The two renegades had joined the circle around the dead Indian, and had listened to the story of how he met his death. Then, when the circle had broken up, they had slowly walked back again to their former position by the bank of the river.
A puzzled look was upon Girty’s face. After they had resumed their former station, he spoke:
“Dave, the words of the chief are a mystery to me, though the Indians seem to understand them well enough. What did he mean when he spoke of the Wolf Demon? and what did that mark of a Red Arrow, cut on the breast of the dead Indian, mean?”
“Why, don’t you know?” asked the other, in astonishment.
“No; you forget that for the past six months I have been at upper Sandusky, with the Wyandots.”
“Yes; and it is just about six months since the Wolf Demon first appeared.”
“Explain,” said Girty, unable to guess the mystery.
“I will. For the past six months some mysterious being has singled out the warriors of the Shawnee tribe for his victims. He always seems to take them by surprise; single warriors alone he attacks. And on the breast of those he kills he leaves, as his mark, three slashes with a knife forming a Red Arrow, like the one you saw on this fellow.”
“But the name of the Wolf Demon?”
“I will explain. One Indian alone has lived to tell of an encounter with this mysterious slayer. He was only stunned, and recovered. He reported that he was attacked by a huge gray wolf, with a man’s head—the face painted black and white. The wolf stood on its hind legs like a man, but in hight far out-topping any human. He caught a glimpse of the monster as it struck him down with a tomahawk that the beast held in its paws. And that’s the story of the Wolf Demon, who has killed some of the bravest warriors of the Shawnee nation.”