looking at him with my legs apart, for the son of the Great Chief must not run away.  And I marked that the North Wind had two great ornamental daubs like shutter-fastenings painted on his cheeks.  I sniffed preparation, too, on his followers, and I was sure they were getting ready for some new deviltry.  I handed the note to Mr. Brady through the crack of the door that he vouchsafed to me, and when he had slammed and bolted me out, I ran into the street and stood for some time behind the trunk of a big hickory, watching the followers of the North Wind.  Some were painting themselves, others cleaning their rifles and sharpening their scalping knives.  All jabbered unceasingly.  Now and again a silent brave passed, paused a moment to survey them gravely, grunted an answer to something they would fling at him, and went on.  At length arrived three chiefs whom I knew to be high in the councils.  The North Wind came out to them, and the four blanketed forms stood silhouetted between me and the fire for a quarter of an hour.  By this time I was sure of a plot, and fled away to another tree for fear of detection.  At length stalked through the street the Hungry Wolf, the interpreter.  I knew this man to be friendly to Clark, and I acted on impulse.  He gave a grunt of surprise when I halted before him.  I made up my mind.

“The son of the Great Chief knows that the Puans have wickedness in their hearts to-night,” I said; “the tongue of the Hungry Wolf does not lie.”

The big Indian drew back with another grunt, and the distant firelight flashed on his eyes as on polished black flints.

“Umrrhh!  Is the Pale Face Chief’s son a prophet?”

“The anger of the Pale Face Chief and of his countrymen is as the hurricane,” I said, scarce believing my own ears.  For a lad is imitative by nature, and I had not listened to the interpreters for three days without profit.

The Hungry Wolf grunted again, after which he was silent for a long time.  Then he said:—­

“Let the Chief of the Long Knives have guard tonight.”  And suddenly he was gone into the darkness.

I waded the creek and sped to Clark.  He was alone now, the shutters of the room closed.  And as I came in I could scarce believe that he was the same masterful man I had seen at the council that day, and at the conference an hour gone.  He was once more the friend at whose feet I sat in private, who talked to me as a companion and a father.

“Where have you been, Davy?” he asked.  And then, “What is it, my lad?”

I crept close to him and told him in a breathless undertone, and I knew that I was shaking the while.  He listened gravely, and when I had finished laid a firm hand on my head.

“There,” he said, “you are a brave lad, and a canny.”

He thought a minute, his hand still resting on my head, and then rose and led me to the back door of the house.  It was near midnight, and the sounds of the place were stilling, the crickets chirping in the grass.