Even Sandy understood something of his danger. Perhaps it had to do with his impatience to get away from the village, with its clamor and its strange inhabitants.
He remembered the skinny old crone who had wanted to adopt him as her own son. She meant it all in kindness, perhaps, but the very thought made poor Sandy shiver.
"But look here, Blue Jacket, what about Bob?" he said, presently, after he had turned away from peeping out at the exit of the lodge.
"Bob wait," replied the Indian with his customary taciturnity.
"Yes, but when time passes, and I fail to come, he may get impatient and do something that will get him into trouble?"
At this the young Indian shrugged his shoulders. Perhaps he had caught the manner from the French traders, oily men who often visited the Shawanees in their villages to barter poor guns and powder for their valuable pelts.
"Bob no Sandy!" was his only comment; and it struck home, too, for the one who heard gave a little chuckle, as he hastened to reply:
"You are right about that, Blue Jacket; and perhaps it's just as well that he is not. One hothead in the family is quite enough. But you think, then, Bob will bide his time patiently, and wait to hear from you?"
"Him say," answered the other, calmly.