“By jingo!” he muttered, “I’m almost afear’d to look at it, yet I’ve seen death a hundred times, but I never seen a human killed by a demon before.”
Then again the hunter went on.
The rays of the moon were shining down full upon the earth as Boone crept to the side of the silent form that paid no heed to his approach.
The sight that met the wondering eyes of the scout was strange indeed.
On the prairie, extended on his back, lay a stalwart Shawnee chief.
His head was smoothly shaven, except where the eagle-plumes twined in the scalp-lock.
The blood was gushing freely from a terrible wound in his head.
An awful gash, the work of a muscular arm and a keen-edged tomahawk, told of the manner of his death.
And on the naked breast of the savage were three lines of blood.
The Red Arrow blazed there.