It was indeed the discovery of the young scout, Fred Wilson, although his friends did not know it. And a most fortunate occurrence it proved to be, at least for them.
The savages were bewildered and knew not what to make of the affair. But then all seemed clear.
The strange silence of the pale-faces was now explained. They no longer wondered that no reply had come from the bush-screened log, when they had so plentifully bestowed their leaden favors upon it. They had been upon a false scent, all the time. The hated pale-faces were not there, but had given them the slip, and but for a fortunate discovery would have crept entirely away and left them in the lurch.
Much in this manner the Sioux reasoned, and then with their thrilling war-whoop, they bounded after the fleeing scout, eager for his scalp, though they believed it was the entire party instead of only one. Their own footfalls prevented them from learning their mistake, by the tramp of the fugitive.
The red-skin who had acted on the "forlorn hope" also sprung up and dashed away to join the pursuit. Others dashed by, while the concealed fugitives held their breath at this strange proceeding.
Castor turned and glided back to join his companions. He was as greatly puzzled as were the others.
"What is it, Tobe? I thought that sounded like Fred's voice," whispered Wilson.
"I didn't notice—but the last shot favored his gun mightily. Could it be him?"
"Mayn't it be a trick of theirs to get us to show ourselves?" suggested John Stevens.
"It mought—but I sca'cely think it. You see, too many o' them went. An' they're kerryin' it too fur. Lis'en—you kin hear 'em a-screechin' 'way off thar yit," and Tobe harkened intently.