Alagwa saw red. Wilwiloway was her friend; all her life she had known him; he had loved her; he was being foully murdered. With a scream she snatched her hunting knife from her belt and dashed to his aid.
The man in the road saw her coming and fired. Alagwa knew that he had fired at her, but she did not mind. What she did mind was that she had stumbled on something, stumbled so violently that the shock sent her staggering backward. As she reeled, she saw the young man on the horse spurring forward.
Wilwiloway was still clinging to the tree. He saw the girl totter and the sight seemed to give him strength. With a yell of fury he leaped upon the man in the road, tore from his hands the yet smoking rifle, and struck with it once—a mighty blow that sent the man crashing to the ground, a crimson furrow across his shattered skull.
Wilwiloway did not pause. Over the dead form of his enemy he sprang, leaping upward at the man on the box, to meet a crashing blow that hurled him backward and downward into the dust of the road.
With a whoop the man on the box sprang to the ground, knife in hand. An instant later he was up, waving a bloody trophy. He saw the girl still clutching at the air and rushed toward her.
Alagwa saw it all. Wilwiloway was dead, and she was at the mercy of her enemies. She could not even move; her legs had grown strangely heavy. But her spirit rose indomitably. Forgotten was her white ancestry; once more she was an Indian, trained in Indian ideals. Steadily she drew herself up, folded her arms across her breast, and stared unflinchingly at the coming death. She would show them how a Shawnee could die. Deliberately she began to sing the Shawnee death chant:
Behold, the water covers now our feet:
Rivers must we cross; deep waters must we pass.
Oh Kawas, hear: To thee we call. Oh come and aid us.
Help us through the stream to pass and forward go.