Suddenly the figure paused, and apparently listened for a moment.
The sound of footsteps of the Indian warriors, headed by the White Dog, scouting through the forest, broke the stillness of the night.
But for a moment the mysterious Wolf Demon listened; then as the Indians came nearer and nearer, with a leap, as agile as that of the squirrel, the terrible form seized hold of a branch of the oak beneath which it was standing, and swung itself up into the concealment of the leaves of the tree.
The Indian braves came on and paused for consultation under the branches of the very tree that concealed, in its leafy recesses, the terrible scourge of their race.
“Wah! The pale chief is alone,” said one of the warriors; “no other pale-face is within the woods.”
“He is a brave chief to come alone to the lodges of the Shawnee nation,” said another of the warriors.
“Boone is a great brave,” said the White Dog, who felt a natural pride in extolling the bravery of the prisoner whose capture was placed to his credit.
“He will never take the war-path against the Shawnees again,” said one of the braves, with on accent of satisfaction.
“No; his scalp shall blacken and dry in the smoke of a Shawnee’s lodge,” said the White Dog.
“It is good,” responded another, with a grunt of satisfaction.