“Down the valley.”

“Last night?”

“This morning; they surprised us in camp.”

“In camp! there were others with you, then.  Who were they? the party you had trailing us?”

“Yes,” a decidedly sullen tone creeping into his voice.  “Five of them; one was a Winnebago.”

“And Rale was along, I presume.  What became of the others?”

He shook his head, but with no show of feeling.

“That’s more than I know.  Things were hot enough for me without bothering about the rest.  I never saw any of them again, except Rale.  He was killed in the fight.  About an hour after that I shot the buck who was guarding me, and got away on his horse.”

“What Indians were they?”

“Sacs mostly; some Foxes, and maybe a Winnebago or two.”

“Was Black Hawk with them?”

“I don’t know—­I never saw Black Hawk.”

I felt firmly convinced that he was deliberately lying, and yet there was nothing in his story which might not be true.  No doubt it was prejudice, personal hatred, and distrust which led me to come to this conclusion.  Well, true or not, I meant to see that he fought now.

“All right, but I advise you to keep your eyes outside,” I said sternly.  “Don’t be staring about the cabin any more.”

“I was looking for something to eat.”

“Is that so?  Well, you better stand it for awhile without eating.  What is it, Eloise?”

“Please let me hand him some food.”

I hesitated, conscious that I disliked even the thought of her serving the fellow in any way, yet unable to resist the eager plea in her eyes.

“Very well, if you wish to; only keep down out of range; those Indians may try for the loopholes.  It is more than you deserve, Kirby.”

He made no response, and I watched him closely as he endeavored to eat what she proffered him, and felt convinced that it was hard work.  The man had lied about being hungry; he was not in need of food, and my deep-rooted suspicion of him only flamed up anew.  A hand gripped at my sleeve timidly, and I turned quickly to encounter the eyes of Asa Hall.  Never did I read such depth of fear in the expression of any face—­it was the wild, unreasoning terror of an animal.

“What is it, my boy?”

“It’s him, seh,” he whispered, his lips trembling so I could scarce catch the words.  “Thet feller thar.  He’s—­he’s the one I saw las’ night with Black Hawk.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, seh; I know him.  I saw him plain as I do now.”

I do not know why, but every bit of evidence against the man came instantly thronging back to my mind—­the chance remark of Thockmorton on the Warrior about his suspicion of Indian blood; the high cheek bones and thin lips; the boy’s earlier description; the manner in which our trail had been so relentlessly followed; the strange emblem found pinned to the blanket.  I seemed to grasp the entire truth—­the wily, cowardly scheme of treachery he was endeavoring to perpetrate.  My blood boiled in my veins, and yet I felt cold as ice, as I swung about, and faced the fellow, my rifle flung forward.