went on with long stealthy strides. His movements were panther-like,
and the boy imitated them. He was a tall, handsome, big-framed lad
with blond hair and blue eyes. They could soon see their way clearly.
At the edge of the valley the scout stopped and peered out upon it. A
deep mist lay on the meadows.

"I like day-dark in Injun country," he whispered. "Come on."

They hurried through sloppy footing in the wet grass that flung its dew
into their garments from the shoulder down. Suddenly Mr. Binkus
stopped. They could hear the sound of heavy feet splashing in the wet
meadow.

"Scairt moose, runnin' this way!" the scout whispered. "I'll bet ye a
pint o' powder an' a fish hook them Injuns is over east o' here."

It was his favorite wager--that of a pint of powder and a fish hook.

They came out upon high ground and reached the valley trail just as the
sun was rising. The fog had lifted. Mr. Binkus stopped well away from
the trail and listened for some minutes. He approached it slowly on
his tiptoes, the boy following in a like manner. For a moment the
scout stood at the edge of the trail in silence. Then, leaning low, he
examined it closely and quickly raised his hand.

"Hoofs o' the devil!" he whispered as he beckoned to the boy. "See
thar," he went on, pointing to the ground. "They've jest gone by. The
grass ain't riz yit. Wait here."

He followed the trail a few rods with eyes bent upon it. Near a little