He had hunted the deer, but little thought that he, too, in turn was hunted.
The red chief guessed not that the dread demon of his nation—the terrible foe who had left his red “totem” on the breast of many a stout Shawnee brave—was even now on his track, eager for that blood which was necessary to its existence.
With careless steps the warrior retraced his way.
From behind a tree-trunk came the terrible form. One single blow, and a tomahawk crashed through the brain of the red-man.
With a groan the Shawnee chief sunk lifeless to the earth.
The dark form bent over him for a moment. Three rapid knife-slashes, and the mark of the destroyer was blazoned on the breast of the victim, reddened with blood.
Then through the aisles of the forest stole the dark form.
All living things—the insects of the earth—the birds of the night—shrunk from its path.
It crossed the glade full in the soft light of the moon.
The rays of the orb of night fell upon a huge gray wolf, who walked erect like a man! The face of the wolf was that of a human. In the paw of the beast glistened the tomahawk of the red-man, the edge now scarlet with the blood of the Shawnee chief.