They listened and amid the crackling of the flames they now heard the whooping and yelling of a score of Indians, while the flickering glare showed to them the dusky forms moving in one direction and another. Some of the Indians had found a demijohn of liquor belonging to the Englishman and were gulping this down in great glee, while others paraded around with various spoils of war in their hands.
"I'd like to give 'em a shot—they deserve it," muttered Dave.
"Don't you do it," interposed Henry, hastily. "They'd be on us like a wind-fall."
"What do you suppose has become of Mr. Risley and his wife?"
"Heaven alone knows, Dave. I trust they have escaped."
"If that was Mr. Risley shooting, do you suppose his wife is with him?"
"There is no telling. Perhaps he wasn't home when the Indians came up. If that's so then Mrs. Risley is either dead or a prisoner."
"Was she alone?"
"I think so—at least I didn't hear of anybody going over lately."
"I wonder if we can't get a bit closer without being seen? Perhaps we can learn something to our advantage."
