Dave told of what had been done in the past, and soon the men were put on guard, two at the gate, one at each corner of the stockade, and the others at a point in the center of the grounds, from which they could run to any spot where they were needed. Each man was armed with two rifles, and some of them had a pistol besides,—old Spanish weapons and extra long. “We must not forget that our horses are still in the forest and likewise that sick man,” said Joseph Morris. “If possible, we ought to bring them in.” “If you say so, I’ll go after them,” answered his son. “I am not afraid to do it.” At first the planter demurred, but finally consented to let Henry go, accompanied by Sam Barringford. They did not wish their pack-train to fall into the hands of Bevoir and Moon Eye, for that would give the enemy a great advantage. Besides, they felt it their duty to care for the stranger who had sought their aid. “You must return with all possible speed,” said Joseph Morris, when Henry and Barringford were departing. “If you hurry you will likely get back before Jean Bevoir starts to return to this post.” The two departed by climbing the stockade at one of the corners, and lost not a moment in getting into the shelter of the timber. Here they looked around carefully, but could not find a single trace of their enemy or of the Indian who had vanished. The Indian who had been wounded in the short fight at the post refused to speak when questioned. Dave recognized him as one of Moon Eye’s followers whom he had met before. When the red warrior saw the youth he merely scowled and turned his face away. A little later he lapsed into unconsciousness, and nobody paid further attention to him, thinking he was about to breathe his last. The Frenchman who had been captured was a man Henry and Barringford had met several times. He was a lawless and brutal fellow, given to heavy drinking, and he took his capture with an air of bravo and told them to do their worst if they chose. “What has become of Jean Bevoir?” asked Mr. Morris of the man. “Jean, he ees ze big fool,” was the answer. “He go to catch you—you come here an’ tak post. By gar! dat ees big fool t’ing!” “Tell me about my father,” said Dave. “How was he wounded and how did he die?” “Vat I know ’bout dat? I no keel heem! I no see heem ’t all. Jean, he fix dat, I tell you!” And the Frenchman winked suggestively. “I suppose you mean that Bevoir killed my father,” went on Dave, bitterly. “I no say dat, no. You ask Jean—he tell truth—I haf noddings to do wid dat, no!” And then the Frenchman would say no more on the subject, nor would he say what had become of the others who had accompanied James Morris. Evidently he did not wish to render himself liable in any manner if it could be avoided. Slowly the night wore away and morning dawned, bright and clear. To the chagrin of those at the post neither Henry nor Barringford showed himself, nor did they see anything of the sick man or the horses.