Long she stood at the door, peering into the room, her heart hammering in unsteady rhythm. At last she stepped forward gingerly, threading her way, inch by inch, catching her breath as some sleeper stirred uneasily, expecting every moment to hear the ringing out of a fierce challenge. Foot by foot she pressed onward till the door was at her hand. Through it she stepped out beneath the midnight sky.
The night was very still. High overhead the slim crescent of the moon peered through swift-flying clouds. Round about, the great stars, scarcely dimmed, flared like far-off candles. The broad shallow river ran away to the east, a silver whiplash laid across the darkened prairie. Beyond, the huddle of huts that marked the Indian village stood out against the horizon. To the left, nearer at hand, rose the black quadrilateral of the fort.
All around rose the voices of the night. A screech owl hooted from a near-by tree. A fox barked in the long grass. Nearer at hand restless horses and mules stamped at their fastenings. Over all rose the bellow of bullfrogs, the lapping of the river against its banks, and the ceaseless, strident calls of the crickets.
Once more Alagwa’s hot eyes sought the fort. Within it were the men of the race she hated—the men who had derided and had threatened the young white chief. There, too, the murderer of Wilwiloway slept safe and snug, pardoned—yes, even commended—for his crime. And should she withhold her hand? Never! She would take revenge upon them all.
Swiftly she slipped through the grass to the shadow of a near-by tree. Then, raising her head, she gave the soft cry of the whip-poor-will.
Long she waited, but no answer came. Again she called and yet again, till at last an answering call came softly to her ears. A moment more and the form of the runner shaped itself out of the night.
Eagerly she leaned forward. “Bear word to the great chief,” she said, in the Shawnee tongue, “that the fort here is almost without ammunition. Let the great chief come quickly and it will fall into his hands like a ripe persimmon. But let him have a care for the lives of the agent, Major Stickney, and for those of Peter Bondie and his family. They are the friends of Alagwa.”
The runner nodded. “Alagwa need not fear,” he promised. “They are also the friends of the Indian. Is there more to be said.”
“Yes!” Alagwa nodded. “Tell the great chief that I have found the young white chief from the south, and that through him I hope to learn many things that, without him, I could not learn. Say to him that Alagwa demands that he give warning to all his warriors not to touch the white chief. For on him Alagwa’s success depends. I have spoken. Go.”