CHAPTER VIII. A LETTER FOR OUENWA
Two headlands were rounded before the valley of the river opened again to the eyes of the adventurers. The brown water of the stream stole down and merged into the dancing, wind-bitten sea. The gradual hillsides, green-swarded, basked in the golden light. The lower levels of the valley were already in shadow. No sign of man, or of his habitation, was disclosed to the voyagers.
"A fair spot," remarked Kingswell. "I feel a desire stirring within me to stretch my legs on that grassy bank. What do you say to the idea, Tom?"
The old fellow grinned. "'Twould be pleasant, sir, an' no mistake," he replied—"a little walk along the brook, with our hands not very far from our hangers. Ay, sir, Tom Bent's for a spell o' nater worship."
The boat ran in, and was beached on the sand well within the mouth of the river. Harding and Clotworthy, with loaded muskets, were left on guard, and the other three, fully armed, started along the bank of the stream. They advanced cautiously, with a sharp lookout on every clump of bushes and every spur of rock. A kingfisher dropped from its perch above the water and flew up-stream with shrill clamour. They turned a bend of the little river and halted short in their track with muttered exclamations. Before them, on a level meadow between the brown waters of the stream and the dark green wall of the forest, stood half a dozen wigwams. The place seemed deserted. They scanned the dark edge of the wood and the brown hills behind. They peered everywhere, expecting to catch the glint of hostile eyes at every turn. But neither grove nor hill, nor silent lodge, disclosed any sign of life.
"Where the devil are they?" exclaimed Kingswell, thoroughly perplexed.
Ouenwa smiled, and swept his hand in a half-circle.
"Watch us," he remarked, nodding his head. "Yes, watch us."
"He means they are lying around looking at us," said Kingswell to the boatswain. "Rip me, but I don't relish the chance of one of those stone-tipped arrows in my vitals."