"Falls below," said Tayoga, as they drew the canoe upon the land. "All the river drops over a cliff. Much white water."
They carried the canoe without difficulty through the woods, and when they came to the falls they stopped a little while to look at the descent, and listen to the roar of the tumbling water.
"I was here once before, three years ago," said Willet.
"Others have been here much later," said the Onondaga.
"What do you mean, Tayoga?"
"My white brother is not looking. Let him turn his eyes to the left. He will see two wild flowers broken off at the stem, a feather which has not fallen from the plumage of a bird, because the quill is painted, and two traces of footsteps in the earth."
"As surely as the sun shines, you're right, Tayoga! Warriors have passed here, though we can't tell how many! But the traces are not more'n a half day old."
He picked up the feather and examined it carefully.
"That fell from a warrior's scalplock," he said, "but we don't know to what tribe the warrior belonged."
"But it's likely to be a hostile trail," said Robert.