“I believe it is none other than our old enemy, François Lascelles!” Dick said in the ear of his cousin; a bit of information that must have given poor Roger a strange thrill, for he could not have imagined any more discouraging news.
“Oh! what if he runs across us here?”
“We would have to fight for our lives, I fear. That man hates all our family about as bitterly as I’ve heard my father say another Frenchman named Jacques Larue once did.”
“But see how many there are of the Indians; a full dozen or more. They look as fierce as any braves I ever saw. I hope they pass by, and fail to notice us.”
“Keep still, Roger, they are getting too close now for us to talk, even in whispers. Be ready for the worst, even while hoping for the best. That is the Armstrong motto, you know. ’Sh!”
Roger fixed himself so that he could see everything that went on without making the slightest movement. He knew those keen eyes of the red sons of the forest were quick to detect a suspicious movement, no matter how slight, and that, if he so much as lifted his hand, discovery would follow.
The Indians were coming forward in a string, or what the trappers of that day called “Indian file,” one stepping in the footprints of the brave ahead of him. In this fashion it would be difficult for any enemy on finding their trail to know whether three or twenty had passed. It was a piece of Indian cunning, and a part of their nature, since it could hardly have been undertaken for any particular reason at this time.
They were heading directly toward the copse, but, since it would offer a bar to their progress, they might turn aside when it was reached.
The boys almost held their breath as they watched the approach of those fierce-looking Blackfeet. Up to then the brave who was held a prisoner in the Mandan village had been the only member of this noted tribe they had seen at close quarters. ([Note 7].)
They were all picked men, if one could judge from their appearance; they were lithe, active as cats, alert, and at the same time muscular. Those swelling bronzed arms could doubtless paddle a dugout or a skin canoe at tremendous speed. Among them there must be braves who had won an enviable reputation for speed at foot races; or, it might be, renown as long distance runners, capable of keeping on the trail at a dog-trot for days and nights at a time.