“He’s mad, or a traitor. He was there with us up the cañon, and said he could scare the reds to death. Then he got up and walked away, and soon after we discovered that he had gone toward the other side of the cañon. We followed, and you see what he has done!”
“Yes; perhaps he has got us into a hole from which there is no escape. Stand ready, men, to see what the outcome will be.”
The men were all ready for a fight or a race, as it might turn out for them.
Every eye was upon the negro, who was now too far off to recall. He was walking calmly along, straight toward the Indian camp, and they, strange to say, had not yet discovered him.
They were still broiling venison steak on the end of sticks and eating it in a way that showed their hunger by no means satiated.
Feeling secure where they were, confident that they would not be pursued that far into their country, and not knowing that their village could not be over half a day’s journey ahead of them, they were taking matters coolly, to recover from the strain they had evidently been under for some time.
Still the giant negro guide walked on, while the scouts could only stand ready for action, watch him, and wait for the finale. He appeared not in the least disturbed as he moved toward the Indian camp.
But suddenly there was heard a wild, almost unearthly cry.
It was of terror and ferocity commingled, and it was echoed by half a hundred throats, while it brought every brave to his feet.