Both men leaped to their feet. They stood gazing about, searching the trees yet finding nothing. Save for the shadowed leaf-play of the evergreens, nothing moved in the sunshine. A low laugh sounded; then, not twenty feet distant, appeared the tall figure of an Indian who stood carefully uncocking his fusil. For a moment he regarded them in amusement, keenly gratified by their puzzled alarm, then advanced toward them. He was an old, gaunt, erect redskin of great dignity. He was unpainted, naked to the waist save for crossed baldricks which carried firebag, bullets and horn. His head was shaven to a grizzled scalplock. “My brothers are Frenchmen; that is good,” he said gravely. “My father Metaminens, who is ill, heard the sound of a gun. He sent Le Talon, a war-chief of the Wolf nation, to see who fired that gun. Come! Metaminens will smoke with you, if he is awake.” Crawford was pardonably astonished. He knew that the Loups, whom the English called Mohegans, were an almost extinct tribe, divided in allegiance between Iroquois and French. What any of them were doing in this country was problematical; also, this Le Talon conveyed in his manner an extraordinary impression. He was no common warrior. “He wears a crucifix at his girdle,” commented Frontin. “You’ll go?” “Of course.” Crawford addressed the Mohegan chief. “Has Le Talon seen anything of other men near by?” A shake of the head made answer, and Crawford continued. “We are pursued by the Stone Men. The storm has thrown them off, but if they pick up our trail, it will mean danger to you and your father Metaminens.” The wrinkled brown face of the old warrior flashed in a quick, scornful laugh. “One who has taken many Iroquois scalps does not fear wandering dogs of the west. Our camp is not a mile from here. Do you come?” Crawford nodded, and signed for the chief to lead the way. As he and Frontin fell in behind, he flung a quick word at his friend. “All these Mohegans are wandering devils, loving intrigue and war above aught else, and we can’t afford to pass by the chance. They may know this country, or may be glad to come with us. Besides, there is an air of mystery about this chief.” “And who has more curiosity than a woman--unless it be a man?” said Frontin ironically. Crawford soon found himself hard taxed to keep the pace set by the old Mohegan chief, who glided among the trees like a shadow, making no more sound than a shadow, and whose flitting figure had all the mottled impermanence of a shadow as it passed from opening to opening. These Mohegans were beyond question friends; probably hunters or traders who had wandered up from the French posts on Lake Superior or the Mississippi. When it came to fighting or trailing, two of them would be worth more than a score of Crees. Presently the old chieftain lifted his head and flung up a sharp wolf-howl.