“The great white-skin will die by the fire, and the red braves will dance around him with joy,” said the Indian who had first spoken, with a fierce expression of delight in his voice.
“The long-knife was alone—no more are within the wood; let us return to the village,” said the White Dog.
The other warriors grunted their assent, and the party, turning upon their heel, took the way leading back to the village.
Hardly had the figure of the rearmost savage disappeared in the gloom of the wood, when forth from the tree came the terrible figure.
Lightly it bounded to the ground, and, with a glittering tomahawk clutched in its paw, followed swiftly but cautiously on the track of the red-men.
The Indians, however, kept together. Had one remained behind the other, he would never have lived to have told what struck him.
The terrible form followed to the edge of the timber, and ground its teeth in rage at the escape of its foe.
Then it headed again for the river, keeping within the shelter of the timber. The river reached, the mysterious prowler took advantage of the stream’s bank, which had been hollowed out by the washing of the water, to reach the wigwam of Ke-ne-ha-ha in which Boone was confined.
There, in the very shadow of the wigwam, the terrible figure lay upon the ground concealed by the darkness, and listened intently.