above the Castle; but he promised to come down early the next day, for
we expected trouble with our Indian neighbors. I went down to the river
with him, and watched his barge till it disappeared in the gloom of the
night. I was beginning to be sleepy, but I dared not go to bed, fearful
that the Indians would come before morning, and steal the horses. I had
concluded to sleep in the barn, if at all, with my rifle at my side, so
as to be sure that no accident happened while I was in the house.

I did sleep in the barn, and with my rifle at my side; but I was not
disturbed by the visit of any redskins, and the horses were all right
in the morning. I fed them alike again, and watered them at the brook.
Before we had finished our late breakfast in the Castle, Mr. Mellowtone
arrived.

"Have you seen any more Indians, Phil Farringford?" he asked.

"No, sir; but we expect to see the two who stole the horses very soon."

"I brought my rifle with me this time," he added. "I saw Kit Cruncher
this morning. He says there is a band of Indians in the woods north of
him."

"How many?" I asked.

"He saw ten together, all of them mounted, and thinks they came down to
find feed for their horses. I told him what had happened here
yesterday, and he says there will be trouble before the day is over."

"Does he think so?" asked old Matt, rather anxiously.

"He does; and I came prepared to assist you, if need be."

"Thank'e, Mr. Mellowtone. Time was when I didn't want no help agin any
ten of these yere redskins; but the rheumatiz has spiled me, and my arm
shakes so I can't shoot much now," added old Matt, mournfully.

"Kit said he would come here immediately."

"Kit is a good neighbor, and is allus on hand when he's wanted, and
there's any Injuns to shoot."

At that moment the door was darkened by the appearance of Kit Cruncher,
who bowed his head, and entered without ceremony.

CHAPTER IV.

IN WHICH PHIL LOSES AN OLD AND VALUED FRIEND.

Kit Cruncher was about six feet and a half high, and it was necessary
that he should bow his head when he entered even the humble log cabin
of Matt Rockwood. He wore a cap made of skins, so tall that it seemed
to add another foot to his height. It was ornamented with the long,
bushy tail of a fox, which dangled on one side like the tassels from
the cap of a hussar. His beard, gray and massive, was more than a foot
long, and gave him a patriarchal aspect. His pants were stuffed in the