As he spoke, he dashed the contents of the gourd against the breast of the doomed man, and Little Fox uttered an appalling shriek which rung with startling distinctness through the forest. Now ensued a horrible scene, as Indian after Indian caught up a gourd and dashed a portion of the boiling spirits upon the naked body of the traitor. Black Will stopped his ears and turned away his head to shut out the agonizing sights and sounds which the sacrifice presented. He was a cruel man by nature, but he found that the Indians could go beyond him in refinement of torture. At last the caldron was empty, and the victim stood literally parboiled at the stake, gnawing his lips to keep down the shrieks which arose in spite of himself. The faces of his stern executioners did not change, and they were about to commence some new species of torture, when Black Will sprung between.
“Stop, Black-Hawk; stand back there, Napope. This fellow deserves death. But you shall not torture him any longer. Kill him, and put him out of pain.”
“Stand aside, white man!” cried Napope. “Why do you come between the warriors and a traitor?”
“White man! I am the son of Red-Bird, the Sac, who died in the white man’s prison; and I say that this shall not go on. Will you kill him?”
“No; let the torture go on.”
Black Will wheeled in his tracks, drew a pistol, and shot Little Fox through the heart. Bloody as the deed was, it was mercy, compared with the torture in store for the traitor. He started as the bullet pierced him, a look of ferocious joy passed over his face, and his head dropped upon his bosom. There came a wild rush at the immovable figure of Black Will, but the sonorous voice of Black-Hawk was heard, ordering them to stand back.
“Touch not the son of Red-Bird, lest you make an enemy of Black-Hawk,” he cried. “Take down the body and cast it out in the open woods, that the wolves may eat all that is left of a traitor.”
The work was done, and although there was some grumbling at being robbed of their victim so early, the bravest among the warriors were inclined to commend the bold action of Black Will, although, under the circumstances, none of them would have dared to do the same. The body was thrown upon the earth to rot, and the warriors on their march back to the village, when a runner, hot with haste, dashed into the forest and met Black-Hawk.
“Let the braves take their hatchets,” he cried. “The white men are upon the march.”
“Ha,” cried Black-Hawk. “Do they come with arms?”