Ross placed himself in front of La Violette, and looked to the priming of his weapon. John Douglas carried his own gun, which had been restored to him on leaving the blockhouse at Fort Meigs. Now he boldly stepped forward—his hollow eyes blazing—and shouted authoritatively, in the Shawnee tongue:
“Out of the way, you hellhounds! Do you not know me?”
From force of habit, the Indians retreated a few steps. But the thick-set warrior, who acted as leader of the band, scowled fiercely as he replied in blunt backwoods English:
“You needn’t fire any Injin lingo at me, Mr. Scar Face—as the redskins call you. I don’t understand it. But I know you—I’ve seen you ’round the camp. An’ I know what y’r little game is now—an’ I’m goin’ to block it.”
“George Hilliard!” Ross exclaimed.
“The low-lived critter!” Farley hissed, nervously fingering the trigger of his rifle.
The fat warrior overheard Ross’s exclamation, and returned savagely:
“Yes, I’m George Hilliard; an’ I’ve come to have a final settlement with you, Ross Douglas——”
“Out of the way, you infernal renegade!” John Douglas cried menacingly.