There was no further use trying to restrain Sandy. He saw that the coast below was clear, and felt that no Indian would dare profane the sacred meeting-place after the medicine men had thus consecrated it anew.
Nor did Blue Jacket attempt to stop him. They certainly could not remain where they were; and, since the Seneca village could not be a great distance off, it might be well for them to try to find it.
As Bob knew, it was the intention of their dusky friend to enter, when they had discovered the wigwams of the tribe to which the abductor of little Kate belonged. He could play the part of a messenger from the south, sent to learn more about the plans of Pontiac, so that the ever hostile Shawanees might be able to work in common with the rest of the tribes.
Once within the borders of the big village it would be easy for Blue Jacket to discover whether Black Beaver had returned, and, if so, what manner of prisoner he had brought with him.
After that they could lay their heads together, to fashion a plan by means of which the girl might be spirited away.
Once on the ground Sandy began to stretch himself vigorously. Nearly two hours of confinement, without being allowed to move much of the time, had apparently tied his young muscles in knots, so that they actually pained him.
"I'm glad to be able to put up my hands again, I tell you," Sandy remarked, as he thus stretched his limbs, and drew in huge breaths, as though he had not been allowed to use his lungs properly for fear lest he thus betray their place of concealment to the watchful enemy below.
Bob was himself feeling much better since allowed to leave that hard perch in the thickest part of the giant oak. He would have so expressed himself, no doubt, only that he was given no opportunity. Even as he opened his mouth to reply to his brother, a gruff voice broke in upon them from the rear, saying:
"Zat is ver' goot, begar! Suppose, then, young monsieur continue to elevate ze hands, and so it vill not tempt me to shoot. If so be I must press zis trigger of ze gun, poof! it vill be ovaire so quick wif you all. Stand still, or ze consequences be on your own heads!"
Bob felt a cold chill as he listened to these scoffing words. He recognized the voice as belonging to Armand Lacroix, the French trapper who had given him such a look of hatred at the time there was a dispute between them as to whom the game belonged, and which was settled in favor of the young pioneer.