“Here!” said Nehonesto, exhibiting some astonishment, and parting the bushes, he could discover nothing that indicated the presence of a hidden home.
The young Ojibwa did not reply, but stepped forward, and a moment later the trio had vanished.
They found themselves in a gloomy passage, whose walls and ceiling they could touch with head and hands.
Nogawa led the way, unfettered now by his clansman’s hand, and Bob Somerville brought up the rear, with cocked rifle and ready knife.
“Who guards the Lone Dove when the Bloodhound has left his kennel?” whispered Nehonesto.
“The Big Moccasin,” was the captive’s reply, and a second later he continued: “He and Nogawa know the Lone Dove’s hiding-place. The Bloodhound would not tell his other braves.”
On, on they went in silence, until young Somerville touched Nehonesto’s arm.
“There’s feet behind us,” he whispered.
They listened.
“No,” said the Ojibwa, at length, and the march beneath the wood was resumed.