"How does the chief know that? Has he seen him?" Though my long exile
had well-nigh cost me the trick of it, I made shift to drop into the
stately Indian hyperbole.

"Wah! Uncanoola has seen the Great Water: that make him have long
eyes--see heap things."

"Will the Catawba tell the friend whose life he saved what he has seen?"

"Uncanoola see heap things," he repeated. "See Captain Jennif' so"--he
threw himself flat upon the ground and pictured me a fugitive crawling
snake-like through the underwood. "Bime-by, come to river and find
canoe--jump in and paddle fas'; bime-by, 'gain, stop paddling and laugh
and shake fist this way, and say 'God-damn.'"

By this I knew that Jennifer had escaped; nay, more; had somehow learned
of my escape and was seeking me.

"Is that all the chief saw?" I asked.

"Ugh! See heap more things: see one thing white squaw no let him tell
Captain Long-knife. Maybe some time tell, anyhow."

"The white squaw?" said I. "Who is she?"

The Catawba laughed, an Indian laugh, silent and suppressed; a mere
shaking of the ribs.

"No can tell that, neither, too," he said. Then, with a swift dart aside
from the subject: "Captain Long-knife care much 'bout black dogs