“Why do you say that?” “Winnebagoes make tracks.” And the Indian pointed to the fresh trail. Stooping and passing his finger over a moist spot of bare earth, Bright Wing replied triumphantly: “See, moccasin track. No Shawnee moccasin, no Pottawatomie moccasin; Winnebago moccasin.” In silent wonder the two white men stood staring at their red friend. At last Farley burst forth: “Well, if that don’t beat _me_! The idee o’ tellin’ one moccasin track from another! I’d as soon think o’ tellin’ one bear’s track from another—I would, by Hanner Ann! It’s easy to tell a _wolf’s_ track from a _fox’s_, but to tell _one_ redskin’s track from _another’s_ is a thing I never learnt; an’ I never could, if I lived a thousan’ years. But no doubt the Injin’s right, Ross Douglas. It’s prob’ly a huntin’ band o’ the Winnebagoes that’s loiterin’ ’round in this neck o’ woods. An’ we’ve got redskins behind us, an’ redskins before us. Now what ’re we goin’ to do? That’s what I’d like to know.” “It will soon be dark; we must push forward,” Ross replied. “An’ tumble plump into the clutches o’ the Winnebagoes,” Joe answered. “They’re devils to fight; an’ as cruel an’ bloodthirsty as the Shawnees.” “To remain here means to fall into the hands of the band upon our trail,” Douglas returned hastily. “The Winnebagoes know nothing of us; perhaps we can avoid them. What have you to say, Bright Wing?” “Scar Face and braves back there; Winnebagoes out there,” the Wyandot answered, indicating each direction with his finger. “Go that way.” “You mean we should leave the Winnebago trail to the south, until we have passed them?” “Ugh!”—With a vigorous nod. “Very well. Let’s be moving.” “But,” cried Joe, “that’s goin’ to take us ’way out of our course.” “It’s better to leave our course than to lose our lives,” was Douglas’s answer, as he shouldered his rifle and followed the Indian. Farley offered no reply, but silently brought up the rear. Duke trotted softly at his master’s side. The shadows of night gathered noiselessly—swiftly. The four dusky figures moved forward. The sky was thickly obscured by clouds; the darkness was intense. Snow began to fall in fine, downy flakes. Still the four black forms—now a part of the general blackness—glided onward, slowly and cautiously. “I say we’ve got far enough,” Farley ventured at last, in a soft whisper. Douglas was about to turn and make reply, when Bright Wing suddenly gave a grunt of warning and dropped to the ground. His companions followed his example. A hoarse growl rumbled up from Duke’s deep chest, as he crouched like a tiger preparing for a spring. The next moment the sound of light footfalls came to the ears of all. “Surrounded!” gasped Douglas. “Fell into a trap, jest as I expected!” muttered Farley. “We’re out o’ the fryin’-pan into the fire!” Duke uttered a vicious bay and sprang to his feet. Then the forest rang with a chorus of fiendish yells, as though all the imps of hell had broken loose at once.