"Perhaps it may mean more delay for us, Sandy," he had said.
"You make me groan when you say that, Bob," the other had replied.
"Our only hope," Bob pursued, firmly, "must be to make a successful flight when we have swooped down on the wigwam of Black Beaver, and snatched our sister from the possession of the Iroquois. And, while the forest is fairly alive with enemies, what chance would we have for getting clear?"
"Yes, I know you must be right, Bob, just as you always are," Sandy muttered. "But how can we ever stand it?"
"Hist! Blue Jacket is holding up a warning finger again. He must smell more of the Indians coming somewhere. Lie down, Sandy, and don't even whisper till he gives the word."
Long before now Sandy had declared that it was his positive belief that their dusky guide must be able to scent the presence of Indians, because he always gave them warning so far in advance of the actual appearance of the prowlers; but Bob knew that it was from his wonderful sense of hearing that Blue Jacket thus forestalled the appearance of the Indians on their dog-trot journey; that he could catch the faintest sound, just as the long-eared rabbit might, or the timid mink that they sought to trap for his valuable pelt.
Once more they were moving now, and it seemed to Bob that Blue Jacket must have some definite object ahead, for otherwise he certainly would not persist in pushing onward after the shades of night had fallen.
Presently he came to a stop. They were under a mighty oak tree, one of the widest spreading Bob had ever set eyes on. He saw Blue Jacket looking upward eagerly, as though interested in those great gnarled limbs that seemed to shut out the very stars of the heavens.
"Climb far up, Bob, Sandy," breathed the voice of the red guide, as he himself started to set the example.