From his concealment in the distance, Wingenund observed the whole manœuvre: and having carefully noted the very spot where the two trails separated, he ran back to the deserted Lenapé village to carry out the plan that he had formed for the pursuit. On his way he gathered a score of pliant willow rods, and these lay at his feet when he stood in the attitude of deep meditation, described at the commencement of this chapter. He knew that if War–Eagle and his party returned in safety from their expedition, their steps would be directed at once to the spot on which he now stood, and his first care was to convey to them all the information necessary for their guidance. This he was enabled to do by marking with his knife on slips of elm–bark various figures and designs, which War–Eagle would easily understand. To describe these at length would be tedious, in a narrative such as the present; all readers who know anything of the history of the North American Indians being aware of their sagacity in the use of these rude hieroglyphics: it is sufficient here to state, that Wingenund was able to express, in a manner intelligible to his kinsman, that he himself marked the elm–bark, that Olitipa was prisoner to Mahéga, that the Osage trail was to the west; that it divided, the broad trail to the north being the wrong one; and that he would hang on the right one, and make more marks for War–Eagle to follow. Having carefully noted these particulars, he stuck one of his rods into the ground, and fastened to the top of it his roll of elm–bark: then giving one more melancholy glance at the desolate scene around him, he gathered up his willow–twigs, and throwing himself again upon the Osage trail, never rested his weary limbs until the burnt grass, upon a spot where the party had cooked some bison–meat, assured him that he was on their track; then he laid himself under a neighbouring bush and slept soundly, trusting to his own sagacity for following the trail over the boundless prairie before him. While these events were passing on the Missouri prairie, Paul Müller having been escorted to the settlements and set free by the Osages, pursued his way towards St. Louis, then the nucleus of Western trade, and the point whence all expeditions, whether of a warlike or commercial nature, were carried on in that region. He was walking slowly forward, revolving in his mind the melancholy changes that had taken place in the course of the last few weeks, the destruction of the Lenapé band, and the captivity of his beloved pupil, when he was overtaken by a sturdy and weather–beaten pedestrian, whose person and attire seemed to have been roughly handled of late, for his left arm was in a sling, various patches of plaster were on his face and forehead, his leggins were torn to rags, and the barrel of a rifle broken off from the stock was slung over his shoulder.