What of that?"
"Well, then, this mornin' I was cuttin' down as big an
oak as ever grew in Michigan, when, as it went thunderin'
through the branches, with noise enough to scare every
buffalo within a day's hunt, up started, not twenty yards
from it's tip, ten or a dozen or so of Injins, all gruntin'
like pigs, and looking as fierce as so many red devils.
They didn't look quite pleasant, I calcilate."
"Indeed," remarked Mr. Heywood, musingly; "a party of
Pottawattamies I presume, from the Fort. We all know
there is a large encampment of them in the neighborhood,
but they are our friends."
"May-be so," continued Ephraim Giles, "but these varmint
didn't look over friendly, and then I guess the
Pottawattamies don't dress in war paint, 'cept when they
dance for liquor."
"And are you quite sure these Indians were in their war
paint?" asked his master, with an ill-concealed look of
anxiety.
"No mistake about it," replied Giles, still whittling,
"and I could almost swear, short as the squint was I got
of 'em, that they were part of those who fought us on
the Wabash, two years ago.
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