Dave had not gone very far when he saw the unmistakable signs of an Indian village. He slackened his pace and soon saw a lean and hungry-looking Indian dog coming toward him. The canine began to bark viciously and showed his teeth. Here it was that the young hunter’s nerve again showed itself. He was well acquainted with the general worthlessness of the Indian curs—dogs that were not to be compared with the hunting and watch animals of the English—and picking up a sharp stone he let drive, taking the canine in the side. The dog gave a sharp yelp, turned and fled, and that was the last Dave saw of the animal. In the meantime the Indians had arrived at their temporary village, located in a dense portion of the forest, and consisting of nothing more than half a dozen dirty shelters of blankets and skins. In the center was a small clearing where a campfire smoldered, and around this lolled half a dozen Indians, while not far off were several squaws and a dozen dirty and half-clad Indian children. The coming of the four warriors with their captive produced a mild sensation, and there was a running fire of questions and answers in the native dialect, lasting some time. In the meanwhile two of the warriors bound Henry to a tree near the largest of the wigwams, and left him, for the time being, to take care of himself. The head of the tribe, Moon Eye, was away, and was not expected back until the next day at noon. This being so, the Indians decided to keep Henry where he was. He was given nothing to eat, and when he asked for a drink he was handed some dirty water that even a dog would have refused. “What do you want of me?” Henry asked, of the Indian who could speak English. “White boy wait and he shall see,” answered the warrior. “Did you kill my cousin—the one who owns that rifle and the hunting knife?” “White boy must not ask so many questions.” “If you don’t let me go you’ll get into trouble,” went on Henry, thinking he might scare the Indians into releasing him. “See how you have already suffered. The English have many soldiers—they can do the red men great harm.” “The French have many soldiers also,” answered the warrior. “Soon their army will come to the aid of Pontiac and his followers.” This was a story that had often been told to the red men by the French traders, and many of the Indians believed it. But they waited in vain for help from France, or from Canada. Instead of sending help, the king of France sold his holding along the Mississippi to Spain, so that the Indians were worse off than ever. As night came on it began to rain gently, while a heavy mist filled the air. The Indians did not like this at all, and after huddling around the campfire for awhile the majority of them crawled into the wigwams and went to sleep. Two of them visited Henry, binding him more securely to the tree than ever, so that to break or slip his bonds was entirely out of the question.