ence of their enemies.

They kept on performing motions with their arms and hands, which had led
Darling to believe that they were patronizing the homely art of washing.

"Ready?" whispered the boy.

"Ready!" I've covered my man was the low but distinct response.

There was a moment's silence. The word "fire" was struggling for
utterance on Carl Merriweather's lips when his cousin's hand leaped from
the trigger and covered the flint of his weapon.

"Look at the tall fellow," cried the young backwoodsman. "By the snows
of Iceland! he's a white man."

Sure enough, one of the occupants of the tree had suddenly risen to his
feet and turned his face towards the depths of the forest. The skin
which had been red was white now. Water had metamorphosed him into his
true character.

Carl Merriweather grew pale when he saw the transformation, and gave his
companion a look which made him smile.

"Both are white!" Darling said. "The short one has washed his face.
See!"

"That is true," said Carl. "A moment more, and we would have sent
bullets into their brains. Who can they be? Rascally renegades, no
doubt, and as such deserve our balls."

"More likely Wayne's scouts," replied the settler's nephew. "They often
disguise themselves as Indians, and reassume their true character when
it suits them. They are leaving the tree now."

As the young man spoke the twain emerged from the tree top, and
approached the brow of the hill.

One was much taller than his companion, and his face looked sad and
careworn. Both carried rifles, and tomahawks peeped above their deerskin
belts.

They cut a strange figure with white hands and faces, but with shoulders
copper-colored, like the Indians'. Their scanty garments were of genuine
Indian manufacture, and tufts of feathers, daubed with ochre and sienna,
crowned their heads.

"They mean mischief," Carl Merriweather suddenly exclaimed. "Don't let
them get to camp if they are really enemies; don't let them see how weak
we are."

A moment later George Darling rose and spoke to the advancing couple:

"Friends or enemies?" he cried.

The strangers executed a sudden halt, and hastily cocking their rifles,
looked about for the speaker. But the young man was not easily seen, for
his body was screened by a tree.

"Friends or enemies?" he repeated. "You can't advance until you have
told us."

"Friends, of course," was the response by the youngest of the twain.
"You belong to Abel Merriwe