“The murdering hound!” said Crawford. A swirl of hatred swept up in his heart. Something burst within him—all his restraint was gone, all his self-control, all his cold caution. He whirled on Black Kettle, a blaze in his blue eyes. “You shall look after Metaminens—he needs only food and rest. This message says that Red Bull has murdered my men. I am going on ahead of him, past him, over him, to find the Star Woman—and to find him, also!”
The Mohegan regarded him steadily, then made indirect protest.
“My white brother is very angry. Does his manitou tell him that anger is a good companion on such a trail?”
Crawford snarled an oath. The murder of his men was the last straw. Every atom of his cold reserve was swept away.
“If I find that dog Maclish I’ll slit his throat instead of his face, this time! What about you and Perrot? Will the Stone Men follow that idiot here?”
“No,” said the Mohegan. “They are not coming this way. They are north of us.”
“You’ll be safe if the Dacotah war-party finds you, then?”
“My father Metaminens is a chief of the Dacotah.”
“Then farewell.”
The Mohegan grunted in reply. Pausing only to retrieve his musket, Crawford plunged into the trees, with hatred of Maclish burning like a living flame in his heart.