ength and patience, and noon found him near the
outer rim, where he paused to watch the sky. Henry had an idea that he
might see smoke, betraying the presence of Indian bands, but not even
his keen eyes were able to make out any dark traces against the heavens,
which had all the thinness and clearness of early autumn. Reflection
convinced him, however, that if Red Eagle were meditating a movement
against the swamp he would avoid anything that might warn its occupants.
He abided by his second thought, and began anew his cautious progress
toward the edge of the bushes and reeds.

The ending of the swamp was abrupt, the marshy ground becoming firm in
the space of a few yards, and Henry, emerging upon what was in a sense
the mainland, crept into a dense clump of alders, where he lay hidden
for some time, examining from his covert the country about him. He did
not see or hear anything to betoken a hostile presence, but, as wary as
any wild animal that inhabited the forest, he ventured forth, still
using every kind of cover that he could find.

His course took him toward the east, and a quarter of a mile passed, his
eye was caught by the red gleam of a feather in the grass. He retrieved
it, and saw at once that it was painted. Hence, it had fallen from the
scalplock of an Indian. It was not bedraggled, so it had fallen
recently, as the winds had not beaten it about. It was sure, too, that a
warrior or warriors had gone that way within a few hours. He searched
for the trail, stooping among the bushes, lest he fall into an ambush,
and presently he came upon the faint imprint of moccasins, judging that
they had been made by about a half dozen warriors.

The trail led to the east, and Henry followed it promptly, finding as he
advanced that it was growing plainer. Other and smaller trails met it
and merged with it, and he became confident that he would soon locate a
large band. He was no longer dealing with supposition, he had
actualities, the tangible, before him, and his pulses began to leap in
expectation. The shiftless one and he had been right. Red Eagle had
never left the neighborhood of the swamp, and Henry believed that he
would soon know what the wily old Indian chief was intending. There was
a certain exhilaration in matching his wits against those of the great
Shawnee, and he knew that he would need to exercise every power of his
mind to the utmost. He followed the trail steadily about a half hour as
it led on among t