“Why, Dick,” said he, “I’m thinking that though we seem to have a good supply of food, it won’t last two hungry fellows all the winter, even if we were to put ourselves on half allowance. Now my arms will soon be well, and if I could make my way to one of the forts, I might bring you assistance. I’ll take a supply of powder and shot, and keep my eyes open to look out for the red-skins. What do you say to it?”
I told him that I did not like the idea of his running so great a risk for my sake.
“Oh, don’t fear for me,” he replied; “it’s right that it should be done, I’m certain of that, so I’ll do it.”
I said nothing more. I knew when Obed thus expressed himself, he was in earnest. Several more days rolled slowly by. We slept a good deal in the daytime; perhaps under our circumstances it was the best thing we could do. One afternoon I had been asleep some time, and Obed was snoring away on the other side of the tent, when I opened my eyes, and then I saw, glaring at me through the doorway of the tent, the hideous countenance of a red-skin warrior, horribly covered with paint and decked with coloured feathers. While with his left hand he lifted up the curtain, in his right he grasped his tomahawk, which quivered with his eagerness to take possession of our scalps.
Chapter Three.
The red-skin proves to be a friend—He and Obed leave me alone in my glory—I fortify myself for the winter—Visited by wolves—A terrific storm—The wolves my nightly visitors—I kill some and eat then, but find them o’er teuch—An object moving in the distance—Red-skins and enemies—I prepare for their reception—I kill one of them—A fearful struggle—I endeavour to obliterate the signs of this visit—My terrible solitude—More wolves and more Indians—I prepare a banquet for them—The suspicions of my guests aroused—The unpleasant termination to our feast.
Obed and I were not easily taken by surprise. Our hands instinctively clutched our rifles, and in a moment the breast of the Indian was covered by their muzzles. The eye of the red-skin did not quail—not a limb trembled. He gazed on us calmly, and his hand continued to hold aside the skin which formed the door of our tent, while he spoke a few words in a low, quiet voice. I did not understand them, but Obed did.
“Don’t fire, Dick,” said Obed; “he is a Delaware, a friend to the white men. Come in, friend Delaware, take your seat by our fire, and tell us what has brought you here,” continued Obed, addressing the Indian.