“They are having a great feast,” replied Henry, “and I could go about almost unnoticed. Where are the others, Sol?”
“In the cabins close by.”
“Then we'll get out of this place. Quick! Tie up your hair! In the darkness you can easily pass for an Indian.”
The shiftless one drew his hair into a scalp lock, and the two slipped from the cabin, closing the door behind them and deftly retying the thongs, in order that the discovery of the escape might occur as late as possible. Then they stood a few moments in the shadow of the hut and listened to the sounds of revelry, the monotone of the story-tellers, and the chant of the singers.
“You don't know which huts they are in, do you?” asked Henry, anxiously.
“No, I don't,” replied the shiftless one.
“Get back!” exclaimed Henry softly. “Don't you see who's passing out there?”
“Braxton Wyatt,” said Sol. “I'd like to get my hands on that scoundrel. I've had to stand a lot from him.”
“The score must wait. But first we'll provide you with weapons. See, the Iroquois have stacked some of their rifles here while they're at the feast.”
A dozen good rifles had been left leaning against a hut near by, and Henry, still watching lest he be observed, chose the best, with its ammunition, for his comrade, who, owing to his semi-civilized attire, still remained in the shadow of the other hut.