“It may be. O’Neill is a fidgety fellow, they say, and if he gets spiteful at Splitlog, why he’ll withdraw his support. Why they didn’t attack us last night when they could have won, may ever remain a mystery. But silence now—we’ve reached the hill.”
For some minutes the twain crouched at the foot of the acclivity and listened, but heard nothing. Where was the foe? Wolf-Cap was puzzled, and threw one of his queer enigmatical looks into Harmon’s face.
“Bless me! if I don’t b’lieve they’ve vamosed,” he whispered, and then, bidding his comrade retain his position, he proceeded to extend the reconnoissance to the top of the hill.
Ten minutes later he returned.
“Good news for the fort, boy!” he said, in tones of undisguised joy. “The varmints hev vamosed the diggin’s.”
“What! they haven’t retreated with victory in their grasp?” exclaimed the youth.
“They’re gone, anyhow. The red dogs marched around the hills to the river, and the Indians took a south-easterly trail. This tells the story of a family quarrel. O’Neill has got his back up about suthin’ and so he cut loose from Splitlog.”
“But why didn’t the Indian remain and attack?”
“He wanted to show his choler, too. He wouldn’t stay for spite, but we’ll hear from him in the Muskingum valley afore long.”
“Then let’s go back and tell the good news,” said Mark Harmon, eagerly. “Then we hunt for Huldah.”