The chief started.
“The Wolf Demon has lived, then, a human?”
“Yes.”
“Will my father tell how that can be?”
“Yes; listen.” The Great Medicine paused for a moment, as if to collect his thoughts, then again he spoke:
“Twelve moons ago a song-bird dwelt in the wigwams of the Shawnees, in the village of Chillicothe, by the side of the Scioto. She was as fair as the rosy morn, as gentle as the summer wind, as lithe and graceful as the brown deer. She was called the Red Arrow.”
“The Great Medicine speaks with a straight tongue—the Red Arrow was the daughter of the great fighting-man of the Shawnee nation. The chief now mourns for the loss of his flower.” Ke-ne-ha-ha spoke sadly, and a gloomy cloud was on his brow as the words came from his lips.
“The Singing Bird was called the Red Arrow—a name fit more for a chief and a warrior than a bounding fawn—because when she was born the Great Spirit marked a red arrow—His totem—on her breast. Over her heart blazoned the mystic sign, yet her nature was as gentle as the pigeon’s, though she bore the totem of slaughter.”
“What my father says is true,” said the chief. “All the Shawnee tribe know of the daughter of Ke-ne-ha-ha and of the mystic totem that she bore on her breast.”
“But do all the Shawnee chiefs know of the manner of her death?”