“At the three hills, near Windsor.”
“It is a good place. You must be satisfied with one of my horses.”
“It will do. Let us go in.”
CHAPTER VII.
AN OLD FOX AND A YOUNG ONE.
Carl Anselm rode swiftly up the fertile valley, making the most of the Narragansett pony. He kept well to the west, away from the post at Windsor, fearing that, if he met any of Holmes’ men, they might ask awkward questions. The Nipmuck country proper was further north than Windsor; but one of their villages, not a stationary one, stood not far away. This was the village of Wampset, a sort of Indian bandit, who lived like the gipsys, pitching his wigwams where he chose. He had fully one hundred men in his village, the bravest and most restless spirits of his nation. The Pequods, the Romans of New England, knew and hated Wampset. Many a plan had been laid to surprise his village; but they had always failed. The party which came, if stronger than Wampset, found only warm ashes in the ruined lodges; but the Nipmucks had flown. Wampset claimed no particular hunting-ground, but roamed from the most western border of the Pequod country to the Connecticut, a river he never crossed.
The young German had heard of the whereabouts of Wampset, from a man of the Nipmuck nation who had come into Good Hope a few days before. As he approached the village, he took careful note of every thicket near which he passed. All at once, the woods seemed alive with signals, and stealthy footsteps could be heard. Carl knew he was hemmed in, and was not surprised when an Indian of commanding presence stood in the path and ordered him to pause. Carl had been skilled in Indian dialect.
“What would the white man here? He is far from the strong house of his people.”
Carl took off the belt and held it up before the eyes of the man. He started a little, and then assumed a calm attitude: