“Watega dead!” he cried, hardly willing to believe the news.
“The Great Medicine has said that he sleeps the long sleep that knows no waking,” chanted the old Indian, his voice coming from beneath the blankets wrapped around his head like a voice from the tomb.
“How can my father know that Watega is dead?” demanded the chief, obstinately refusing to believe.
“Does the Shawnee chief question the power of the Great Medicine, and yet come to him for advice?” said the old Indian, with an accent of scorn in his voice.
“My father is sure?”
“Yes.”
“Watega was a great warrior; peace be with him,” said the chief, solemnly.
“Little Crow and Watega fell by the tomahawk of the Wolf Demon in the forest, and not an hour ago the Red Leaf met his death by the Scioto, and the Wolf Demon dealt the blow.”
“Ke-ne-ha-ha saw the slain brave, the last victim of the white devil,” the chief said, sorrowfully.
“No, the chief is wrong; not the last victim, for another Shawnee has felt the keen edge of the tomahawk of the Wolf Demon, since the Red Leaf died by his hand.”