He knew and feared the Death-Dealer, and it was in part to mislead him that he had divided the party.
He knew that the dreaded scout was a host in himself, and that his deadly blows fell ofttimes where and when they were the least expected by his enemies.
Once among his own people and in the heart of their village, he felt that he would be safe from him, and that there would be no one who could wrest his chosen bride from him.
So all through the first hours of the night he hurried onward. The moon rose and climbed high into the heavens and when it had reached the zenith, the village was gained, and with his almost unconscious burden in his arms he stood before his lodge.
No human being save his companions were stirring about him, and with a word he sent them to their several lodges, and then lifting the skin that hung in the doorway he bore Ruth within his own.
A lamp of rude construction, swinging from the roof, and which emitted a pale light, half dispelled, half revealed the darkness which filled the lodge.
Squatted almost beneath it, and apparently buried in slumber, though gently swaying back and forth, was an old Indian woman; Nekomis by name, who for many moons had kept the lodge of the chief and prepared his food, when he was not absent in the chase or upon the war-path.
Approaching a couch which lay in one corner of the apartment, the chief placed his almost unconscious burden upon it, and then stepping to the side of the Indian woman he said, as he touched her upon the shoulder:
“The fingers of sleep must be heavy upon the eyes of Nekomis, that she hears not the footsteps of the chief when he comes. Let her awake, for he has need of her.”
The old squaw awoke with a start and staggered to her feet.