The clear, frank voice of the ranger at once produced in the minds of the friends conflicting ideas. It seemed utterly impossible for one so young, and apparently kind-hearted, to be a traitor to his own race. He had done many kind acts for the settlers in warning them of coming danger of late. Yet, despite all this, Tumult and Town. had seen sufficient of his actions in the ferry-boat affair to raise grave doubts, at least; however, they tried to believe that it all came of the impulse and indiscretion of youth.
“Any news from the captives, Rollo?” asked Town., as he neared the ranger.
“Nothing,” the ranger responded; “of course they are in the Indian village, and the question is, how are we to get at them.”
“The only course I see is to fight our way in and release them, then fight our way out again, if we kin git ’em no other way,” said Old Tumult.
“Ten to one we would all be killed,” said Town.
“Well, we can try it,” said Rollo; “faint heart ne’er won fair lady, Town.”
Town. was a little touched by this remark, which was slightly tainted with sarcasm; however, he forced back the retort that came to his lips, and made no reply.
There was a momentary silence, during which the ranger toyed with the coiled horn at the pommel of his saddle.
Suddenly they were aroused by the sharp bark of a wolf that echoed through the valley below them.
“How human-like is that cry,” said Rollo, “and how it echoes through the valley.”