All this talk had been carried on in the most hushed of whispers; and not for a moment had the three taken their eyes from the painted and warlike circle in the glare of the camp-fire. That the Indians were also talking was evident; but the boys were too far away to hear what was being said. After a little while Jack’s curiosity mastered him. “I wonder if we couldn’t get a little closer without much danger,” whispered he. “Seems to me there must be lots of things in that talk that we ought to know.” Apparently the other two were of the same mind, for they at once agreed. So softly, and with slow, pantherish steps they parted the brush and moved nearer the savage camp-fire. Not a branch was permitted to rustle, not a twig nor dead leaf to crackle under foot. Jack went first, and the young Cherokee was second; Frank Lawrence stepped as nearly in their tracks as he was able and imitated their movements as nearly as he could make them out in the partial darkness. By great good fortune, a large green tree had fallen quite close to the spot where the Creek camp was pitched; the three boys, snugly ensconced behind this, had now a vastly improved view of the scene, and, what was of equal interest, could hear almost all that was said. Weatherford was speaking, and Jack, who had a practical acquaintanceship with a number of Indian dialects, had no trouble in understanding the deep-voiced, solemn utterance. “Word has reached the Muscogee villages of the doings of their brothers, many suns to the north. And the news made us glad.” A murmur went up from the other savages of the Creek nation; it was one of approval of the words of the Red Warrior; and Weatherford proceeded: “Swift runners reached us from the far country of the Shawnees. The Muscogee was glad to hear that the great chief Tecumseh, and Elskwatawa, who speaks the words of wisdom, were once more journeying through the forests to visit their brothers. We have journeyed to meet them; we have smoked the pipe of friendship. Let Tecumseh and Elskwatawa speak.” For a space after the sonorous voice of Weatherford had died away there was a silence. The circle of fantastically painted and befeathered Indians remained as still as graven images; then the Shawnee chieftain spoke: “We are glad that the great chief Weatherford speaks with the voice of welcome. We are glad that the chiefs and the old men of the Muscogee greet us with kindness. It is well; for the blood of the Muscogee runs warm in my veins. Many suns have passed since we left the hunting grounds of our tribe to seek council with our brothers; the trails have been long, the rivers swift, the mountain passes hard; but we are here, and we are heavy with the message of the red man’s wrongs.” Again there was a silence, and then Tecumseh went on: