The quartette listened, and heard footsteps in the forest.
“The Illinois is full of fiends,” whispered Blount.
“And they’re coming up the creek!” groaned the haunted trader, audibly.
“Speak above a whisper again, John Williamson, an’ I’ll toss you into the red-skins’ arms,” said the giant, as he laid his hand upon the trader’s shoulder.
The sounds increased, and indicated the approach of a large body of Indians. They were advancing up the opposite side of the stream, and to our friends’ surprise halted almost directly opposite their covert.
The starlight enabled our friends to arrive at their number, and they concluded that they were advancing against a somewhat exposed village of the Peorias not many miles distant. Immediately after kindling a fire, which they did upon halting, the chiefs came together for counsel, and Oliver Blount and the two hunters watched them with anxiety and interest. They dared not move, for the least movement might reach their enemies’ ears, and, in a moment, two hundred avengers would be upon them.
Therefore, they resolved to remain where they were until the conclusion of the council, which they knew would transpire before dawn.
Wearied with his long tramp—tired of flying, no doubt, from an imaginary foe, the haunted trader dropped into a fitful slumber, while his companions watched the council.
Suddenly they were startled by a most unearthly cry.
“Avaunt! avaunt! I didn’t kill Pontiac! Hellions, away! away!”