“Yes,” replied Leona, now passive in her agony.
“It is good—wait!” responded the chief.
Then the “White Vulture” left the girl, walked back through the village and halted at the door of the lodge wherein were confined the two guides. The two braves on watch at the entrance drew off to a respectful distance as the chief entered the hut.
The two hunters, by the dim light thrown from the fire, could discern who their visitor was, and they exchanged a glance of meaning as the elder looked upon his son and the younger hunter upon his brother.
Noiselessly and without a word the “White Vulture” drew his keen-edged scalping-knife, stepped across the lodge and slit the skins that formed the back of the lodge so as to make a passage through them; then passing through, he beckoned the hunters to follow. Their hands alone were bound; they obeyed the gesture in wonder. The “White Vulture” cautiously led the way back of the lodges to the outskirts of the village to the little thicket; there he halted and brought Leona forth from the wood; with a cry of joy she rushed to her lover’s side, clinging to him in a passionate frenzy.
“The Singing Bird has saved the life of the white hunter by consenting to sing in the lodge of the ‘White Vulture.’”
“Never!” cried Dave. “I will not accept life on such conditions!”
The “Crow-Killer” regarded the “White Vulture” with a puzzled look.
Without a word, the Indian chief removed the thongs that bound the arms of the whites.