Gray Wolf tried to spring out of reach of his Nemesis, shaping his lips for a war-whoop, as he did so. But the Wyandot’s tomahawk descended and buried itself in the Shawnee’s brain. The whoop ended as a death-rattle in his throat. His great bulk sank to earth, an inert mass. One bubbling expiration of the breath—and Gray Wolf was a corpse.
Bright Wing wiped the blood from his tomahawk and replaced it in his belt. Then he whipped out his scalping-knife, muttering in his own tongue:
“He helped to murder my father. His footprints will blight the flowers and grass no more. The Great Spirit willed that Gray Wolf should die by the hand of Bright Wing——”
He closed the sentence abruptly, and jerking off the reeking scalp of the Shawnee, caught up his rifle and darted away in the darkness. The sound of approaching footsteps had come to his quick ears.
A minute later a prolonged war-whoop reverberated from one end of the village to the other. In answer to it came a hundred others. All was excitement and confusion. Torches bobbed and flared here and there. An enemy was in the camp.
Bright Wing flattened his form against the sloping roof of a cabin—where he had taken refuge—and breathlessly awaited the outcome. The hut upon which he was perched stood near the edge of the inclosure, and the roof sloped toward the palisade. He was far from the blazing bonfires, and darkness sheltered him. His enemies searched high and low, but failed to discover him. Three or four times groups of them stood under the low eaves and jabbered in guttural accents. Gradually the excitement subsided and darkness and silence reigned.
Hours slipped by, but Bright Wing did not dare to leave his hiding-place. He realized fully the dangers that beset him, and he shuddered, thinking of his white friends. He must give them warning. But how? He thought of many reckless plans, but abandoned each in turn.
Midnight passed—and morning was drawing nigh. Again the town was astir. The Wyandot heard the buzz of myriad voices, and knew what it meant. The allied tribes were preparing for the attack. He stretched his cramped limbs and cautiously descended to the ground. If he was to give warning, he must be off at once. He would make an attempt—no matter how reckless. For several minutes he stood in the shadow of the low building, vainly striving to map out a plan of procedure. The steady tramp of hundreds of moccasined feet greeted his ears. The Prophet’s braves were marching forth to battle.
Bright Wing ran to the palisade and sought to scale it. Failing at one point he tried another. Frantically he dug his fingers and toes into the crevices between the upright timbers. His efforts were fruitless. He did not dare to approach the spot where he had entered the inclosure; the guards near at hand were alert. The tramp-tramp of the marching warriors drew nearer. They were approaching the northeastern gate. The Wyandot made a final effort to climb the wall—and fell back. His heart sickened. Was he doomed to failure? The thought made him desperate. Recklessly he strode to the northeastern gateway and assayed to pass out. The click of a gun-lock brought him to a standstill. A guard stepped from the shadow and said:
“Has my brother the Sign of the Prophet?”