"If this isn't plain English," said the reckless frontier man,
"it's plain Indian! Here's what they call a dicliration of war,
down at York, Judith. How did you come by this defiance, Deerslayer?"
"Fairly enough. It lay not a minut' since, in what you call Floatin'
Tom's door-yard."
"How came it there?"
"It never fell from the clouds, Judith, as little toads sometimes
do, and then it don't rain."
"You must prove where it come from, Deerslayer, or we shall suspect
some design to skear them that would have lost their wits long ago,
if fear could drive 'em away."
Deerslayer had approached a window, and cast a glance out of it on
the dark aspect of the lake. As if satisfied with what he beheld,
he drew near Hurry, and took the bundle of sticks into his own
hand, examining it attentively.
"Yes, this is an Indian declaration of war, sure enough," he said,
"and it's a proof how little you're suited to be on the path it
has travelled, Harry March, that it has got here, and you never
the wiser as to the means. The savages may have left the scalp on
your head, but they must have taken Off the ears; else you'd have
heard the stirring of the water made by the lad as he come off
ag'in on his two logs.
Pages:
410
411
412
413
414
415
416
417
418
419
420
421
422
423
424
425
426
427
428
429
430
431
432
433
434