“Should it be so, I doubt not we will be able to withstand them as successfully as we did before,” said Glenn.

“Let us go with Roughgrove to his house, and take his daughter and his effects to your little fortress,” said Boone, joining the old ferryman, whom a single word sufficed to apprize of the state of affairs.

“I must prepare for the worst, now,” said Roughgrove; “they will never forget or forgive the part I acted on the night of their defeat.”

Boone, Glenn, and Roughgrove proceeded down the valley, while Joe seemed disposed to loiter, undetermined what to engage in, having cast an occasional curious glance at Boone and his master when engaged in their low conversation, and rightly conjecturing that “something wrong was in the wind,” as he expressed it.

“Why don’t you go home?” asked Sneak, rolling the dead body into the grave, and dashing the mingled earth and snow remorselessly upon it.

“I’ll go when I’m ready,” replied Joe; “but I should like to know what all that whispering and nodding was about.”

“I can tell you,” said Dan; but his speech was suddenly arrested by a sign from Sneak.

“I wish you would tell me,” continued Joe, manifesting no little uneasiness.

“Have you got a plenty to eat at your house?” asked Sneak.

“To be sure we have,” said Joe; “now tell me what’s in the wind.”

“If I was to tell you, I bet you’d be frightened half to death,” remarked Sneak, driving down a headstone, having filled up the grave.

“No! no—­I—­indeed but I wouldn’t, though!” said Joe, trembling at every joint, the true cause, for the first time, occurring to him.  “Ain’t it Indians, Mr. Sneak?”

“Don’t call me Mister agin, if you please.  There are more moccasins than the one you found in these parts, that’s all.”

“I’ll go home and tell Mr. Glenn!” said Joe, whirling round quickly.

“Dod rot your cowardly hide of you!” said Sneak, staring at him contemptuously; “now don’t you know he knowed it before you did?”

“Yes—­but I was going home to tell him that some bullets must be run—­that’s what I meant.”

“Don’t you think he knows that as well as you do?” continued Sneak.

“But I—­I must go!” exclaimed Joe, starting in a half run, with the hounds (which had been forgotten by their master) following at his heels.

“Let me have the hounds, to go after my gun—­the red skins might waylay me, if I go alone, in spite of all my cunning woodcraft,” said Sneak.

“Go back!” cried Joe, to the hounds.  They instantly obeyed, and the next moment Joe was scampering homeward with all the speed of which his legs were capable.

When he reached the house, his fears were by no means allayed on beholding the most valuable articles of Roughgrove’s dwelling already removed thither, and the ferryman himself, his daughter, Boone and Glenn, assembled in consultation within the inclosure.  Joe closed the gate hurriedly after him, and bolted it on the inside.