A full ten minutes passed.

Robert had not stirred.

He was crouched behind the tree, blending with the grass, and he held his rifle ready to be fired in an instant, should the need arise.
The bush that had moved against the wind had ceased stirring long since, but now he saw another shaking and it, too, paid no attention to the laws of nature, defying the wind as the first had done.

Robert concentrated his gaze upon it, thankful that he had not made the black bear the original cause of things, and presently he saw the feathered head of an Indian appear among the leaves.

It was only a glimpse, he did not see the body or even the face of the warrior, but it was enough.
Where one warrior was another was likely to be in those northern marches, the most dangerous kind of neutral ground.
He began to slide away, keeping the big tree trunk between him and the thicket, using all the arts of the forest trailer that he had learned by natural aptitude and long practice.