“She’s no puzzle to me. I’ll tell you what she is--she’s a nigger, too, or I’ll eat my hat!” this with a resounding slap upon the thigh to emphasize his speech. “Possible!” replied the leader, lazily watching Winona through rings of smoke. “By George! Thomson, you don’t suppose we’ve struck it at last!” “Mum’s the word,” said Thomson with an expressive wink. Judah brought some wood and Winona piled it on until a good bed of coals lay within the stone fireplace. Then she hung the fish on pieces of leather string, turning them round and round. Soon they lay in platters of birch, a savory incense filling the air, and in no time the hunters were satisfying their hunger with the delicious salmon and trout, washed down by copious draughts of pure spring water from a nearby rill whose gentle gurgle one could distinguish as it mingled with the noise of the dashing surf and the roar of the falls. The children stood and watched them. Judah fingering lovingly the feathers of the dead eagle which he had taken from the boat. “You haven’t told us who you are,” suggested the leader with a smile. “She’s White Eagle’s daughter; I’m adopted.” “I see. Then you’re Indians?” Judah nodded. Somehow he felt uneasy with these men. He did not trust them. “Not by a long sight,” muttered Thomson. “Nothin’ but nigger blood ever planted the wool on top of that boy’s head.” Suddenly, faint and clear came a blast on a horn, winding in and out the secret recesses of the woods. Again and yet again, then all was still. The men were startled, but the children hastily gathered up their belongings and without a word to the strangers bounded away, and were soon lost in the dark shadows of the woods. “Well, cap’t, this is a rum un. Now what do you reckon that means?” “I have an idea that we’ve struck it rich, Thomson. Come, unless we want to stay here all night, suppose we push out for civilization?” CHAPTER II. One sultry evening in July, about a month later than the opening of our story, a young man was travelling through the woods on the outskirts of the city of Buffalo. The intense electric heat during the day had foretold a storm, and now it was evident that it would be upon him before he could reach shelter. The clouds sweeping over the sky had brought darkness early. The heavens looked of one uniform blackness, until the lightning, quivering behind them, showed through the magnificent masses of storm-wreck, while the artillery of the Almighty rolled threateningly in the distance. For the sake of his horse, Maxwell would have turned back, but it was many hours since he had left the railroad, travelling by the stage route toward the city. In vain he tried to pierce the gloom; no friendly light betrayed a refuge for weary man and beast. So they went on.