“This’s not a bit funny,” muttered Joe, as he pushed his way nearly to the middle of the crowd. Then he stretched out a long arm that, bare and brawny, looked as though it might have been a blacksmith’s, and grasped the Indian’s sinewy wrist with a force that made him loosen his hold on Loorey instantly.
“I stole the shirt—fun—joke,” said Joe. “Scalp me if you want to scalp anyone.”
The Indian looked quickly at the powerful form before him. With a twist he slipped his arm from Joe’s grasp.
“Big paleface heap fun—all squaw play,” he said, scornfully. There was a menace in his somber eyes as he turned abruptly and left the group.
“I’m afraid you’ve made an enemy,” said Jake Wentz to Joe. “An Indian never forgets an insult, and that’s how he regarded your joke. Silvertip has been friendly here because he sells us his pelts. He’s a Shawnee chief. There he goes through the willows!”
By this time Jim and Mr. Wells, Mrs. Wentz and the girls had joined the group. They all watched Silvertip get into his canoe and paddle away.
“A bad sign,” said Wentz, and then, turning to Jeff Lynn, who joined the party at that moment, he briefly explained the circumstances.
“Never did like Silver. He’s a crafty redskin, an’ not to be trusted,” replied Jeff.
“He has turned round and is looking back,” Nell said quickly.
“So he has,” observed the fur-trader.
The Indian was now several hundred yards down the swift river, and for an instant had ceased paddling. The sun shone brightly on his eagle plumes. He remained motionless for a moment, and even at such a distance the dark, changeless face could be discerned. He lifted his hand and shook it menacingly.
“If ye don’t hear from that redskin ag’in Jeff Lynn don’t know nothin’,” calmly said the old frontiersman.
As the rafts drifted with the current the voyagers saw the settlers on the landing-place diminish until they had faded from indistinct figures to mere black specks against the green background. Then came the last wave of a white scarf, faintly in the distance, and at length the dark outline of the fort was all that remained to their regretful gaze. Quickly that, too, disappeared behind the green hill, which, with its bold front, forces the river to take a wide turn.
The Ohio, winding in its course between high, wooded bluffs, rolled on and on into the wilderness.
Beautiful as was the ever-changing scenery, rugged gray-faced cliffs on one side contrasting with green-clad hills on the other, there hovered over land and water something more striking than beauty. Above all hung a still atmosphere of calmness—of loneliness.