Then rollicking Seymour and silent Fiske told of their scouting
on the trail of the beaten foe; and all asked, "Where is
Kittering?" So talk was rife, and there was one who showed a
knife he had picked up near the ambuscade with R. K. on the
shaft.
Now a dark-faced scout rose up, stared at the knife, and quickly
left the room. In three minutes he stood before General Macomb,
his words were few, but from his heart:
"It is my boy, Nibowaka; it is Rolf; my heart tells me. Let me go.
I feel him praying for me to come. Let me go, general. I must go."
It takes a great man to gauge the heart of a man who seldom speaks.
"You may go, but how can you find him tonight?"
"Ugh, I find him," and the Indian pointed to a little,
prick-eared, yellow cur that sneaked at his heels.
"Success to you; he was one of the best we had," said the
general, as the Indian left, then added: "Take a couple of men
along, and, here, take this," and he held out a flask.
Thus it was that the dawning saw Rolf on a stretcher carried by
his three scouting partners, while Skookum trotted ahead, looking
this way and that -- they should surely not be ambushed this time.
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