Toma seemed as surprised as Dick at the discovery.
“Um war party,” Toma replied immediately. “No good Injun if um fight White Father.”
“How can you tell they’re a war party?” inquired Dick.
“No squaws, no papooses,” replied Toma abruptly.
As Toma had said there were no women or children to be seen in the camp. And at different points along the fringe of trees around the clearing, Dick made out dusky sentinels, armed with long rifles, with feathers in their beaver bonnets.
“The tracks lead down into the village, so Sandy must be there somewhere,” Dick mused aloud.
The larger portion of the party of Indians who had thrown up their caribou hide tepees in the valley, seemed to be absent. Here and there a warrior squatted before a cooking fire, his rifle leaning close beside him.
“Look!” Dick suddenly pointed.
A white man had come out of one of the tepees and was walking slowly toward the creek.
“I see um,” said Toma. “Guess him one Govereau’s men. Huh? Him Henderson got plenty bad Indian work for him.”