en, and yet see all that passed at the Council House.
The water from the bushes that they had moved dropped upon them, but
they did not notice it. Nor did they care either that the spire of smoke
still rose through the roof of the old Council House. Five pairs of
uncommonly keen eyes were watching the forest to see their enemies come
forth.

"I saw the fellow make the big smoke," said Shif'less Sol, "but I knowed
that you saw, too. So I jest waited till you give the word, Henry."

"I wanted them to go through to the end with it," replied Henry. "If we
had stopped the man when he was bringing in the leaves he might have
made some sort of excuse, and we should have had no proof at all against
them."

"Them's false names they gave o' course."

"Of course. It is likely that the man who called himself Holdsworth is
somebody of importance. His manner indicated it. How ugly that
harelipped fellow was!"

"How long do you think it will be before they come back?" asked
Shif'less Sol.

"Not long. The Indian force could not have been more than a mile or so
away, or they would not have relied on smoke signals in the night. It
will be only a short wait, Sol, until we see something interesting. Now
I wish I knew that harelipped man!"

Henry and his comrades could have slipped away easily in the darkness,
but they had no mind to do so. Theirs was a journey of discovery, and,
since here was an opportunity to do what they wished, they would not
avoid it, no matter how great the risk. So they waited patiently. The
forest still dripped water, but they had seldom seen the skies a
brighter blue at night. The spire of smoke showed against it sharp and
clear, as if it had been day. In the brilliant moonlight the ruined
village assumed another ghostly phase. All the rugged outlines of
half-fallen tepees were silvered and softened. Henry, with that
extraordinary sensitiveness of his to nature and the wilderness, felt
again the mysticism and unreality of this place, once inhabited by man
and now given back to the forest. In another season or two the last
remnant of bark would disappear, the footpaths would be grown up with
bushes, and the wild animals would roam there unafraid.

All these thoughts passed like a succession of mental flashes through
the mind of the forest dreamer--and a dreamer he was, a poet of the
woods--as he waited there for what might be, and what probably would be,
a tragedy. But as these visions flitted past there