A dark night was chosen for the attempt, and the Indian woman went off with the horses to the place where firewood for the camp was usually cut. Unfortunately the suspicion of that wily savage Mahtawa had been awakened, and he stuck close to the hunters all day—not knowing what was going on, but feeling convinced that something was brewing which he resolved to watch, without mentioning his suspicions to any one.
“I think that villain’s away at last,” whispered Joe to his comrades; “it’s time to go, lads, the moon won’t be up for an hour. Come along.”
“Have ye got the big powder-horn, Joe?”
“Ay, ay, all right.”
“Stop! stop! my knife, my couteau. Ah! here it be. Now, boy.”
The three set off as usual, strolling carelessly to the outskirts of the camp; then they quickened their pace, and, gaining the lake, pushed off in a small canoe.
At the same moment Mahtawa stepped from the bushes, leaped into another canoe and followed them.
“Hah! he must die,” muttered Henri.
“Not at all,” said Joe, “we’ll manage him without that.”
The chief landed and strode boldly up to them, for he knew well that whatever their purpose might be, they would not venture to use their rifles within sound of the camp at that hour of the night; as for their knives, he could trust to his own active limbs and the woods to escape and give the alarm if need be.