There was no moon that night; the sky was without stars; nevertheless there came a soft coppery glow through the low hanging clouds which enabled them to make their way along without any great difficulty. But finally the beat of the drum ceased. “We’ll locate them by the camp-fire,” whispered Jack Davis to Frank. “See, there it is, ahead among the trees.” Softly their moccasined feet padded the earth; carefully, noiselessly they advanced, flitting from tree to tree, from bush to bush. Because they were in the heart of their own country, the Creeks evidently had no fear of attack; therefore they had placed no sentinels about the camp. And because of this the boys found it possible to approach near enough to get a good view of the encampment through the open places in the tangle of brush. In a circle sat a score of savages, each wearing a highly ornamental head-dress of colored feathers; their faces were streaked with paints of various colors and they passed a long stemmed, ornamented pipe from one to the other. “Hello,” breathed Jack, his accustomed eye taking in the unusual features of the scene at a glance. “What does this mean?” One splendid looking savage, by features evidently a half-breed, attracted the attention of Frank Lawrence. “That looks like a chief,” said he, in the same low tone as his comrade. “Heap much chief,” spoke Running Elk. “Him Weatherford.” This name, dreaded along the entire border, caused a thrill to run through Jack Davis. “The Red Warrior!” He stared at the famous leader of the Creeks, who sat like a grimly carven statue within the fire-lit circle. “What in the world can he be doing here?” Frank’s eyes left Weatherford and curiously roved over the remainder of the band; two who sat side by side, and whose commanding personality and different head-dress made them stand out from the others, now claimed his notice. “They must be out of the ordinary, too,” said he. “They look different, somehow.” Jack’s eyes went to the two. “They are not Creeks,” said he, for he was well acquainted with the head-dress of that tribe. “They are strangers.” “Shawnee,” spoke Running Elk. “One great chief. Other much medicine.” Frank Lawrence, who stood beside Jack, felt him start suddenly, and heard him draw in a long breath. “Shawnees!” said Jack in a whisper. “One a great chief, the other a medicine man!” His hand went out and closed upon the arm of the friendly Cherokee. “What more do you know of them, Running Elk?” “They come to the villages of the Cherokee before last harvest moon. They are from the north. The chief is Tecumseh and the medicine man is Elskwatawa.” “By Jingo!” Jack’s voice was lifted to such a pitch that Frank quickly grasped him by the shoulder to recall him to a sense of their position. Then in a lower tone, the frontier youth continued: “Then the thing _is_ spreading! These two are down here again trying to get the Creeks and other tribes into the league against the whites!”