“Ere the heart of the warrior can beat ten, the Wolf Demon will stand before him,” chanted the solemn voice of the old Indian.
Then all was silent.
In the stillness, the throbbings of the Indian’s heart seemed to his excited fancy to make as big a noise as the foot-fall of the brown deer falling upon the forest-glade.
More and more dense grew the gloom.
The blanket that had concealed the figure of the Medicine Man from the chief dropped to the ground.
The old Indian had disappeared.
In his place stood the terrible form that all living things shrunk from.
Face to face with the chief of the Shawnee nation stood the Wolf Demon!
In his paw he held the death-dealing tomahawk, whose edge, even now, was crusted red with Shawnee blood.
The eyeballs of the chief were distended with horror as he looked upon the awful form. But no thought of fear was in the mind of the Shawnee warrior.