“This beats me,” said Wolf-Cap, who dropped on his knees beside the dead frontiersman. “I can’t see through it all. Here lies the man we’ve been chasing, an’ thar’s a British bullet in his brain. Now the question is: who shot ’im? It war no Indian, for the red-skins don’t take to muskets; they shoot rifles, and I’m sure that Funk isn’t in these parts. He shoots a rifle with the smallest bore you ever saw. What have you discovered, chief?”
The Indian addressed was approaching, with the glow of discovery on his face.
“White man shoot traitor and run off with girl.”
Wolf-Cap rose to his feet.
“A white man, you say, chief?”
“Yes, pale-face.”
“Show me the signs!”
Silver-Hand strode forward, and pointed to a faint trail, leading in a north-easterly direction. Wolf-Cap examined the “sign” a minute, and then looked up into his companion’s eyes.
“Well, he’s got the girl ag’in,” he said.
“He—who?” cried Harmon.