“And where was she?”
“She was on the bank of the creek, where the muskrats dwell.”
Somerville looked at Nehonesto.
“The red hag is going to work us trouble,” he said. “She will not leave this country without the scalps of all whom she hates. She hunts the Bloodhound now.”
“And she hates Nehonesto as the Indian hates the copperhead,” grated the Ojibwa between his set teeth.
“She may even now be near!”
“Nehonesto saw her not when he approached,” replied the long-haired chief, “and Nehonesto’s eyes are as sharp as the eagle’s.”
Thus, with dark forebodings to keep him continually alive to their presence, Bob Somerville walked on, venturing no more to question Nogawa, who seemed to be reconciled to his fate.
At length they reached the beginning of the high banks, but instead of ascending, Nogawa stepped into the water and waded on up the stream, carefully noting every thing around him. At the water’s edge a thick growth of willows thrived, and bending, kissed the ripples in the center of the stream. Their well-leaved branches prevented the sharpest eye from beholding the stalks, and when the forced guide paused before the king of the weepers, Nehonesto griped his arm more tightly, and in a whisper bade him proceed.
“The Bloodhound’s cave is here,” replied Nogawa, and he looked up to see that no heads were peering over the cliff.