“Is all my hair gray?” whispered Shif’less Sol.

Paul wanted to laugh in a kind of nervous relief, but he did not dare.  Instead he whispered back: 

“I can’t see, Sol, but I’m sure mine is.”

Ross and Shif’less Sol took up the paddles again, and now they reached the island without interruption.  The boat was hidden again, and soon all were in the hut in the sheltered cove.  Henry spoke with approval of the industry and forethought of Paul and Jim in their absence.

“This hut is a mighty good place on a raw night like this,” he said.  “Now, I’m going to sleep, and I’d advise you to do the same, Paul.  I’ll tell you to-morrow all that we’ve done and have seen and know.”

While the others slept, Jim Hart, long-legged and captious, but brave, faithful, and enduring, watched.  He saw the fog and the darkness clear away, and the moonlight came out, crisp and cold.  A light wind blew and dead leaves fell from the trees, rustling dryly as they fell.  Autumn was waning and cold weather would soon be at hand.  When pale dawn showed, Jim roused his comrades, and they ate breakfast, though no fire was lighted.  Then Henry talked.

“It’s true,” he said, “about a great league of all the tribes being formed to destroy forever the white settlements in Kentucky.  They are alarmed about their hunting grounds, and they think they must all strike together now, and strike hard.  We’ve spied upon several of their villages, and we know.  Some renegades are with them, pointing the way, and among them is Braxton Wyatt, the most venomous of them all.  I don’t see how one who is born white can do such a thing.”

But Paul had read books, and his mind was always leaping forward to new knowledge.

“It is the bad blood of some far-off ancestor showing,” he said.  “It is what they call a reversion.  You know, Henry, that Braxton was always mean and sulky.  I never saw anybody else so spiteful and jealous as he is, and maybe he thinks he will be a big man among the Indians.”

“That’s so,” said Henry.  “I can understand why anybody should love a life in the forest.  Ah, it’s such a glorious thing!”

He expanded his chest, and the light leaping into his eyes told that Henry Ware was living the life he loved.

“But,” he added, “I can’t see how anybody could ever turn against his own people.”

“It’s moral perversity,” said Paul.

“Moral perversity,” said Jim Hart, stumbling over the syllables.  “Them words sound mighty big, Paul.  Would you mind tellin’ us what they mean?”

“They mean, Jim,” put in Shif’less Sol, “that you won’t be what you ought to be, an’ that you won’t, all the time.”

“That’s a good enough explanation,” laughed Paul.

“Whatever is the reason,” said Tom Ross, who used words as rarely as if they were precious jewels, “the tribes are comin’ together to destroy the white settlements.  Braxton is givin’ them all kinds uv useful information, an’ we’ve got to hinder these doin’s, ef we kin.”