Presently the Siwanois checked me and whispered: 

“Yonder squats your Wyandotte sentinel.”

“Where?  I can not see him.”

“On that flat rock by the deep water, seeming a part of it.”

“Are you certain?”

“Yes, Loskiel.”

“You saw him move?”

“No.  But a Siwanois of the Magic Clan makes nothing of darkness.  He sees where he chooses to see.

“Mayaro,” said I, “what do you make of this Wyandotte?”

“He has quitted his post without orders for a spot by the deep water.  A canoe could come there, and he could speak to those within it.”

“That might damn a white soldier, but an Indian is different.”

“He is a Wyandotte—­ or says he is.”

“Yes, but he came with credentials from Fortress Pitt.”

“Once,” said the Sagamore, “he wore his hair in a ridge.”

“If the Eries learned that from the Nez Perces, why might not the Wyandottes also learn it?”

“He wears the Hawk.”

“Yes, I know it.”

“He saw the moccasin tracks in the sand at the other ford, Loskiel, and remained silent.”

“I know it.”

“And I believe, also, that he saw the canoe.”

“Then,” said I, “you mean that this Wyandotte is a traitor.”

“If he be a Wyandotte at all.”

“What?”

“He may be Huron; he may be a Seneca-Huron.  But we Indians think differently, Loskiel.”

“What do you think?”

“We do not know for certain.  But”—­ and the Mohican’s voice became quietly ferocious—­ “if a war-arrow ever struck this Wyandotte between the shoulders I think every tree-cat in the Long House would squall at the condoling council.”

“You think this Wyandotte an Erie in disguise?” I asked incredulously.

“We Indians of different nations are asking that question of each other, Loskiel.”

“What is the mind of the Grey-Feather concerning this?” I asked, horrified.

“Oneida and Stockbridge begin to believe as I believe.”

“That this creature is a spy engaged to lead us to our deaths?  Do they believe that this self-styled Wyandotte is an infamous Erie?”

“We so believe, Loskiel.  We are not yet certain.”

“But you who have taken Erie scalps should know——­”

“We know an Erie by his paint and lock; by his arms and moccasins.  But when an Erie wears none of these it is not easy to determine exactly what he might be.  There is, in the Western nation, much impure blood, much mixing of captive and adopted prisoners with the Seneca conquerors.  If an Erie wear cats’ claws at the root of his scalp-lock, even a blind Quaker might know him.  If one of their vile priests wear his hair in a ridge, then, unless he be a Nez Perce, there need be no doubt.  But this man dresses and paints and conducts like no Erie I have ever seen.  And yet I believe him one, and a Sachem at that!”