CHAPTER X. OLD ABE ON A CRUISE.
After a very brief debate, the Crow chiefs decided to give up the attack on the wagon-train and return to their homes, being fully satisfied there was but little chance of success in continuing the fight with the pale-faces.
Not a single word was said respecting the fate of the “Black Dog”; all accepted the story of the “White Vulture” that the Dog chief had fallen into the swift waters; and though of course the braves were too sensible not to know that the “White Vulture” must have had some agency in the matter, yet the explanation was reasonable and probably would satisfy the friends and relatives of the dead brave at home.
The council broke up, and braves were dispatched to call in the warriors to prepare for the march. Hardly had they departed when two mounted Indians, bearing the body of the young brave slain on his post in the little glade by the “Crow-Killer,” dashed into the camp.
The warriors crowded around and examined the body with wonder. That a foe should dare to slay one of their pickets, and accomplish it, too, without exciting the slightest alarm, was a puzzle to them.
The old chief, the “Thunder-Cloud,” carefully examined the body; he could see no other wound save the single knife-thrust through the heart—a blow evidently driven home by a powerful and practiced arm.
There was silence in the throng.
“The ‘Crow-Killer’!” said the old chief. He had often seen the deadly effects of the old Indian-fighter’s arm, and rightly guessed who had slain the young brave.
Within half an hour, the “Crow-Killer,” from his hiding-place, had the satisfaction of seeing the red braves gather in their warriors, mount their horses and depart, taking a course that led to the west; but no sign did he see of Leona. Yet it was evident from the words of the chiefs, that she was a prisoner in their hands.