The door was opened with reluctance and cautiously by Joe, and Sneak going foremost all the party sallied out into the fresh air. A snow of several inches in depth had fallen, and within the circle enclosed by the palisade not a single track was to be seen. But when the gate was drawn back, several Osage Indians were observed standing a few paces distant with their tomahawks hung in their belts and instead of exhibiting any symptoms of hostility, they approached smiling, and extended the hand of friendship to the whites. “How do!” exclaimed the leader, in imperfect English, grasping the hands held out in salutation, while his actions were imitated by the others in silence. “I’m very well, I thank you,” said Joe, bowing and retreating backwards when they accosted him, unwilling to venture his hand within their reach, as Glenn and the rest did. “Shake hands with them, you silly fellow,” said Boone, “or they will think you are an enemy.” “Here, Mr. Osage!” said Joe, his teeth chattering as he extended his hand; and the Indian, perceiving his alarm, squeezed it so tightly for merriment that he was on the eve of crying out; and when liberated, he sprang violently back, much inclined to run away, to their great amusement. “That is Raven, the chief,” remarked Roughgrove to Glenn, pointing to the one that first addressed them, and who was now conversing with Boone, whom he seemed to know, or to have been familiar with his character, from his animated gestures and the excited expression of his features. Sneak stood in silence, a convenient distance apart, apparently gleaning intelligence from the conference. The chief (as are the members of this tribe generally) was extremely dark, tall, athletic, and wore a ferocious aspect, while the few followers with him manifested a curiosity to examine the apparel and accoutrements of the whites, but without betraying any signs of an evil disposition. “Are there not more of them in the vicinity?” inquired Glenn. “Yes—quite a large party,” said Roughgrove; “but Raven said he did not wish to intimidate the whites by showing them, without first extending the hand of friendship himself. They profess to entertain the kindest feeling towards us, and propose through their chiefs to traffic their furs and moccasins for such goods as we may be disposed to give them in return.” “I do not see your oarsman, Posin,” remarked Glenn, the disclosure of Mary occurring to him—and then accosted Mary herself, who now joined them with her eyes cast down in apparent bashfulness. “His absence is a mystery to me,” replied the old ferryman, “though I do not attach the same importance to it that Mary does.” “Father”—uttered his daughter, and pausing in mingled timidity and dread, as if some undefinable forebodings of harm oppressed her.