“No, he shall not die, chief,” Bradford cried angrily. “He fought for life and liberty. You assailed him twenty to one. I rescued him—he is my prisoner. I shall take him to the village with me.”
“He is not Scar Face’s prisoner,” the chief returned fiercely, laying his hand upon his tomahawk—while his warriors crowded around him, muttering threateningly.
“Tenskwatawa shall decide,” Bradford answered coolly.
“Tenskwatawa is a squaw! He promised us victory; we met defeat.”
“Say that to Tenskwatawa, and he will cast a spell upon you.”
A grayish pallor overspread the chief’s dusky visage. His eyes dilated and his jaw dropped. Bradford quickly followed up the advantage he had gained. Leaning forward, he whispered in the Indian’s ear:
“Shall I repeat your words to the Prophet?”
Abject terror took possession of the chief. He trembled, and gasped for breath. His warriors uttered startled grunts and drew away. Bradford continued sternly:
“Then, take your braves and be off to the village. I will follow with the prisoner.”