Perhaps not so strange after all, when every thing should become known. “I’ll see what kind of a watch he’s keeping.” With which Black Tom reached out, and taking hold of a twig, snapped it so quickly that it made quite a sharp noise. Quick as lightning, the stranger sprung to his feet, and darted back in the darkness. “That’s done pretty well,” concluded the trapper, not a little pleased at the movement. “Who’s there?” demanded the young man, in a rich bass voice. “A friend,” was the instant reply. “Come forward, then, and show yourself.” “Hyar I am!” replied Tom, as he stepped forward in the light of the camp-fire, and waited for the stranger to show himself. “And I am glad to see you. My name is Hammond--Fred Hammond, and I am pleased to meet you.” These words of welcome were uttered as the tall, graceful form of the speaker moved forward, and he reached out his hand and grasped the hard palm of the hunter. Black Tom looked significantly around him. “What’s the matter?” asked Hammond, with a smile. “S’pose it had been a red-skin instead of Black Tom that crept up to you in that style, the crack of the twig would have been the crack of a rifle, and that would have been the last of Fred Hammond.” “It looked foolhardy, I’ll admit,” said he, with a laugh, “but then it wasn’t, after all. There is no danger of either you or me being disturbed by Indians to-night.” “How do you know so much ’bout the red-skins in these parts?” asked the trapper, in some surprise. “I’ve been here several months, and during that time I ought to have learned something, had I not?” he returned, with a smile. “Wal, I tell yer what _I_ know,” added the trapper, earnestly, “thar ar’ red-skins in a few miles of hyar.” Black Tom noticed how his companion started, as he instantly asked: “How do you know that?” “’Cause I’ve seen ’em--since the sun went down, too.” “Where?” “Off yender,” replied Tom, pointing in the direction of the village, “I see’d a white a gal on a horse and I just follered and watched her.” The partial gloom in which the two men sat, nor the luxuriant whiskers, could not conceal the flush that overspread Hammond’s face at the utterance of these words. “Where did you see her?” he asked, making a great effort to hide his deep interest. “Why she rid up out the _kenyon_, and I follered arter her.” “Did you speak to her?” “No, she didn’t seem to notice me, so I didn’t offer to shake hands.” “Strange!” exclaimed Hammond, as if musing with himself, and then he was about sinking into a reverie, when Black Tom aroused him. “See yer, Hammond, as I b’leve you call yourself, thar seems to be something in this gal that in’trests _you_. Ain’t that so now?” “Well, I see no objection to confessing that there is.” “Who is she?” “I can not say. You are right in supposing that she is a white girl. She is of our own race and blood, and is a prisoner, although a not very unwilling one, among a small tribe of Indians near at hand.”