Chambers Robert William
The Hidden Children
"Or a bear," said the Grey-Feather, cunningly slurring the Canienga word and swallowing the last syllable so that it might possibly have meant "Mohawk."
The Wyandotte turned good-humouredly to the Mohican, not pretending to misunderstand this subtle double entendre and play upon words.
"You, Sagamore of the Loups," he said, carrying out the metaphor, "are closer to the four-footed people than are we Wyandottes."
"That is true," said the Grey-Feather. "My elder brother, the Black-Snake, wears the two-legged hawk."
Which, again, if it was meant that way, hinted that the Hawk was an alien clan, and neither recognized nor understood by the Oneida. Also, by addressing the Wyandotte as "elder" brother, the Oneida conveyed a broad hint of blood relationship between Huron and Seneca. Yet, there need have been nothing definitely offensive in that hint, because among all the nations a certain amalgamation always took place after an international conflict.
The Wyandotte did not lose his temper, nor even, apparently, perceive how slyly he was being baited by all except myself.
"What is the opinion of the Loup, O Sagamore?" he asked lightly.
"Does my brother the Black-Snake desire to know the Sagamore's opinion concerning the cawing of yonder crows?"
The Wyandotte inclined his ugly head.
"I think," said the Mohican deliberately, "that there may be a tree-cat in their vicinity."
A dead silence followed. The Wyandotte's countenance was still smiling, but I thought the smile had stiffened and become fixed, though not a tremour moved him. Yet, what the Mohican had said—always with two meanings, and one quite natural and innocent—meant, if taken in its sinister sense, that not only might there be Senecas lying in ambush at the ford, but also emissaries from the Red Priest Amochol himself. For the forest lynx, or tree-cat, was the emblem of these people; and every Indian present knew it.
Still, also, every man there had seen crows gather around and scold a lynx lying flattened out on some arching limb.
Whether now there was any particular suspicion of this Wyandotte among the other Indians; whether it was merely their unquenchable and native distrust of any Huron whatever; whether the subtle chaff were playful or partly serious, I could not determine from their manner or expression. All spoke pleasantly and quietly, and with open or expressionless countenances. And the Wyandotte still smiled, although what was going on under that urbane mask of his I had no notion whatsoever.
I turned cautiously, and looked behind us. We were gathered in a kind of natural and moss-grown rocky pulpit, some thirty feet above the stream, and with an open view down its course to the distant riffles. Beyond them the river swung southward, walling our view with its flanking palisade of living green.
"We camp here," I said quietly. "No fire, of course. Two sentinels—the Night Hawk and the Black-Snake. The guard will be relieved every two hours. Wake me at the first change of watch."
I laid my watch on a rock where all could see it, and, opening my sack, fished out a bit of dried beef and a handful of parched corn.
Mayaro shared with me on my motioned invitation; the others fell to in their respective and characteristic manners, the Oneidas eating like gentlemen and talking together in their low and musical voices; the Wyandotte gobbling and stuffing his cheeks like a chipmunk. The Stockbridge Mole, noiseless and mum as the occult and furry animal which gave to him his name, nibbled sparingly all alone by himself, and read in his Algonquin Testament between bites.
The last level sun rays stripped with crimson gold the outer edges of the woods; the stream ran purple and fire, and the ceaseless sighing of its waters sounded soft as foliage stirring on high pines.
I said to the Mole in a low voice:
"Brother in Christ, do you find consolation and peace in your Testament when the whole land lies writhing under the talons and bloody beak of war?"
The Stockbridge warrior looked up quietly:
"I read the promise of the Prince of Peace, brother, who came to the world not bearing a sword."
"He came to fulfill, not to destroy," I said.
"So it is written, brother."
"And yet you and I, His followers, go forth armed to slay."
"To prepare a place for Him—His humble instruments—lest His hands be soiled with the justice of God's wrath. What is it that we wade in blood, so that He pass with feet unsoiled?"
"My brother has spoken."
The burning eyes of the calm fanatic were fastened on me, then they serenely reverted to the printed page on his knees; and he continued reading and nibbling at his parched and salted corn. If ever a convert broke bread with the Lord, this red disciple now sat supping in His presence, under the immemorial eaves of His leafy temple.
The Grey-Feather, who had been listening, said quietly:
"We Iroquois alone, among all Indians, have always acknowledged one Spirit. We call Him the Master of Life; you Christians call Him God. And does it truly avail anything with Tharon, O my brother Loskiel, if I wear the Turtle, or if my brother the Mole paints out the Beaver on his breast with a Christian cross?"
"So that your religion be good and you live up to it, sign and symbol avail nothing with God or with Tharon," said I.
"Men wear what they love best," said the Mole, lightly touching his cross.
"But under cross and clan ensign," said I, "lies a man's secret heart. Does the Master of Life judge any man by the colour of his skin or the paint he wears, or the clothing? Christ's friends were often beggars. Did Tharon ever ask of any man what moccasins he wore?"
The Sagamore said gravely:
"Uncas went naked to the Holder of the Heavens."
It was a wonderful speech for a Sagamore and an Algonquin, for he used the Iroquois term to designate the Holder of Heaven. The perfect courtesy of a Christian gentleman could go no further. And I thought of our trivial and petty and warring sects, and was silent and ashamed.
The Wyandotte wiped his powerful jaw with a handful of dead leaves, and looked coldly around at the little circle of men who differed with one another so profoundly in their religious beliefs.
"Is this then the hour and the place to discuss such matters, and irritate the Unseen?"
All eyes were instantly turned on the pagan; the Oneidas seemed troubled; the Sagamore serious. Only the Christian Indian remained placid and indifferent, his Testament suspended in his hand. But he also was listening.
As for me, I knew as well as did the others what the pagan and burly Wyandotte meant.
To every Indian—even to many who had been supposedly converted—air, earth, and water still remained thronged with demons. The vast and sunless wilderness was peopled with goblins and fairies. No natural phenomenon occurred except by their agency. Where the sun went after it had set, where the moon hid, the stars, the four great winds, the eight thunders—all remained mysteries to these red children of the forest. And to these mysteries demons held the keys. For no star fell, showering the night with incandescence, no comet blazed aloft, its streaming hair sweeping from zenith to horizon, no eclipse devoured sun or moon, no sunrise painted the Long House golden, no sunset stained its lodge-poles crimson, no waters ran, no winds blew, no clouds piled up quivering with lightning, no thunder rumbled, except that it was done by demons.
Fur, feather, and silver-scale also had souls, and slyly took council together when alone; the great trees talked to one another in forest depths; moonlit rocks conversed in secret; and peak whispered to peak above the flowing currents of the mist.
It was useless to dispute such matters with them, while every phenomenon of nature remained to them a mystery. For they had brains and a matchless imagination, and they were obliged to solve these things for themselves as best they knew how, each people according to its personal characteristics.
So, among the Onondagas, Oneidas, and Mohawks, evil demons were few, and good fairies many; among the Cayugas good and bad seemed fairly balanced; but among the sullen, brutal, and bestial Senecas, devils, witches, demons, and goblins were in the vast majority. And their perverted Erie priesthood, which had debauched some of their own Sachems, was a stench in the nostrils of any orthodox Sachem, and, to an ordained Sagamore, an offense and sacrilege unspeakable.
I sat looking hard at the Wyandotte, inclined to speak, yet unwilling to meddle where intervention must be useless.
His small, unwinking eyes met mine.
"There are demons," he said in a low voice.
"Demons in human form," I nodded. "Some were at Cherry Valley a year ago."
"There are witches," he said.
I shook my head: "None."
"And Giants of Stone, and Flying Heads, and the Dead Hunter, and the Lake Serpent," he persisted sullenly.
"There never were either giants or witches," I replied.
The Mole looked up from his Testament in surprise, but said nothing. Yet, by his expression I knew he was thinking of the Witch of Endor, and the Dukes of Edom, and the giants of the scriptures. But it seemed hopeless to modify his religious teachings by any self-developed theories of mine.
All I desired to do was to keep this pagan Huron from tampering with my warriors' nerves. And it required but little of the supernatural to accomplish this.
No Indian, however brave and faithful and wise in battle, however cunning and tireless and unerring on forest trail or on uncharted waters, could remain entirely undisturbed by any menace of invisible evil. For they were an impulsive race, ever curbing their impulses and blindly seeking for reason. But what appealed to their emotions and their imagination still affected them most profoundly, and hampered the slow, gradual, but steady development of a noble race emerging by its own efforts from absolute and utter ignorance.
I said quietly: "After all, the Master of Life stands sentry while the guiltless sleep!"
"Amen," said the Mole, lifting his calm eyes to the roof of leaves above.
An owl began to hoot—one of those great, fierce cat-owls of the North. Every Indian listened.
The Sagamore said pleasantly to the Wyandotte:
"It is as though he were calling the lynxes together—as Amochol the Accursed summons his Cat-People to the sacrifice."
"I know nothing of Amochol and his sacrifices," said the Wyandotte carelessly.
"Yet you Wyandottes border the Western Gate."
The Huron shrugged.
"Hear the Eared One squall," said Grey-Feather, as the great owl yelled through the darkening forest.
"One would think to hear an Erie speaking," said the Sagamore, looking steadily at the Black-Snake. But the latter seemed totally unaware of what amounted now to a persistent baiting.
"They say," continued the Sagamore, "that the Erie priesthood learned from the Nez Perces a strange and barbarous fashion."
"What fashion?" asked Grey-Feather, so innocently that I could not determine whether he was playing into the Sagamore's hands.
"The fashion of wearing the hair in a short, stiff ridge," said the Mohican. "Has the Black-Snake ever seen it worn that way?"
"Never," said the Huron. And there was neither in his voice nor on his features the slightest tremour that we could discover in the fading light of the afterglow.
I rose to put an end to this, for my own nerves were now on edge; and I directed the two sentinels to their posts, the Wyandotte and the Oneida, Tahoontowhee.
Then I lay down beside the Mohican. All the Indians had unrolled and put on their hunting shirts; I spread my light blanket and pillowed my head on my pack.
In range of my vision the Mole had dropped to his knees and was praying with clasped hands. Shamed, I arose and knelt also, to say in silence my evening prayer, so often slurred over while I lay prone, or even entirely neglected.
Then I returned to my blanket to lie awake and think of Lois, until at last I dreamed of her. But the dream was terrible, and I awoke, sweating, and found the Sagamore seated upright in the darkness beside me.
"Is it time to change the guard?" I asked, still shivering from the horror of my dream.
"You have scarce yet closed your eyes, Loskiel."
"Why are you seated upright wide awake, my brother?"
"There is evil in the wind."
"There is no wind stirring."
"A witch-wind came slyly while you slept. Did you not dream, Loskiel?" In spite of me I shivered again.
"That is foolishness," said I. "The Wyandotte's silly talk has made us wakeful. Our sentinels watch. Sleep, Mayaro."
"Have you need of sleep, Loskiel?"
"I? No. Sleep you, then, and I will sit awake if it reassures you."
The Sagamore set his mouth close to my ear:
"The Wyandotte is not posted where you placed him."
"What? How do you know?"
"I went out to see. He sits on a rock close to the water."
"Damn him," I muttered angrily. "I'll teach him–"
"No!"
The Mohican's iron grip held me in my place.
"The Night-Hawk understands. Let the Wyandotte remain unrebuked and undisturbed while I creep down to yonder ford."
"I do not intend to reconnoitre the ford until dawn," I whispered.
"Let me go, Loskiel."
"Alone?"
"Secretly and alone. The Siwanois is a magic clan. Their Sagamores see and hear where others perceive nothing. Let me go, Loskiel."
"Then I go, also."
"No."
"What of our blood-brotherhood, then?"
There was a silence; then the Mohican rose, and taking my hand in his drew me noiselessly to my feet beside him.
By sense of touch alone we lifted our rifles from our blankets, blew the powder from the pans, reprimed. Then, laying my left arm lightly on his shoulder, I followed his silent figure over the moss and down among the huge and phantom trees faintly outlined against the starlit water.
CHAPTER XII
AT THE FORD
When at length from the forest's edge we saw star-beams splintering over broken water, cutting the flat, translucent darkness of the river with necklaces of light, we halted; for this was the ford foaming there in obscurity with its silvery, mellow voice, unheeded in the wilderness, yet calling ever as that far voice called through the shadows of ages dead.
Now, from where we stood the faint line of sparkles seemed to run a little way into the darkness and vanish. But the indications were sufficient to mark the spot where we should enter the water; and, stepping with infinite precaution, we descended to the gravel. Here we stripped to the clout and laid our rifles on our moccasins, covering the pans with our hunting shirts. Then we strapped on our war-belts, loosening knife and hatchet, pulled over our feet our spare ankle-moccasins of oiled moose-hide soled with the coarse hair of the great, blundering beast himself.
I led, setting foot in the icy water, and moving out into the shadow with no more noise than a chub's swirl or a minnow's spatter-leap when a great chain-pike snaps at him.
Feeling my way over bed stones and bottom gravel with my feet, striving in vain to pierce the dense obscurity, I moved forward with infinite caution, balancing as best I might against the current. Ankle-deep, shin-deep, knee-deep we waded out. Presently the icy current chilled my thighs, rising to my waistline. But it grew no deeper.
Yet, here so swift was the current that I scarcely dared move, and was peering around to find the Sagamore, when a shape loomed up on my left. And I reached out and rested my hand on the shadowy shoulder, and stood so, swaying against the stream.
Suddenly a voice said, in the Seneca dialect:
"Is it thou, Butler?"
And every drop of blood froze in my body.
God knows how I found voice to answer "Yes," and how I found courage to let my hand remain upon my enemy's shoulder.
"It is I, Hiokatoo," said the low voice.
"Move forward," I said; and dropped my hand from his shoulder.
Somehow, although I could see nothing, all around me in the water I felt the presence of living creatures. At the same moment somebody came close to me from behind, and the Sagamore breathed his name in my ear.
I managed to retain my presence of mind, and, laying my mouth against his ear in the darkness, I whispered:
"The Seneca Hiokatoo and his warriors—all around us in the water. He mistakes me for Walter Butler, They have been reconnoitring our camp."
I felt the body of the Mohican stiffen under my grasp, Then he said quietly:
"Stand still till all have passed us."
"Yes; but let no Seneca hear your Algonquin speech. If any speak I will answer for you."
"It is well," said the Sagamore quietly. And I heard him cautiously loosening his hatchet.
Presently a dark form took shape in the gloom and passed us without speaking; then another, and another, and another, all wading forward with scarce a ripple sounding against their painted bodies. Then one came up who spoke also in Seneca dialect, saying to the Mohican that the canoe was to be sent up stream on observation, and asking the whereabouts of McDonald.
So they were all there, the bloody crew! But once more I found voice to order the Seneca across, saying that I would attend to the canoe when the time came to employ it.
This Indian seemed to understand very little English, and he hesitated; but I laid my hand flat on his naked back, and gave him a slight shove toward the farther shore. And he went on, muttering.
Two more passed. We waited in nervous silence for the next, not knowing how many had been sent to prowl around our camp. And as no more came, I whispered to the Sagamore:
"Let us go back. If more are to come, and if there be among them Butler or McDonald or any white man, he will never mistake me for any of his fellows after he hears me speak."
The Sagamore turned, the water swirling to his waist. I followed. We encountered nobody until the water began to shoal. Then, in mid-stream, a dark figure loomed out of the night, confronting us, and I heard him say in the Seneca language:
"Halt and turn. You travel the wrong way!"
"Go forward and mind your business!" I said in English.
The shadowy figure seemed astounded, remaining motionless there in the ford. Suddenly he bent forward as though to see my features, and at the same instant the Sagamore seized him and jerked his head under water.
But he could not hold him, for the fellow was oiled, and floundered up in the same instant. No doubt the water he had swallowed kept the yell safe in his throat, but his hatchet was out and high-swung as the Sagamore grasped his wrist, holding his arm in the air. Then, holding him so, the Mohican passed his knife through the man's heart, striking with swiftness incredible again and again; and as his victim collapsed, he eased him down into the water, turned him over, and took his shoulders between his knees.
"God!" I whispered. "Don't wait for that!"
But the Siwanois warrior was not to be denied; and in a second or two the wet scalp flapped at his belt.
Rolling over and over with the current, the limp body slipped down stream and disappeared into deeper shadows. We waded swiftly toward our own shore, crawled across the gravel, drew on our clothing, and stole up into the woods above.
"They'll know it by sunrise," I said. "How many did you count?"
"Thirteen in that war-party, Loskiel. And if Butler and McDonald be with them, that makes fifteen—and doubtless other renegades besides."
"Then we had best pull foot," said I. And I drew my knife and blazed the ford; and, as well as I might without seeing, wrote the depth of water on the scar.
I heard the Mohican's low laughter.
"The Senecas will see it and destroy it. But it will drive them frantic," he said.
"Whatever they do to this tree will but mark the ford more plainly," said I.
And the Mohican laughed and laughed and patted my shoulder, as we moved fast on our back trail. I think he was excited, veteran though he was, at his taking of a Seneca warrior's scalp. "Had you not jerked him under water when he leaned forward over your shoulder to see what manner of man was speaking English," said I, "doubtless he had awakened the forest with his warning yell in another moment."
"Let him yell at the fishes, now," said the Mohican, laughing. "No doubt the eels will understand him; they are no more slippery than he."
Save for the vague forms of the trees dimly discerned against the water, the darkness was impenetrable; and except for these guides, even an Indian could scarcely have moved at all. We followed the bank, keeping just within the shadows; and I was ever scanning the spots of starlit water for that same canoe which I had learned was to go upstream to watch us.
Presently the Siwanois checked me and whispered:
"Yonder squats your Wyandotte sentinel."
"Where? I can not see him."
"On that flat rock by the deep water, seeming a part of it."
"Are you certain?"
"Yes, Loskiel."
"You saw him move?"
"No. But a Siwanois of the Magic Clan makes nothing of darkness. He sees where he chooses to see.
"Mayaro," said I, "what do you make of this Wyandotte?"
"He has quitted his post without orders for a spot by the deep water. A canoe could come there, and he could speak to those within it."
"That might damn a white soldier, but an Indian is different."
"He is a Wyandotte—or says he is."
"Yes, but he came with credentials from Fortress Pitt."
"Once," said the Sagamore, "he wore his hair in a ridge."
"If the Eries learned that from the Nez Perces, why might not the Wyandottes also learn it?"
"He wears the Hawk."
"Yes, I know it."
"He saw the moccasin tracks in the sand at the other ford, Loskiel, and remained silent."
"I know it."
"And I believe, also, that he saw the canoe."
"Then," said I, "you mean that this Wyandotte is a traitor."
"If he be a Wyandotte at all."
"What?"
"He may be Huron; he may be a Seneca-Huron. But we Indians think differently, Loskiel."
"What do you think?"
"We do not know for certain. But"—and the Mohican's voice became quietly ferocious—"if a war-arrow ever struck this Wyandotte between the shoulders I think every tree-cat in the Long House would squall at the condoling council."
"You think this Wyandotte an Erie in disguise?" I asked incredulously.
"We Indians of different nations are asking that question of each other, Loskiel."
"What is the mind of the Grey-Feather concerning this?" I asked, horrified.
"Oneida and Stockbridge begin to believe as I believe."
"That this creature is a spy engaged to lead us to our deaths? Do they believe that this self-styled Wyandotte is an infamous Erie?"
"We so believe, Loskiel. We are not yet certain."
"But you who have taken Erie scalps should know–"
"We know an Erie by his paint and lock; by his arms and moccasins. But when an Erie wears none of these it is not easy to determine exactly what he might be. There is, in the Western nation, much impure blood, much mixing of captive and adopted prisoners with the Seneca conquerors. If an Erie wear cats' claws at the root of his scalp-lock, even a blind Quaker might know him. If one of their vile priests wear his hair in a ridge, then, unless he be a Nez Perce, there need be no doubt. But this man dresses and paints and conducts like no Erie I have ever seen. And yet I believe him one, and a Sachem at that!"
"Then, by God!" said I in a cold fury. "I will go down to the stream and put him under arrest until such time as his true colours may be properly determined!"
"Loskiel, if yonder Indian once saw in your eye that you meant to take him, he would slip between your hands like a spotted trout and be off down stream to his comrades. Go not toward him angry, or with anything in your manner and voice that he might distrust."
"I never learned to smile in the face of a traitor!"
"Learn now, then. Brother, you are young; and war is long. And of many aspects are they who take arms in their hands to slay. Strength is good; quickness and a true eye to the rifle-sight are good. But best of all in war are the calmness and patience of wisdom. A Sagamore has spoken."
"What would you have me do?"
"Nothing, yet."
"But we must make a night march of it, and I could not endure that infamous creature's company, even if it were safe for us to take him with us."
"My brother may remain tranquil. The Grey-Feather and I are watching him. The praying Indian and Tahoontowhee understand also. When we once are certain, the Erie dies."
"When you are certain," said I in a fury, "I will have him properly tried by military court and hung as high as Amherst hung two of his fellow devils. I wish to God he had executed the entire nation while he was about it. For once Sir William Johnson was wrong to interfere."
The Sagamore laughed and laid one hand on my shoulder:
"Is it a custom for an Ensign to pass judgment on a Major-General, O Loskiel, my dear but much younger brother?"
I blushed hot with annoyance and shame. Of all things on earth, self-control was the most necessary quality to any officer commanding Indians.
"The Sagamore is right," I said in a mortified voice.
"The Sagamore has lived longer than his younger brother," he rejoined gently.
"And is far wiser," said I.
"A little wiser in some few things concerning human life, Loskiel.... Does my brother desire that Mayaro shall bring in the Wyandotte?"
"Bring him," I said; and walked forward toward our camp.
Tahoontowhee stopped me with his challenge, then sprang forward at the sound of my voice.
"Men in the woods," he whispered, "creeping up from the South. They saw no fire and prowled no nearer than panthers prowl when they know a camp is awake."
"Senecas," I said briefly. "We make a night march of it. Remain on guard here. The Grey-Feather will bring your pack to you when we pick you up."
As I ascended the rocky pulpit, both the Grey-Feather and the Stockbridge were standing erect and wide awake, packs strapped and slung, rifles in hand.
"Senecas," I said. "Too many for us."
"Are we not to strike?" asked the Oneida wistfully, as the Mohican came swiftly up the rock followed by the Wyandotte, who seemed inclined to lag.
"Why did you quit your post?" I asked him bluntly.
"There was a better post and more to see on the rock," he said simply.
"You made a mistake. Your business is to obey your commanding officer. Do you understand?"
"The Black-Snake understands."
"Did you discover nothing from your rock?"
"Nothing. Deer moved in the woods."
"Red deer," I said coolly.
"A July deer is in the red coat always."
"The deer you heard are red the whole year round."
"Eho! The Black-Snake understands."
"Very well. Tie your pack, sling it, and shoulder your rifle. We march immediately."
He seemed to be willing enough, and tied his points with alacrity. Nor could I, watching him as well I might in so dark a spot, see anything suspicious in any movement he made.
"The Sagamore leads," I said; "the Black-Snake follows; I follow him; after me the Mole; and the Oneidas close the rear.... Attention!… Trail arms! File!"
And as we climbed out of our pulpit and descended over the moss to the soundless carpet of moist leaves:
"Silence," I said. "A sound may mean the death of us all. Cover your rifle-pans with your blankets. No matter what happens, no man is to fire without orders–"
I stopped abruptly and laid my hand on the Black-Snake's hatchet-sheath, feeling it all over with my finger-tips in the dark.
"Damnation!" I said. "There are tin points on the fringe! You might better wear a cow-bell! Where did you get it?"
"It was in my pack."
"You have not worn it before. Why do you wear it now?"
"It is looser in time of need."
"Very well. Stand still." I whipped out my knife and, bunching the faintly tinkling thrums in my fingers, severed the tin points and tossed them into the darkness.
"I can understand," said I, "a horse-riding Indian of the plains galloping into battle all over cow-bells, but never before have I heard of any forest Indian wearing such a fringe in time of war."
The rebuke seemed to stun the Wyandotte. He kept his face averted while I spoke, then at my brief word stepped forward into his place between myself and the Mohican.
"March!" I said in a low voice.
The Sagamore led us in a wide arc north, then west; and there was no hope of concealing or covering our trail, for in the darkness no man could see exactly where the man in front of him set foot, nor hope to avoid the wet sand of rivulets or the soft moss which took the imprint of every moccasin as warm wax yields to the seal.
That there was in the primeval woods no underbrush, save along streams or where the windfall had crashed earthward, made travelling in silence possible.
The forest giants branched high; no limbs threatened us; or, if there were any, the Sagamore truly had the sight of all night-creatures, for not once did a crested head brush the frailest twig; not once did a moccasined foot crash softly through dead and fallen wood.
The slope toward the river valley became steeper; we travelled along a heavily-wooded hillside at an angle that steadily increased. After an hour of this, we began to feel rock under foot, and our moccasins crushed patches of reindeer moss, dry as powder.
It was in such a place as this, or by wading through running water, that there could be any hope of hiding our trail; and as we began to traverse a vast, flat shoulder of naked rock, I saw that the Mohican meant to check and perplex any pursuit next morning.
What was my disgust, then, to observe that the Wyandotte's moccasins were soaking wet, and that he left at every step his mark for the morning sun to dry at leisure.
Stooping stealthily, I laid my hand flat in his wet tracks, and felt the grit of sand. Accidentally or otherwise, he had stepped into some spring brook which we had crossed in the darkness. Clearly the man was a fool, or something else.
And I was obliged to halt the file and wait until the Wyandotte had changed to spare moccasins; which I am bound to say he seemed to do willingly enough. And my belief in his crass stupidity grew, relieving me of fiercer sentiments which I had begun to harbour as I thought of all we knew or suspected concerning this man.
So it was forward once more across the naked, star-lit rock, where blueberry bushes grew from crevices, and here and there some tall evergreen, the roots of which were slowly sundering the rock into soil.
