nearly spent before the Indians departed. They were
scarcely gone when Tom Fish called Ree and John to him and the boys
noticed for the first time that a great change had come over the old
hunter, who for some time had little or nothing to say.

"Did ye see that fresh scalp hangin' at that Buffalo varmint's belt?" he
asked. "That means blood. It means fightin'! I've seen many a Redskin,
but I never seen a wickeder one than that Buffalo. An' there's no more
play for Thomas Trout, which some calls Fish, my kittens, both! I tell ye
now, that from what I seed, there was nothin' kept us out of a fight this
day but the friendliness o' that chap Fishin' Bird. If Big Buffalo had a'
dared, he'd a' pitched onto us. Them's my honest sentiments; an' more'n
that, did ye see the scalp at that red devil's belt? Don't tell me they
ain't been on the warpath! Did ye see that scalp, an' the blood on it
hardly more 'n dry? Oh, sorry day! Oh, sorry day--the blood on it hardly
more'n dry. 'Cause I'm a plagued sight mistaken, kittens both, if I don't
know whose scalp that is! Oh, sorry day!"

Tom's voice had sunk almost to a whisper and involuntarily John
shuddered. The sinking sun cast thick, dark shadows in the narrow valley,
and a death-like silence was broken only by the soughing wind and the
tinkle of the brook.

These melancholy surroundings and the gruesome way in which Tom spoke,
were enough to remove all cheerfulness which might have existed, but Tom
said again, slowly and with a mournful emphasis, "I know--I know whose
scalp it is, lads; an' the blood on it hardly more'n dry."

The rough woodsman put his arm across his eyes and leaned mournfully on
his rifle, as he spoke.

CHAPTER X.

A Night With the Indians.

To shut out from his thoughts the horrid memory of the bloody scalp at
Big Buffalo's belt, Ree turned and busied himself with the fire, which
had burned quite low, and soon a roaring blaze was leaping skyward,
shedding good cheer around.

The woodsman still stood leaning on his rifle, a look of sadness on his
face such as was seldom seen there. If John had noticed this he might not
have asked in the tone in which he did:

"Well, whose scalp is it?"

"It ain't your'n, kitten, an' ye can be glad o' that."

"Shucks! How can you tell whose it might have been? How could anybody
tell?" asked the boy.

Tom made no reply, and Ree deftly changed the subject by saying that one
of them had better stand guard that