In a few minutes Maqua had crossed, and glided in a stealthy, stooping position towards the camp, seeming more like a moving shadow than a real man. When pretty close he went down on hands and knees and crept forward, with his scalping-knife between his teeth.
It would have been an interesting study to watch the savage, had his object been a good one—the patience; the slow, gliding movements; the careful avoidance of growing branches, and the gentle removal of dead ones from his path, for well did Maqua know that a snapping twig would betray him if the camp contained any of the Indian warriors of the Far West.
At last he drew so near that by stretching his neck he could see over the intervening shrubs and observe the sleepers. Just then Drake chanced to waken. Perhaps it was a presentiment of danger that roused him, for the Indian had, up to that moment, made not the slightest sound. Sitting up and rubbing his eyes, the trapper looked cautiously round; then he lay down and turned over on his other side to continue his slumbers.
Like the tree-stems around him, Maqua remained absolutely motionless until he thought the trapper was again sleeping. Then he retired, as he had come, to his anxiously-awaiting comrade.
“Bevan not there,” he said briefly, when they had retired to a safe distance; “only Mahoghany Drake an’ two boy.”
“Well, why didn’t ye scalp them!” asked Stalker, savagely, for he was greatly disappointed to find that his enemy was not in the camp. “You said that all white men were your enemies.”
“No, not all,” replied the savage. “Drake have the blood of white mans, but the heart of red mans. He have be good to Injins.”
“Well, well; it makes no odds to me,” returned Stalker, “Come along, an’ walk before me, for I won’t trust ye behind. As for slippery Paul, I’ll find him yet; you shall see. When a man fails in one attempt, all he’s got to do is to make another. Now then, redskin, move on!”