“Were the men many in number?”
“Wingenund cannot surely say; the trail was old and beaten; buffalo had passed on it; of fresh marks he could not see many; more than four, not so many as ten.”
“Let my brother point with his finger to the line of the trail.”
The youth slowly turned, cast his eye upward at the sun, thence at the rocks overhanging the valley to the northward, and then pointed steadily in a north–easterly direction.
War–Eagle, well assured that his own observation had been correct, and that he had followed a trail leading towards the north–west, thus continued: “There are many nations and bands of Indians here; a false light may have shone on the path. How does my young brother know that the feet of the Washashee had trodden it?”
There was a natural dignity, without the slightest touch of vanity, in the manner of the youth, as he replied: “The Great Spirit has given eyes to Wingenund, and he has learnt from War–Eagle to know the mocassin of a Washashee from that of a Dahcotah, a Pawnee, a Shawano, or a Maha.”
After musing a moment, War–Eagle continued, “Did my brother find the foot of Olitipa and the Comanche girl on the path?”
“He could not find the mark of their feet, yet he believes they are on the path,” was the unhesitating reply.
Reginald and Ethelston looked at the speaker with undisguised astonishment; and War–Eagle, although he could not believe but what the latter was mistaken, continued thus to question him: “My brother’s speech is dark; if he could find no trail of the women, why does he think that they are on the path? Have the Washashee carried them?”
“Not so,” replied Wingenund. “Twice the trail crossed a soft bank of sand, where water runs from the mountains in winter: there were the marks of two who had passed lately, their feet large as those of the warriors, the tread light as that of a woman or young boy.”