“Will our Bethuck brother tell us more news?”
“There is no more,” he answered, “Strongbow is now an empty vessel.”
“Considering that Strongbow has just filled himself with venison, he can hardly call himself an empty vessel,” responded the hunter, with intense gravity.
Strongbow turned his head quickly and gazed at the speaker. His solemnity deepened. Could his white brother be jesting? The white brother’s gravity forbade the idea. In order to convey more strongly the fact that he had no news to give the Indian touched his forehead—“Strongbow is empty here.”
“That may well be,” remarked Hendrick quietly.
Again the Indian glared. Solemnity is but a feeble word after all! He said nothing, but was evidently puzzled.
“Has our Bethuck brother seen no enemies from the setting sun? Is all quiet and peaceful among his friends?” asked the hunter.
“All is peaceful—all is quiet. But we have news of a war party that left us many days past. They had gone, about the time that the deer begin to move, to punish some white men who were cast on shore by the sea where the sun rises.”
“What say you?” cried Hendrick, starting. “Have the Red warriors been successful?”
“They have. Some of the white men have been killed, others caught and taken to our wigwams to be made slaves or to die.”