Wild-cat seemed to muse on the remarks of Girty, for a moment or two, and then said: 

“Why did Mishemenetoc[10] give the chief cunning, but that he might use it against his foes?—­why caution, but that he might avoid danger?”

“Why that, of course, is all well enough at times,” answered Girty; “but I don’t think either particular cunning or caution need be exercised now—­from the fact that I don’t believe there is any danger.  Even should the enemies you saw be fool-hardy enough to follow us, they are not many in number probably, and will only serve to add a few more scalps to our girdles.  However, we are safe for to-night, at all events; for if they reach the river, as I said before, they won’t be able to cross, unless they make a raft or swim it; and you may rest assured, Peshewa, they will sleep on the other side, if for nothing else than their own safety.”

“What, therefore, does my brother propose?” asked Wild-cat.

“Why, I am for encamping, as soon as we can find a suitable spot—­say within a mile of here—­for by ——!  I am not only hungry but cold, and my very bones ache, from traveling in this untimely storm, which I perceive is on the point of clearing up.”

“Peshewa likes not sleeping with danger so near,” replied the savage.

“Well, I’m not afraid,” rejoined Girty, laying particular stress on the latter word; “and so suppose you take the prisoners, with a part of the band, and go forward, while myself and the balance remain behind to reconnoitre in the morning; for by ——! that will be time enough to look for the lazy white dogs.  Yet stay!” he added, a moment after, as if struck by a new thought.  “Suppose you take the two Big Knives, and leave the squaws with me—­for being very tired, they will only be a drag upon your party—­and then you can have the stakes ready for the others, if you get in first, so that we can have the music of their groans to make us merry on our second meeting.”

To this latter proposition, the chief gave a grunt of assent, and the whole matter being speedily arranged, the council ended.

The conversation between these two worthies having been carried on in the Indian dialect, was of course wholly unintelligible to Mrs. Younker and her husband, who were standing near; and trying in vain, for some time, to gain a clue to the discussion, the good lady at last gave evidence, that if her body and limbs were weary, her tongue was not; and that with all the warnings she had received, her old habits of volubility had not as yet been entirely superseded by thoughtful silence.

“I do wonder what on yarth,” she said, “that thar read-headed Simon Girty, and that thar ripscallious old varmint, as calls himself a chief, be coniving at?—­and why the pesky Injens don’t let me and Ella and the rest on ’em come together agin, as we did afore?  Thar she stands—­the darling—­as pale nor a lily, and crying like all nater, jest as if her