The savage Brandt indicated was a big Indian just coming into manhood. His swarthy face still retained some of the frankness and simplicity of youth.
"Chief," said Legget in the Indian tongue. "The great paleface hunter,
Deathwind, lies hid in the woods."
"Last night the Shawnee heard the wind of death mourn through the trees," replied the chief gloomily.
"See! What did I say?" cried Brandt. "The superstitious fool! He would begin his death-chant almost without a fight. We can't count on the redskins. What's to be done?"
The outlaw threw himself upon the bed of boughs, and Legget sat down with his rifle across his knees. The Indians maintained the same stoical composure. The moments dragged by into hours.
"Ugh!" suddenly exclaimed the Indian at the end of the hut.
Legget ran to him, and acting upon a motion of the Indian's hand, looked out through the little port-hole.
The sun was high. He saw four of the horses grazing by the brook; then gazed scrutinizingly from the steep waterfall, along the green-stained cliff to the dark narrow cleft in the rocks. Here was the only outlet from the inclosure. He failed to discover anything unusual.
The Indian grunted again, and pointed upward.
"Smoke! There's smoke risin' above the trees," cried Legget. "Brandt, come here. What's thet mean?"