The Indian girl crept back to the captive’s couch and whispered:
“Clearwater shoot mad buck when he was driving his horns through Tucata.”
* * * * * * *
“Oagla throw ring somewhere here. He see big oak there, when he throw ring into medicine-bag and pulled out the yellow talker. Braves, separate now, and look sharp. Let your eyes rival the hawk’s, and do not leave an inch of ground unsearched. Oagla must find ring, or—or—” He turned abruptly, and finished the sentence in a whisper: “Or Hondurah steps upon the death-trail. Oagla will never submit to having his feathers torn from his head!”
The party of discovery had reached a portion of the forest which the captors of Silver Rifle, led, as the reader has seen, by Oagla, had traversed a few hours before. The trees stood in profusion here and to some extent lent a gloomy coloring to the ground.
Oagla had concluded that hereabouts he had tossed aside the mysterious ring, without the knowledge of Silver Rifle, never expecting that he would be compelled to hunt for it, with a disgraceful reward promised for non-success.
He had a presentiment that the ring boded him no good, for he had witnessed the fate of Hawkeye, and, to dissipate such thoughts, he had rid himself of the bauble in a summary manner.
The party reached the spot I have briefly described about high noon, and until four o’clock they scoured the ground in vain for the missing ring.
“Wait till the pale queen shines,” said Oagla, suddenly pausing. “Then the little talker will be bright, and the Chippewa can find him easily.”
So the hunt was suspended, and the savages waited for the rising of the moon, which was full and scaled the horizon quite early.