That done, the footing would lead me back to the main band. The signs were few and barely sufficient to allow me to keep up the pursuit. It was not until I came to a spring, the overflow of which had made muck of the ground, that I was afforded an opportunity to inspect the two sets of tracks. One set was made by moccasins almost as small as those I had given to Patricia Dale. But why a squaw on a war-path? It was very puzzling. From the amount of moisture already seeped into the tracks I estimated the two of them had stood there within thirty minutes. My pursuit became more cautious. Not more than twenty rods from the spring I came to a trail swinging in from the east, as shown by a broken vine and a bent bush. The newcomer had moved carelessly and had fallen in behind the two Indians. I stuck to the trail until the diminished sunlight warned me it would soon be too dark to continue. Then I caught a whiff of burning wood and in ten minutes I was reconnoitering a tiny glade. My first glance took in a small fire; my second glance dwelt upon a scene that sent me into the open on the jump. An Indian sat at the foot of a walnut-tree, his legs crossed and his empty hands hanging over his knees. At one side crouched a squaw, her long hair falling on each side of her face and hiding her profile. In a direct line between me and the warrior stood Shelby Cousin, his rifle bearing on the warrior. My step caused him to turn, expecting to behold another native. The man on the ground made no attempt to take advantage of the interruption; and in the next second Cousin's long double-barrel rifle was again aiming at the painted chest. "Don't go for to try any sp'ilin' o' my game," warned Cousin without looking at me. "They're scouts from a big band of Shawnees now making toward Tygart's Valley," I informed him. "Can't we learn something from them?" "I'm going to kill this one now. The squaw can go. Crabtree would snuff her out, but I ain't reached the p'int where I can do that yet." "You coward!" cried the squaw in excellent English. Cousin darted a puzzled glance at her. His victim seemed to be indifferent to his fate; nor did the woman offer to interfere. "She's a white woman!" I cried. For a sunbeam straggled through the growth and rested on the long hair and revealed it to be fine and brown and never to be mistaken for the coarse black locks of an Indian. "White?" faltered Cousin, lowering his rifle. "Watch that devil, Morris!" I dropped on a log with my rifle across my knees. Cousin strode to the woman and caught her by the shoulder and pulled her to her feet. For a long minute the two stared. "Shelby?" The words dropped from her lips in a sibilous crescendo as her blood drove her to a display of emotion. Cousin's hands slowly advanced and pushed back the long locks. He advanced his face close to hers, and I knew his slight form was trembling. Then he staggered back and jerkily brought his arm across his eyes.