“No—no!” she pouted prettily. “Now is the time. Come to the house with me at once.”
“I cannot, dear. Be patient a little while. As you say—all will be well.”
Quickly arising to her feet and catching him by the arm, she cried playfully:
“You shall not go. See—I’ll hold you.”
He bent and kissed her. Then slipping his arm around her yielding waist he remarked:
“Amy, there is another reason why I should go to fight against the allied tribes. Leatherlips, the foster-father of Bright Wing, was one of my steadfast friends. As you know, he was brutally murdered a year ago last June, at the instigation of the Shawnee Prophet. His death should be avenged.”
A startled look crept into her eyes, and involuntarily she shrunk from him as she whispered tremulously:
“Ross—Ross! Surely you don’t mean to do murder! You’re not an Indian. I’m almost afraid of you.”
With a merry laugh he caught her to him and answered:
“What a timid little body you are, Amy. Of course I don’t mean to do murder. But I do mean that the Prophet shall be shorn of his power to do further mischief, to commit further acts of violence—and that I should help to do it. And”—in a low, fierce tone—“if ever I meet him in open battle one of us will die. Bid me good-by now. I must be going—my comrades are waiting for me.”