"Why, what we promised one another this morning--that we would kill the first redskin we laid our eyes on." "Yes. Where is one?" "Come with me." George Darling rose, and the two left the camp together. "There be two of them," the settler's son said, "and they are at the river; I saw them not five minutes since. A good shot, George. I'll take one, you the other." The eager couple glided toward the river, and the youth all at once pulled his cousin's sleeve and told him to halt. "There they are!" he cried excitedly, pointing towards the stream. "Look! do you not see them in the tree top? Real Indians, George, and no mistake. What on earth can they be doing? They are up to their knees in water." George Darling did not reply, but continued to gaze at the two persons in the tree top which lay in the water. Their skin proclaimed them savages; but they seemed to be washing--a thing which no Indian warrior ever does. Hence the spectators' perplexity. "Come, George, we can't wait on them," said the impatient Carl. "Beside, they will miss us at the camp. Now, let us give the rascals a little lead. Remember our promise to let no Indian escape our rifles." The young man heard his cousin, and, a partaker of his excitement, grasped his rifle. "The little fellow on the right," Carl said without taking his eyes from the couple in the tree top. "Leave the other one for me. He is as tall as a Virginia bean-pole." The victims of the pair were not fifty yards away. Unconscious of the presence of their enemies. They kept on performing motions with their arms and hands, which had led Darling to believe that they were patronizing the homely art of washing. "Ready?" whispered the boy. "Ready!" I've covered my man was the low but distinct response. There was a moment's silence. The word "fire" was struggling for utterance on Carl Merriweather's lips when his cousin's hand leaped from the trigger and covered the flint of his weapon. "Look at the tall fellow," cried the young backwoodsman. "By the snows of Iceland! he's a white man." Sure enough, one of the occupants of the tree had suddenly risen to his feet and turned his face towards the depths of the forest. The skin which had been red was white now. Water had metamorphosed him into his true character. Carl Merriweather grew pale when he saw the transformation, and gave his companion a look which made him smile. "Both are white!" Darling said. "The short one has washed his face. See!" "That is true," said Carl. "A moment more, and we would have sent bullets into their brains. Who can they be? Rascally renegades, no doubt, and as such deserve our balls." "More likely Wayne's scouts," replied the settler's nephew. "They often disguise themselves as Indians, and reassume their true character when it suits them. They are leaving the tree now." As the young man spoke the twain emerged from the tree top, and approached the brow of the hill.