“I knew it was that red-skin,” and with the last word the trapper’s cap appeared above the grass. “Howsomever it is best to be cautious—there!”
A slight noise told that the cap had been struck by some object, and the hunter lowered it to find it perforated by an arrow of singular workmanship.
Then, placing the cap on his head without withdrawing the shaft, he rose to his feet simultaneously with the appearance of a tufted Indian beyond the murky water.
A minute later and the twain had met.
“Silver Hand, you haven’t visited a fellow much o’ late,” said Wolf-Cap, looking into the black eyes of the prepossessing young Wyandot. “I wasn’t looking for you hereabouts; but you’re the very chap I wanted to see.”
“Silver Hand glad to see Wolf-Cap, too,” said the Indian. “He much to tell white brother ’bout the big white coward in the north.”
“I don’t want to talk about Hull, chief,” said the trapper. “I swear away down in my heart when I think of his cowardice. But we have work to do. The frontiers swarm with fiends now, and I go to guide a family to Strong’s fort. Of course you’re going with me, Silver Hand; we’ll talk as we walk.”
The trapper started forward with a look at the Indian but the red arm darted forward and touched his arm.
“Wolf-Cap need go no further—house empty,” said Silver Hand.
“Whose house?” and a deathly pallor overspread the settler’s face, and told how he dreaded to hear the Wyandot’s answer.