WITH the departure of Fred and Terry, Deerfoot felt as though he had flung off a blanket that had been wrapped about his shoulders: his arms were now free and he could use them at will.

He shrewdly suspected that his young friends would fancy they had been put upon their mettle, and would, therefore, exert themselves to their fullest to meet his expectations. He was glad it was so, and he would have been much better pleased could he have known they were in the cabin at the foot of the mountains, or, better still, safe at their home in Greville.

Deerfoot now stealthily approached as close to the camp-fire as was safe. He screened his body behind a tree, but he was nigh enough to catch every word that was said in an ordinary tone, and he understood the Winnebago tongue well enough to want no interpreter.

The Shawanoe had hardly taken his position to act as cowen, when the venison steaks were about one-fourth broiled, which was enough to satisfy the parties interested. Those who had charge of the culinary operations divided the meat into a dozen slices, so that each warrior was provided for, and the feast opened. The strong animal appetites, and teeth like those of the steel traps that were set at the foot of the Ozarks, soon brought the feast to a close, after which the feasters walked the few steps necessary to the brook near at hand, and lying down on their faces drank their fill, just as so many pigs would have done, grunting with satisfaction as they came back and resumed their pipes.

All this Deerfoot had seen so often that it had no interest to him. He kept his eyes on two warriors—the Wolf and one whom he had never seen before. These two sat near each other on the ground while eating, and they talked together in low tones. Since none of those around could overhear the words, it was impossible for Deerfoot, with all his wonderful acuteness, to catch a syllable. He would have given a great deal could he have done so, for he suspected the dark plot that was taking shape in their dusky brains. There was a dangerous flash in the black eyes of the young Shawanoe while he watched their movements.

It was clear to him that the Wolf had lost prestige, instead of gaining sympathy by his last misfortune. Having gone out to gather wool he had come back shorn, to go out a second time and to come back shorn to a still more ludicrous degree. The manner in which the Wolf kept apart from the rest, affiliating only with the single warrior at his side, showed the feeling in the party.

It was easy to recognize the leader or chieftain, though his dress was precisely like the rest, but his air of authority told the story plainly enough. The Winnebagos were a fine set of men in their war paint, and, as I have said, were able to give a good account of themselves in any scrimmage in which they might become engaged.

As unexpectedly to the warriors as to Deerfoot himself, the Winnebago chieftain, who was standing on one side of the fire where his rifle with several others leaned against a tree, took his pipe from between his lips and spoke to the Wolf in tones which caused that redskin to look up in wonder. Seeing that the sachem hesitated, as if waiting for him to rise, the Wolf came nimbly to his feet, as did his friend at his elbow. The majority of the rest, however, sat still and showed no special interest in what was going on.

"The Wolf was the bravest of the Winnebagos," remarked the chief, "when our war parties met those of the Sauks and Foxes and Pottawatomies who dared to come into our country; the heart of the Wolf bounded with delight and no tomahawk was hurled with such swiftness as his: no gun was fired more often; no scalping knife took back more scalps to hang upon the ridge-pole of his wigwam.

"But the Wolf came across the Big Water and his heart longed for the scalp of the pale face; he went out to hunt for it; he came back; the tongue of the Wolf is not double and tells no lies; the Wolf met a Shawanoe warrior who took his gun from him.

"It was the young Shawanoe called Deerfoot; the Winnebagos have been told about Deerfoot, the friend of the white man; the heart of Black Bear (meaning himself) was angry; he was chief of the Winnebagos; he told the Wolf that he must go forth and bring back his rifle; the Wolf went; he did not bring back his rifle, but left his knife behind; Deerfoot saw him and took it away from him.

"Deerfoot is but a youth; he is not a mighty warrior; the Wolf must get his gun and knife; he must bring back the scalp of the Shawanoe, he shall take Wau-ko-mia-tan with him; each shall have his gun; let them bring back the scalps of Deerfoot and the two pale faces with him; then will Black Bear forget that the Wolf was not always a great warrior.

"Let the Wolf and Wau-ko-mia-tan make haste; the Winnebagos are on the war path; they will carry back with them the scalps of the pale faces who are gathering the skins of the beaver and otter and foxes by the base of the mountain."

It may be said that this little speech developed the plan of the Winnebago campaign. The Wolf had fallen so low in the opinion of his chieftain and brother warriors, that it was necessary for him to take heroic measures to restore himself. Seeing this, the sachem had just notified him that he must secure the scalps of Deerfoot and the two white boys with him. Wau-ko-mia-tan (who was the warrior that sat at the elbow of the Wolf), was to be his companion. The chieftain knew how closely the two were allied, and he indulged in the little fiction of allowing one to keep company with the other, when the truth was he was afraid to let the Wolf go alone. Since on each of the two former excursions he had lost something, the probabilities were that if he came back again, it would be without his scalp.

The eagerness with which the Wolf accepted this task, the moment he found that he was to have a companion, showed that he was an admirable representative of the average Indian: gratitude to him was a vice rather than a virtue.

The expression on the face of Deerfoot showed that all forbearance was ended. He had twice spared the ingrate: he would do so no more.

Had the Wolf told his leader that the mercy of Deerfoot had touched his heart, so that his arm could never more be raised in anger against him, but that he would seek the scalps of the hunters at the base of the mountains, the Shawanoe would have felt an admiration for him. Had he sought out Deerfoot and asked for the return of his weapons (though that would have been very unlike his race), Deerfoot would have restored them to him. But now, as it was, when they should meet it would be as mortal enemies.

Nothing showed the vicious ingratitude of the Wolf more vividly than the fact that instead of waiting for the morning before entering upon his wicked enterprise, he started within three minutes after Black Bear, the chieftain, finished his little speech. The sachem picked up his own rifle from where it leaned against the tree and handed it to him, while Wau-ko-mia-tan stood at the other end of the group, until the warrior, his ugly face glowing like that of a demon, stepped to his side. Then the two, without a word or motion like a farewell, turned away and vanished in the gloom of the wood.

They had not taken a dozen steps, when Deerfoot glided from behind the tree and passed after them, as if he were the shadow thrown out by the light of the camp-fire. The expression on his face was such as would have hushed Fred Linden and Terry Clark to awed silence could they have seen it.

The two Winnebagos did not come directly back to the trail, but fell into it at almost the precise point where Deerfoot had led his two friends. They stopped a few minutes and talked in their low, guttural tones, none of which was understood by the Shawanoe, who listened with the closest attention.

There was considerable distance at that time between the warriors and Fred and Terry, who had set out with the ambition to keep up their traveling through the entire night. The Winnebagos did not wait long, when they moved on at their usual pace.

Less than a mile from the camp, the warriors again came to a halt and as before talked in a low voice. The point was where the wood was more open, so that the moonlight which found its way among the limbs above showed their forms quite plainly. More than that, enough of their words were audible to enable the listening Shawanoe, who had crept dangerously near, to catch their meaning.

The Winnebagos turned off at almost a right angle and left the trail behind them. The ground was broken, but they had not gone far, when it became evident that they were following another path, though it was so faintly marked that no eye except that of an American Indian could have discovered it in such an uncertain light.

As they advanced, the surface became not only rougher, but the grade which they ascended was so steep that it would have been tiresome to an ordinary traveler.

Suddenly Deerfoot himself wheeled aside from the indistinct path to which the Winnebagos clung and passed lightly and with great speed through the wood where no one had walked before. So swiftly did he make his way, that, though he crossed a deep ravine and went a considerable distance, it was less than live minutes before he came back to the shadowy trail.

Instead of keeping along this path, in the same direction as that of his enemies, he turned about and advanced to meet the red men who had dared to come that way. He walked with his usual noiseless step, and stopped on reaching the edge of the ravine over which he had leaped when it crossed his path only a few minutes before.

This gully was more than twenty feet in depth, and about half as wide. The trail led to the edge on one side, continuing on the margin directly opposite, so that any one who wished to keep to it was perforce compelled to leap the chasm—a slight task for any Indian, though it would have been easy to make a bridge by means of a fallen tree.

The moon was now directly overhead, so that a flood of light fell into the craggy ravine, lighting up the gray rocks and bowlders, the prostrate trees that had fallen from the sides, the vegetation along the slopes and the mossy grass that had been watered by the torrents when they roared through. The trees grew rank and close to the edge at the top—so close that some of them had slidden off and fallen part way below, carrying the gravel, sand and earth with the prong-like roots part way to the bottom.

So faint was the mark of the trail opposite that even with the help of the moonbeams, it took an eye as keen as that of Deerfoot to tell where his enemies would appear. But he coolly awaited them, though his calmness was the fearful calm of a fury such as even he rarely knew.