“Maybe,” he replied calmly.

We now cautiously recrossed the stream, scarcely liking our exposed position, but there was no help for it.  After we had dressed, I marked the trees from the ford across the old path, which was visible here, and so through to our main, spotted trail; the Mohican peeled a square of bark, I wiped the white spot dry, and wrote with my wood-coal the depth of water at the crossing; then we moved swiftly forward to join the halted scouts.

Mayaro said to me:  “We have discovered old moccasin tracks, but no ford and no canoe marks.  It is not necessary for the Black-Snake to know.”

“Very well,” said I calmly.  “Do you suspect him!”

“Maybe.  Maybe not.  But—­ he once wore his hair in a ridge.”

“What!”

“I looked down on him while he ate fish at the St. Regis fire.  He has not shaved his head since two weeks.  There is a thin line dividing his head, where the hairs at their roots are bent backward.  Much oil and brushing make hairs grow that way.”

“But—­ what Indians wear their hair that way—­ like the curved ridge on a dragoon’s helmet?”

“The Eries.”

I stared at him without comprehension, for I knew an Erie scalp when I saw one.

“Not the warriors,” he added quietly.

“What in heaven’s name do you mean?” I demanded.  But we were already within sight of the others, and I heeded the cautioning touch of his hand on my arm, and was silent.

When we came up to them I said: 

“There are no riffles to indicate a ford”—­ which was true enough—­ “and on the sand were only moccasin tracks a week old.”

“The Black-Snake saw them,” said the Wyandotte, so frankly and calmly that my growing but indefinite suspicions of his loyalty were arrested for the moment.

“Why did not the Black-Snake report them?” I asked.

“They were St. Regis, and a week old, as my brother says.”  And he smiled at us all so confidingly that I could no longer believe ill of him.

“Nevertheless,” said I, “we will range out on either flank as far as the ford which should be less than a mile down stream.”  And I placed the Wyandotte between both Oneidas and on the forest side; and as the valley was dry and open under its huge standing timber, I myself led, notching the trail and keeping a lively eye to the left, wherever I caught a glimpse of water sparkling.

Presently the Mohican halted in view of the river-bank, making a sign for me to join him, which I did, briefly bidding the Stockbridge Mole to notch the trees in my stead.

“A canoe has passed,” said the Sagamore calmly.

“What!  You saw it?”

“No, Loskiel.  But there was spray on a boulder in a calm pool.”

“Perhaps a deer crossed, or a mink or otter crawled across the stone.”

“No; the drops were many, but they lay like the first drops of a rain, separate and distinct.”