Which, again, if it was meant that way, hinted that the Hawk was an alien clan, and neither recognized nor understood by the Oneida.  Also, by addressing the Wyandotte as “elder” brother, the Oneida conveyed a broad hint of blood relationship between Huron and Seneca.  Yet, there need have been nothing definitely offensive in that hint, because among all the nations a certain amalgamation always took place after an international conflict.

The Wyandotte did not lose his temper, nor even, apparently, perceive how slyly he was being baited by all except myself.

“What is the opinion of the Loup, O Sagamore?” he asked lightly.

“Does my brother the Black-Snake desire to know the Sagamore’s opinion concerning the cawing of yonder crows?”

The Wyandotte inclined his ugly head.

“I think,” said the Mohican deliberately, “that there may be a tree-cat in their vicinity.”

A dead silence followed.  The Wyandotte’s countenance was still smiling, but I thought the smile had stiffened and become fixed, though not a tremour moved him.  Yet, what the Mohican had said—­ always with two meanings, and one quite natural and innocent—­ meant, if taken in its sinister sense, that not only might there be Senecas lying in ambush at the ford, but also emissaries from the Red Priest Amochol himself.  For the forest lynx, or tree-cat, was the emblem of these people; and every Indian present knew it.

Still, also, every man there had seen crows gather around and scold a lynx lying flattened out on some arching limb.

Whether now there was any particular suspicion of this Wyandotte among the other Indians; whether it was merely their unquenchable and native distrust of any Huron whatever; whether the subtle chaff were playful or partly serious, I could not determine from their manner or expression.  All spoke pleasantly and quietly, and with open or expressionless countenances.  And the Wyandotte still smiled, although what was going on under that urbane mask of his I had no notion whatsoever.

I turned cautiously, and looked behind us.  We were gathered in a kind of natural and moss-grown rocky pulpit, some thirty feet above the stream, and with an open view down its course to the distant riffles.  Beyond them the river swung southward, walling our view with its flanking palisade of living green.

“We camp here,” I said quietly.  “No fire, of course.  Two sentinels—­ the Night Hawk and the Black-Snake.  The guard will be relieved every two hours.  Wake me at the first change of watch.”

I laid my watch on a rock where all could see it, and, opening my sack, fished out a bit of dried beef and a handful of parched corn.

Mayaro shared with me on my motioned invitation; the others fell to in their respective and characteristic manners, the Oneidas eating like gentlemen and talking together in their low and musical voices; the Wyandotte gobbling and stuffing his cheeks like a chipmunk.  The Stockbridge Mole, noiseless and mum as the occult and furry animal which gave to him his name, nibbled sparingly all alone by himself, and read in his Algonquin Testament between bites.