All of the cooking was done at night, but in the open, in a kind of rude oven that Jim Hart built of loose stones, and never did food taste better in the mouth of a hungry youth than it did in that of Paul.  The air was growing much colder.  Paul, who was in the habit of taking a dip in the lake every night, found the waters so chill now that he could not stay in long, although the bath was wonderfully invigorating.  Whenever the wind blew the dead leaves fell in showers, and Paul knew he would soon be deeply thankful they had the hut as a retreat.

About ten days after their return Henry came back from a scout around the Miami village, and he brought news of interest.

“Braxton Wyatt is still there,” he said, “and he is so mixed up that he does not know just what to do for the present.  After saying one thing and then denying himself, he is in the bad graces of both parties of the Miamis.  For the same reason he doesn’t dare to go back for a while to the Shawnees, so he is waiting for things to straighten themselves out, which they won’t do for a long time.  The Miami belt bearers have not yet returned from the Shawnee village, and then belts will have to go back and forth a dozen times each before either tribe can find out what the other means.”

“An’ if we kin keep ’em misunderstandin’ each other,” said Shif’less Sol, “they can’t make any attack on the white settlements until away next spring, an’ by that time a lot more white people will arrive from over the mountains.  We’ll be at least twice ez strong then.”

“That’s so,” said Henry; “and the greatest work we five can do is to stay here and put as many spokes as we can in the Indian alliance.”

“And I am glad to be here with all of you,” said Paul earnestly.  It seemed to him the greatest work in the world, this holding back of the tribes until their intended victim should acquire strength to beat them off, and his eyes shone.  Besides the mere physical happiness that he felt, there was a great mental exhilaration, an exaltation, even, and he looked forward to the winter of a warrior and a statesman.

Paul’s body flourished apace in the cold, nipping air and the wild life.  There were discomforts, it is true, but he did not think of them.  He looked only at the comforts and the joys.  He knew that his muscles were growing and hardening, that eye, ear, all the five senses, in truth, were growing keener, and he felt within him a courage that could dare anything.

Henry made another expedition, to discover, if he could, whether the Miamis suspected that the haunted island harbored their foes.  They did not ask him what means he used, how he disguised himself anew, or whether he disguised himself at all, but he returned with the news that they had no suspicion.  The island was still sacred to the spirits—­a place where they dare not land.  This was satisfying news to all, and they rested for a while.

Three or four days after Henry’s return a strong wind stripped the last leaves from the trees.  All the reds and yellows and browns were gone, and the gusts whistled fiercely among the gray branches.  The surface of the lake was broken into cold waves, that chased each other until they died away at the shore.