“White Buffalo has been a friend to our family for years,” went on the young soldier. “I can vouch for him in every respect. You know him, Casbury, and so do you, Malloy.” “Yes, he is square, so far as I know,” answered Casbury. “He’s a putty good Indian, so he is,” said the Irish borderman mentioned. “But not wan av thim can be thrusted whin the war’s goin’ ag’in ’im. Betther be afther bein’ careful, Rodney.” “He wants to talk to us—he has something important to say,” persisted Rodney. “How do yez know that?” “He just signaled to me. He and my brother Henry and cousin Dave are great friends, and White Buffalo taught us some of his signals. We had better let him come in and talk to us.” Those in the cave discussed the matter and at last agreed to follow Rodney’s advice. But they remained on guard, to shoot White Buffalo or any other Indian down, at the first sign of treachery. The matter settled, Rodney signaled White Buffalo to approach. He started to go forth, to meet the friendly red man, but White Buffalo quickly warned him back. In a minute the old Delaware chief was in the cavern. “White Buffalo, I am glad to see you,” cried Rodney, shaking hands. “How! how!” returned the aged Indian. He peered closely at Rodney in the darkness. “My friend Rodney is better? He can walk well?” “Yes, I am much better. And how are you? Hello, there is blood on your face!” “White Buffalo had a fight—down by the river—with some other Indians. They had almost killed his old friend Barringford.” “Sam! Is he alive?” “Yes—White Buffalo knocked an Indian over. Then he took Sam and ran through the forest. They were about to torture Sam—to make him speak of this place and who was here. First one Indian wanted his scalp, but Moon Eye came up and stopped the bloody work.” “And you fought the Indians alone?” “No, White Buffalo has six warriors with him—they are watching down at the river. Sam could not come—he is too sorely wounded. He sent White Buffalo. He told White Buffalo to cry as a catbird, but that is a bad signal—it would bring Moon Eye and his warriors to the spot. So White Buffalo used the old signal—the one he taught to Dave and Henry. He thought his friend Rodney would remember.” “And I did remember. But you are hurt. Let me bind up the wound.” “’Tis but a scratch,” answered the aged Indian. The cut smarted greatly, but he would not show his pain. “See here, what do you know about the other Indians around here?” asked Casbury. “They number thirty,” said White Buffalo, who had learned how to count in English style. “All strong, crafty, and full of the war spirit. White Buffalo’s small band can do but little against them.”