“This is not so bad but that it might be worse,” declared Dave, while they were preparing one of the rabbits for supper. Searching around they came across a small iron pot. It was rusty, but they managed to scour it out, and then melted some snow for drinking water. One rabbit tasted so good that they cooked a second, for the walk and the keen air had made them tremendously hungry. They took their time over the meal, for they had nothing else to do. “I think I’ll try to close up some of the openings,” remarked Henry, after they had finished picking the bones. “We can do it with cedar branches.” With their hunting knives they cut a quantity of cedar branches and placed them in the broken-out doors and windows of the old council-house. This kept out most of the wind, and soon the temperature rose so that it was far more comfortable within than before. Then they brought in some more wood for the fire, that the blaze might last through the night. “I suppose this was a well-known place at one time,” observed Dave, as he gazed around the structure. “What famous addresses the Indian chiefs must have delivered here!” “Yes, and what plans they laid to massacre the whites,” replied Henry. “If these walls could talk they could tell some cruel stories, I’m thinking.” “Henry, I don’t think the Indians are altogether to blame.” “Why not?” “Because they haven’t been treated just right, that’s why. The land used to belong to them.” “Humph! They never tilled it, did they? They can’t expect to let this fine soil lie in idleness for century after century.” “But they had rights which neither the French nor the English have respected.” “Do you stick up for such a wily wretch as Pontiac?” “No, but I stick up for such a noble red man as White Buffalo.” “Oh, well, if they were all like White Buffalo there wouldn’t be any trouble.” They sat by the fire a good hour, talking about the Indians, the departure of James Morris for the trading post, and about the folks at home and other matters. Then they grew sleepy, and lay down to rest, never realizing the double peril so close at hand. CHAPTER XVI SAVED BY A WINDSTORM The two young hunters had been asleep perhaps ten minutes when a form stole forward from behind a corner post in the old council-house. The form was that of a young Seneca warrior, Boka the Fox, a red man known for miles around for his skill in hunting and fishing. No matter who went out with him Boka the Fox usually got the biggest turkey, the biggest deer, and very often the biggest fish. Boka the Fox was alone. He had been spying in the vicinity of Fort Pitt, and was now on his way westward to report what he had seen. The storm had overtaken him, and fancy had caused him to seek shelter in the deserted village. He had come up just at the arrival of Dave and Henry and had heard the gunshots when the rabbits were brought down.