They were also moccasin tracks! More than that, they seemed to mingle with the smaller ones made by Sandy. Bob bent closer, his heart seeming to leap into his throat as a dreadful fear clutched him.
One thing he noted that gave him this new chill—every one of the new footprints toed in! He knew what this signified. White men seldom tread that way, but it is the universal custom of Indians to walk after the fashion called "pigeon-toe" as nature undoubtedly intended should be done.
Then Indians had been here,—after the fire, too; and poor Sandy must have fallen into their hands!
CHAPTER XIX
CAPTURED BY THE SHAWANEES
"Glory! but that was a hot time!"
Sandy thrust his head out of the hollow tree as he gasped these words. The fire had swept past as he crouched there, trying to hold his breath, and wondering if it would reach into the aperture and seize hold of his garments.
And now it was gone. He could hardly believe the truth, and that he had really escaped without any injury. Down the wind he could see the angry glow that marked the fire line. Here and there little blazes still remained, where a winrow of the dead leaves had offered fat pickings for the flames. And smoke curled up everywhere, sickening smoke that made the eyes smart.
"But what of Bob?"