sure they were
getting ready for some new deviltry. I handed the note to Mr. Brady
through the crack of the door that he vouchsafed to me, and when he had
slammed and bolted me out, I ran into the street and stood for some time
behind the trunk of a big hickory, watching the followers of the North
Wind. Some were painting themselves, others cleaning their rifles and
sharpening their scalping knives. All jabbered unceasingly. Now and
again a silent brave passed, paused a moment to survey them gravely,
grunted an answer to something they would fling at him, and went on. At
length arrived three chiefs whom I knew to be high in the councils. The
North Wind came out to them, and the four blanketed forms stood
silhouetted between me and the fire for a quarter of an hour. By this
time I was sure of a plot, and fled away to another tree for fear of
detection. At length stalked through the street the Hungry Wolf, the
interpreter. I knew this man to be friendly to Clark, and I acted on
impulse. He gave a grunt of surprise when I halted before him. I made
up my mind.

"The son of the Great Chief knows that the Puans have wickedness in their
hearts to-night," I said; "the tongue of the Hungry Wolf does not lie."

The big Indian drew back with another grunt, and the distant firelight
flashed on his eyes as on polished black flints.

"Umrrhh! Is the Pale Face Chief's son a prophet?"

"The anger of the Pale Face Chief and of his countrymen is as the
hurricane," I said, scarce believing my own ears. For a lad is imitative
by nature, and I had not listened to the interpreters for three days
without profit.

The Hungry Wolf grunted again, after which he was silent for a long time.
Then he said:--

"Let the Chief of the Long Knives have guard tonight." And suddenly he
was gone into the darkness.

I waded the creek and sped to Clark. He was alone now, the shutters of
the room closed. And as I came in I could scarce believe that he was the
same masterful man I had seen at the council that day, and at the
conference an hour gone. He was once more the friend at whose feet I sat
in private, who talked to me as a companion and a father.

"Where have you been, Davy?" he asked. And then, "What is it, my lad?"

I crept close to him and told him in a breathless undertone, and I knew
that I was shaking the while. He listened gravely, and when I had
finished laid a firm hand on my head.

"There," he said, "you are a brave lad, and a canny