent over the form of the Mohican and pointed to a knife which his opponent had thrust into his back, to the heft.
"Ah," exclaimed Fred; "brave and good guide! I understand it all now. First the enemy shot the arrow and missed you, and then when you moved he fell on you from behind, and struck you with the knife. You, as a hero, without saying a word, rose and seized him by the throat, until he was dead. Brave Mohican!"