Barely a hundred yards away stood an Indian warrior. He seemed to be looking at the youth himself, though that was impossible because Alden must have been invisible to the keenest of eyes while wrapped in the shadow. The red man was as erect as a statue, a rifle in one hand which rested at the side below his hip. The youth noted even the feathers which projected from the crown of his head, the naked chest, the sash around the waist and the handle of the knife thrust behind it. A glimpse could be caught of the leggings below, most of them with the moccasins being hidden, however, in the grass. The whole thing was beyond explanation. It looked as if the Indian while crawling over the ground and hidden by the grass, had changed his mind and deliberately risen to his feet, where he must have known he would be in full view of the vigilant white men. What could it all mean? The next moment, while Alden was staring at the strange sight, he recalled the orders of Shagbark. “The minute ye’re sure it’s a redskin, _shoot_!” Nothing could be easier than for the youth to bring his rifle to a level where he was screened by the darkness, and bring down the Indian as he would bring down any other game. But he could not do it. The thought of shooting a human being, even though an enemy probably seeking the life of the youth himself, was intolerable. It would have been a crime for which Heaven would hold him accountable and for whose commission he could never forgive himself. “I shan’t let him get out of my sight; he can do no harm so long as he stands there; if he attacks, I’ll shoot. Shagbark will laugh at me, but I prefer he should do that rather than offend my Creator.” How long the Indian would have held his pose is doubtful, had not an unlooked for interruption occurred. Alden was trying to discern the countenance more clearly. He thought it was striped and daubed with paint, but the view was not distinct enough to make sure. Without intending to venture into the moonlight, the youth stepped softly aside and back a single pace in the effort to obtain another angle of view. In making the movement, he placed his foot directly over the mouth of Jethro Mix, and rested most of his weight on it before he could check himself. “Gorrynation!” gasped the African, catching the offending shoe with both hands and struggling to free himself, “who frowed dat house on top of my head?” “Shut up!” commanded Alden as he flirted his foot; “Why are you sleeping when you were placed here to watch for the Indians?” “Who’s sleeping?” demanded Jethro, climbing heavily to his feet; “I war jest setting down to tie my shoestring when you come along and stepped on my head so it’s bent out ob plumb.” “Look over the plain and tell me what you think of _that_,” said Alden impressively. Startled by his words and manner, the African rubbed his eyes and did as directed, but failed to discover anything. “I doan’ see nuffin,” he growled.