“And the scalp of the white man belongs to Cushina,” was the prompt reply of the other warrior. “He can take it at his pleasure.” CHAPTER XI IN WHICH WHITE BUFFALO APPEARS “Something must surely have happened to Sam, or he wouldn’t stay away as long as this,” said Rodney to Casbury, after half the night had passed without the old frontiersman reappearing. “I am afraid you are right, Rodney. Maybe the Injuns caught an’ killed him.” “Don’t you think somebody ought to go out and try to hunt him up?” “It won’t be any safer for us than it was for him,” answered the borderman, with a grave shake of his head. Had it not been for Nell and the twins Rodney might have gone on a hunt for his old friend. But he felt his responsibility, and so remained in the cavern. He felt that if an attack came his place was beside his sister and the twins. Barringford thought as much of the twins as if they were his own flesh and blood, and would not forgive him did he not do all he could to shield the youngsters from harm. Slowly the time wore away. Nell, the twins, and Mrs. Dobson had gone to sleep, and also several of the frontiersmen and regulars, who were off duty for the time being. The cave was kept in total darkness, so that those inside could see better what was happening without. Rodney had listened for the cry of a catbird in vain, and stood leaning against a rock, peering forth into the semi-darkness. He was tremendously sleepy, having gotten only a short nap the night before. Presently he straightened up and listened. Was he mistaken, or had he heard the croaking of a frog? He had not noticed this earlier in the night. He was not mistaken; the croaking was repeated, at regular intervals. He could not resist the temptation to croak also, mimicking the sound as best he could. At once the answer came back, and the heart of the young soldier gave a bound of astonishment and gratification. The call was one often used by White Buffalo, the old chief of the Delawares who had proved such a friend to the different members of the Morris family. What he could be doing in this vicinity was a mystery, since it was supposed that he was either at the regular village of his tribe or at the conference being held by Sir William Johnson and the red men at Johnson Hall. “Perhaps it’s a ruse,” thought Rodney. “I must be on my guard—it won’t do to be caught in a trap.” The croaking of the frog continued, moving gradually closer to the mouth of the cave. Then Rodney saw something wave in the air, between two bushes. The object went up and down twice, then crosswise three times and then around in a circle. “White Buffalo true enough!” murmured the young soldier. He called some of the others to his side. “White Buffalo, a friendly Indian, is out there. He wants to talk to us.” “I’ll trust none of them,” said one of the regulars promptly. “They are all cutthroats!”