“Who are you?” he asked. “White boy drop knife, or shoot him sure!” was the only answer, and now the muzzle of the gun was shoved a little closer to the youth’s breast. Looking through the brushwood, Dave made out the repulsive features of a savage and saw the wicked gleam of his black eyes. There seemed to be no help for it, and the hunting knife dropped to the ground. The Indian gave a grunt of satisfaction and then stepped into the opening, still, however, keeping the gun levelled at Dave’s breast. He was a brawny warrior of the Senecas, arrayed in his war-paint and feathers, and he carried a tomahawk and a knife in his girdle and a bow with arrows across his shoulders. “Where white boy come from?” he asked, abruptly. “I came from Fort Pitt,” answered Dave. “Why did you steal my gun?” At the last question the red man gave a grunt that might mean anything. He looked Dave over with care and made him back away, so that he could secure the lad’s hunting knife, which he placed beside his own. “White boy sodger, um?” went on the savage, noting the tattered uniform. “Yes, I have been a soldier,” answered Dave. He continued to gaze at the savage. “I’ve seen you before. Oh, I remember now. You were with Moon Eye, right after I was captured. You had something to do with the stealing of my little cousin and the twin boys.” The red man’s eyes flashed, but he did not answer to this. Evidently he was pondering upon what to do next. He had come upon Dave quite unexpectedly and had taken the gun on the impulse of the moment. “White boy alone?” he asked, after an awkward pause. “No, I have a good many friends around here,” was Dave’s quick reply, but he did not add that the majority of his friends were at the fort. At this the face of the warrior darkened. He allowed the gun barrel to drop and drew his tomahawk. If others of the whites were near he thought it might be best to brain Dave on the spot, making as little noise as possible, and then get away from that vicinity. The young hunter understood the movement, and his heart leaped into his throat. He had no desire to feel the edge of the savage’s stone hatchet. As the gun barrel dropped still lower he thought of the rocks and the brushwood and made a spring towards them. “_Pawah!_” cried the Indian, in a rage. “White boy stop!” And he made a dash after the youth. But as luck would have it one moccasin caught in a trailing vine and he pitched headlong. As he went down, the trigger of the gun struck some brush, caught fast, and the piece went off with a loud report. Dave imagined the gun was discharged at himself, and fully expected to feel the sting of the bullet, perhaps in some vital portion of his body. He felt himself making a silent prayer, and as the sting did not come realized that as yet he was unharmed. He cleared the rocks at another bound, almost fell into the bushes, and ran on and on with all the speed he could command.