“Joe heap big fool some more!” he grunted contemptuously. “Bright Wing see Scar Face and many braves. Bad Shawnees and Pottawatomies still on trail. Like hound; no give up and go back. Want scalps bad. Bright Wing go on. Joe stay; build fire; loose scalp. Ugh!” “An’ a heap you’ll keer, if I _git_ my hair raised,” Farley retorted crossly. “You’re jest like the rest o’ y’r people.” “Joe!” Douglas interrupted sternly. “Well, what is it?” was the surly response. “Once more you are talking idle nonsense. Your tongue will again get you into trouble. You know, as well as I, that Bright Wing has told us the truth. We can’t stop here; we _musn’t_. Such an act would be the sheerest folly.” “Yes, I s’pose you’re right,” Joe admitted in a mollified tone. “We’ve got to keep on. Dang the redskins, anyway! The doctors says exercise is a good thing; but I ain’t hankerin’ fer any more of it, jest now. They say it’s a mighty powerful thing to give a feller an appetite; an’ I can believe that statement without half tryin’, fer them frogs in me has gone to croakin’ like sixty. That’s what made me so flustered an’ cantankerous. Well, Injin, lead on. I’ll foller you, if I wear my legs off up to my shoulders—I will, ’r my name ain’t Joseph Peregoy Farley!” Once more they set forward. But they had gone only a hundred yards, when the Wyandot, with a startled grunt, came to an abrupt stop. “What ’ave you diskivered now?” Farley inquired, stepping forward. “A fresh trail!” Ross exclaimed, stooping and examining the moist earth and damp leaves. The three comrades bent down and closely scrutinized the numerous tracks. The light in the forest was dim; and they painfully strained their eyes over the alarming discovery, as they attempted to read its meaning aright. After a minute’s examination, they arose and silently looked at one another. Presently Douglas said in an undertone: “What do you make of it, Bright Wing?” “Redmen,” was the emphatic reply. “And quite a number of them.” “Ugh!” “Of course that trail was made by redskins,” Joe volunteered in a stage whisper. “’Cause ther’s nobody else in these parts to make it. An’ more’n that, there’s a score ’r more of ’em, an’ they’re movin’ in the direction we’re goin’. That trail ain’t more’n a few hours old, at most. I’ll tell you my explanation o’ the affair.” “What is it?” Ross asked. “W’y, dang-it-all-to-dingnation! that Scar Face an’ his murderin’, scalpin’ gang o’ red devils has sarcumvented us an’ got ahead of us, that’s what. Though how in the name o’ Dan’l Boone they ever done it, I can’t imagine! They must ’ave found some short cut.” Bright Wing decidedly shook his head and grunted: “No believe.” “You don’t believe Joe’s theory that the trail was made by Scar Face and his band?” Douglas said quickly. “No believe.” “By whom, then?” “Winnebagoes.” “But,” Ross objected, “the Winnebagoes have returned to their northern village.” “Not all go,” the Wyandot asserted positively.