"Aye. Also, it is an old war-axe newly polished. And struck deep into the tallest pine in Tryon. Any fool must know what all this means. Shall you speak of this to the others, John?"
"Yes," said I, "they must know at once."
I waited for Kaya to come up, laid my hand on the bridle and called back in a low voice to my men: "Boys, an Indian war-axe was left sticking in Nine-Mile Tree. Nick drew it out. The hatchet is an old one, but it is newly polished!"
"Sacré garce!" whispered Silver fiercely. "Now, grâce à dieu, shall I reckon with those dirtee trap-robbers who take my pelts like the carcajou! Ha! So is it war? A la bonheur! Let them come for my hair then! And if they get Johnny Silver's hair they may paint the Little Red Foot on the hoop, nom de dieu!"
"Get along forward, boys," said I. "Some of you keep an eye on the mountains lest they begin calling to Sir John with fire——"
"A flame on Maxon!" whispered Nick at my elbow.
I jerked my head around as though I had been shot. There it rose, a thin red streak above the blunt headland that towered over the Drowned Lands. Steadily as a candle's flame in a still room, it burned for a few moments, then was shattered into crimson jets.
Far to the North, on some invisible mountain, a faint crimson flare replied.
Nobody spoke, but I knew that every eye was fixed on those Indian signal-fires as we moved rapidly forward into the swale country where swampy willows spread away on either hand and little pools of water caught the starlight.
The road, too, had become wet, and water stood in the ruts; and every few minutes we crossed corduroy.