he, who had been for a little while the most
helpless of the forest creatures, had suddenly become the king of them
all. He stood up, strong, powerful, the reloaded rifle in his hands, and
looked and listened attentively for the foe, who could come if he chose.
His little wound was forgotten. He was a truly formidable figure now,
whom the bravest of Indian warriors, even a Wyandot, might shun.

Still hearing and seeing nothing that told of pursuit, he entered the
forest and sped on light foot on the journey that always led to the
southeast. The low rolling hills came again, and they were covered
densely with forest, not an opening anywhere. The foliage, not yet
touched with brown, was dark green and thick, forming a cool canopy
overhead. Tiny brooks of clear water wandered through the mass and among
the tree trunks. Many birds of brilliant plumage flew among the boughs
and sang inspiringly to the youth as he passed.

It was the great, cool woods of the north, the woods that Long Jim Hart
had once lamented so honestly to his comrades when they were in the far
south. Henry smiled at the memory. Long Jim had said that in these woods
a man knew his enemies; the Indians did not pretend to be anything else.
Jim was right, as he had just proved. The Wyandots had never claimed to
be anything but his enemies, and, although they had treated him well for
a time, they had acted thus when the time again came.

Henry smiled once more. He had an overwhelming and just sense of
triumph. He had defeated the Wyandots, the bravest and most skillful of
all the Western tribes. He had slipped through the hundred hands that
sought to hold him, and he was going back to his own, strong and armed.
The rifle was certainly a splendid trophy. Long, slender, and silver
mounted, he had never seen a finer, and his critical eye assured him
that its quality would be equal to its appearance.

He did not stop running while he examined the rifle, and when he put it
back on his shoulder the wind began to blow. Hark! There was the song
among the leaves again, and now it told not merely of hope, but of
victory achieved and danger passed. Henry was sure that he heard it. He
had an imaginative mind like all forest-dwellers, like the Indians
themselves, and he personified everything. The wind was a living,
breathing thing.

He stopped at the end of two or three hours. The sun was sailing high in
the heavens, and he had come at last to a little prairie. Game,