“A hunt?” exclaimed Hervey, “yes, a hunt of a red–skin devil! Harkee, Baptiste!” and stooping from his horse, he repeated to the guide, in a low voice, but clear enough to be heard by all present, the circumstances attending his brother’s death. “A daring act, indeed,” said the guide musing: “but could not you follow the trail while it was fresh, yesterday?” “We followed it to a creek leading to the Muskingum, and there we lost it.” “Can you describe the appearance of the Indian?” inquired the guide. “A tall, handsome fellow, as straight as a poplar, and with a leap like a painter, so he seemed; but d—n him, he gave me such a knock on the head, that my eyes swam for five minutes.” A cold shudder ran through Lucy’s limbs as, comparing this slight sketch of War–Eagle with his sudden departure and the guide’s caution to Wingenund, she recognised in the chief the object of their search: glancing her eye timidly at Wingenund, she could read on his countenance no traces of uneasiness; he was playing with Snowdrop’s mane; his gun resting on the ground, and he himself apparently unconscious of what was passing. After a minute’s reflection, the guide continued: “You say that the Indian’s rifle was broken in half; did you notice anything about it?” “Nothing: it was a strong coarse piece; we have brought the stock with us; here it is,” he added, calling up one of his party to whom it had been entrusted. The guide took it in his hand, and at the first glance detected the imitation of a feather, roughly but distinctly cut with a knife: his own suspicions were at once confirmed, although his countenance betrayed no change of expression; but Mike Smith, who had been looking over his shoulder, had also observed the marks of the feather, and noticed it immediately aloud, adding, “Come, Baptiste, you know all the Ingian marks between Alleghany and the Missouri; what red–skin has this belonged to?” “Mike,” said the guide coolly, “a man’s tongue must shoot far and true to hit such a mark as that.” “And yet, Baptiste, if I’d been as long at the guiding and trapping as you, I think I’d a’ know’d something about it.” “Ay, that’s the way of it,” replied Baptiste; “you young ‘uns always think you can shave a hog with a horn spoon! I’spose, Master Mike, you can tell a buzzard from a mockingbird; but if I was to show you a feather, and ask you _what_ buzzard it belonged to, the answer might not be easy to find.” “You’re an old fool,” growled Mike, angrily; and he added, as his eye rested suddenly upon Wingenund, “What cub is that standing by Miss’s white pony? we’ll see if he knows this mark. Come here, you devil’s brat.” Not a muscle in the boy’s face betrayed his consciousness that he was addressed. “Come here, you young red–skin!” shouted Mike yet more angrily, “or I’ll sharpen your movements with the point of my knife.”