The noise was repeated, and then followed by a hissing
sound, which he knew to be the burning of a powder on a piece of dry
wood, after which rays of light filtered through cracks of the
unstable floor of the loft.
The man placed his eye to one of these crevices, and counted eleven
Indians, all young braves, with the exception of the chief. The
Indians had been hunting; they had haunches of deer and buffalo
tongues, together with several packs of hides. Some of them busied
themselves drying their weapons; others sat down listlessly, plainly
showing their weariness, and two worked over the smouldering fire.
The damp leaves and twigs burned faintly, yet there was enough to
cause the hunter fear that he might be discovered. He believed he
had not much to worry about from the young braves, but the hawk-eyed
chief was dangerous.
And he was right. Presently the stalwart chief heard, or saw, a drop
of water fall from the loft. It came from the hunter's wet coat.
Almost any one save an Indian scout would have fancied this came
from the roof. As the chief's gaze roamed everywhere over the
interior of the cabin his expression was plainly distrustful. His
eye searched the wet clay floor, but hardly could have discovered
anything there, because the hunter's moccasined tracks had been
obliterated by the footprints of the Indians.
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