“Oh, I guess the last people that lived here left it!” returned Henry. “I say, Phil, I begin to feel tired. Suppose we lie down? I’m glad I haven’t got to walk any farther.”
Philip sympathized with his new friend; and so, without much parley, the two boys threw themselves down on the blanket, and were soon fast asleep.
How long Philip slept he didn’t know, but he was awakened by a terrible screech, and, opening his eyes, say Henry sitting bolt upright, with trembling limbs and distended eyeballs, gazing fearfully at a tall, muscular-looking Indian, who had just stepped into the cabin through the open window.
CHAPTER XLII.
AN INDIAN AT LAST.
“What’s the matter?” asked Philip, rubbing his eyes, for he was hardly able—so suddenly had he been roused from sleep—to comprehend the situation.
Henry, as white as a sheet, could only point at the tall Indian, who, standing motionless, was gazing as intently at the boys.
He made one step forward, and Henry thought he was about to be killed and scalped forthwith.
“Oh, Mr. Indian Chief,” he exclaimed, in tremulous accents, “don’t kill me! I—I ain’t ready to die!”
The Indian looked amazed, and laughed gutturally, but did not speak. His laugh increased Henry’s dismay.
“I’ve got a revolver. I’ll give it to you if you won’t kill me,” continued Henry.