Had Burl needed any interpretation of his dog's language in this particular instance, he would have found it, a few yards farther on, in two little foot-prints left clearly impressed in the clayey margin of a forest brook but a few hours before. He stopped to look at them, and his big eyes filled with tears of pitying tenderness at the sight. Grumbo, too, smelt of them, and as he slowly drew in the familiar scent, his wild eyes grew almost human in their look of affection, like those of a Newfoundland. Burl now turned to inspect more narrowly the foot-prints of the Indians, which were likewise left deeply impressed in the stiff clay of the brook's margin. Nearest to those of the boy's were the traces of the slender-footed Indian, who, in the act of taking the long stride that was to clear him of the water, seemed to have taken a short step aside to pick the little fellow up and lift him over dry-shod. This was further evident from the reaeppearance of the little foot-prints on the other bank, side by side, instead of one in advance of the other. Farthest to the left were the traces of the savage who wore the patched moccasin. Between them, broad, long, and deep, and at huge strides apart, were the foot-prints of the giant. At these traces of some redoubtable warrior, so it would seem, Big Black Burl, with grave and fixed attention, gazed for many moments. Then, as if to bring the dimensions of the savage more vividly before his mind's eye, he measured one of the prints by laying his own foot over it, and found that, although not the broader of the two, it was the longer, from which it was fairly to be inferred that the red giant must be at least seven feet high, standing in his moccasins. "Shorely, Grumbo," said the black hunter, addressing his dog, "it mus' be dat Black Thunder, de big Injun we hears de white hunters talk so much about. Dey say he blacked his face wid gunpowder when he fus' started out a-fightin', an' ain't neber gwine to wash it off tel he's got 'nough uf us white folks's skelps to rig up his huntin'-shirt an' make it fine. I jes' as soon de ol' Scratch git de grips uf his clutches on our little master, as dat Black Thunder. It's 'you tickle me an' I tickle you' betwixt him an' de ol' Scratch. O you ol' Black Thunder!" with a sudden burst of energy, apostrophizing the absent brave; "jes' let de Fightin' Nigger git de whites uf his eyes on yo' red ugliness once, he'll give you thunder--gunpowder thunder, he will. Jes' let Betsy Grumbo git her muzzle on yo' red ugliness once, may be she won't bark an' bite! May be she won't make yo' fine feathers fly! May be she won't, now! O plague yo' red hide! Yug, yug, yug!" And with this terrible malediction, the black giant shook his mighty fist at the foot-prints of the red giant in the mud--Grumbo catching his master's spirit, and giving the echo in a deep savage growl.