She glided to the savage and leaned over him and said something. Then she was back to her brother, and the two disappeared into the woods.
I drew a line on the savage and in Shawnee demanded:
“Throw me the knife she gave you.”
Glaring at me sullenly, he flipped the knife toward the fire and resumed his attitude of abstraction. I had never killed an unarmed Indian. I had never shot one in cold blood. The office of executioner did not appeal, but repulsive as it was it would not do for the boy to kill his savage brother-in-law. Lost Sister and the savage were man and wife, even if married according to the Indian custom.
Nor would it do for a woman of Virginia to be redeemed to civilization with a red husband roaming at large. No. The fellow must die, and I had the nasty work to do. The glade was thickening with shadows, but the sunlight still marked the top of an elm and made glorious the zenith. When the light died from the heavens I would assassinate the man.
This would give him a scant hour, but a dozen or fifteen minutes of life could make small difference. Then again, once the dusk filled the glade my impassive victim would become alert and up to some of his devilish tricks. He did not change his position except as he turned his head to gaze fixedly at the western forest wall. One could imagine him to be ignorant of my presence.
“Where does Black Hoof lead his warriors?” I asked him.
Without deflecting his gaze he answered:
“Back to their homes on the Scioto.”
“The white trader, the Pack-Horse-Man, spoke words that drive them back?”