“Simon Halpen is my enemy. If you have an enemy what do you do?” returned Enoch, with some emotion.
The Indian nodded. “Hawknose, Jonas Harding’s enemy. No deer kill Jonas Harding. Hawknose yonder then,” and he waved his hand toward the deer-lick at which the dead settler had been found three years before.
“How does Crow Wing know that?” queried the white boy, eagerly.
“Crow Wing there, too.”
“You saw him—” began Enoch, but the Indian cut him short with an emphatic “Umph! No see. Hear shot. Shot kill doe. Jonas Harding kill doe. Gun empty.”
“Yes, we found the gun and the dead doe. And there were marks of a big buck all about the place and father–was dead.”
“Hawknose there,” said the Indian, gravely. “Crow Wing see him–running. Pass him–so,” with a gesture which led Enoch to believe that the running Halpen had crossed the Indian’s path within a few feet. “He no see Crow Wing. He run fast–look back over shoulder. And blood–blood on shirt–blood on hands–blood on gun! Go wash ’em in river. Then run more.”
“You saw him running away from the lick?” gasped Enoch. “But there were no footprints but father’s near the place. Only the hoof prints of the big buck.”
“Umph! Crow Wing no see big deer; no hear ’um. But see Hawknose run,” said the Indian significantly.
“But I can’t understand how Halpen could have killed him, Crow Wing. He did not shoot him, and if he had been near enough to strike father down, why did his moccasins leave no mark?”