The head of the chief had been split open by a single blow, and that dealt by a giant’s hand. The wound had apparently been made by a tomahawk, and, as the chief guessed, the dead man had been attacked suddenly, and from the rear.
“Did my warriors find no trail of the enemy who took the life of their brother?” asked the chief, still keeping his position by the body, and with a puzzled look upon his face.
“Wah!—the Shawnee braves have eyes—they are not blind, like owls in the light. When they found the Little Crow dead, they looked for the track of the foe. They found footprints by the body, but the trail came from nowhere and went nowhere.”
“And the footprints—Indian or pale-face?”
“Pale-face, but the moccasins of the red-man,” answered the brave.
The brow of the chief grew dark. A white foe so near the village of the Shawnee, and so daring as to attack and kill one of the best warriors of the tribe, apparently without a struggle, must needs be looked after.
“My braves must hunt down the pale-face that wears the moccasin of the Indian and uses the tomahawk,” said the chief, gravely.
Then Ke-ne-ha-ha drew aside the blanket that was wrapt around the body of the dead brave. A cry of horror broke from the lips of the great chief, and was re-echoed by the surrounding Indians when they gazed upon the naked breast of the dead warrior.
“The totem of the Wolf Demon!” exclaimed the chief.
The circle of friends gazed upon the mysterious mark in silent consternation. Their staring eyes and fear-stricken countenances showed plainly how deeply they were interested.