They camped the second night of their march on a little peninsula at the confluence of two creeks, with the deep woods everywhere. Henry judged that they were well within the western range of the Six Nations, and they cooked their deer meat over a smothered fire, nothing more than a few coals among the leaves. When supper was over they arranged soft places for themselves and their blankets, all except Long Jim, whose turn it was to scout among the woods for a possible foe.
“Don't be gone long, Jim,” said Henry as he composed himself in a comfortable position. “A circle of a half mile about us will do.”
“I'll not be gone more'n an hour,” said Long Jim, picking up his rifle confidently, and flitting away among the woods.
“Not likely he'll see anything,” said Shif'less Sol, “but I'd shorely like to know what White Lightning is about. He must be terrible stirred up by them beatin's he got down on the Ohio, an' they say that Mohawk, Thayendanegea is a whoppin' big chief, too. They'll shorely make a heap of trouble.”
“But both of them are far from here just now,” said Henry, “and we won't bother about either.”
He was lying on some leaves at the foot of a tree with his arm under his head and his blanket over his body. He had a remarkable capacity for dismissing trouble or apprehension, and just then he was enjoying great physical and mental peace. He looked through half closed eyes at his comrades, who also were enjoying repose, and his fancy could reproduce Long Jim in the forest, slipping from tree to tree and bush to bush, and finding no menace.
“Feels good, doesn't it, Henry?” said the shiftless one. “I like a clean, bold country like this. No more plowin' around in swamps for me.”
“Yes,” said Henry sleepily, “it's a good country.”
The hour slipped smoothly by, and Paul said:
“Time for Long Jim to be back.”