“From the stone-walled fort,” was the quick reply.
The young Peoria could speak good English.
“Did you see my father?”
“No; the white trader’s shadow fell not across Swamp Oak’s trail. He made many a leaf bleed, Lone Dove.”
A faint smile wreathed the boy’s lips as he spoke the last sentence.
“You’ve been tracked, then?” said Kate Blount.
“The Ojibwa wolves were on the Peoria’s trail,” answered the youth; “but he proved too swift for them, and in the great forest they lost him.”
“Then the hatchet has been unearthed?”
“Yes, yes,” cried the Indian. “Between Cahokia and the stone-walled fort the enemies of the Illinois outnumber the leaves of the trees. The Ojibwa has sunk his boat, and now seeks red and white scalps: the—”
“Not white scalps, Swamp Oak?”