Ross hesitated and drew back.
“Don’t be a fool!” Bradford hissed. “This is no time for squeamish notions of independence.”
“But I hate him!” Douglas panted. “I would kill him!”
“Nevertheless,” was the unmoved reply, “he holds the winning cards, at present. Our lives are in his hands. No doubt the chief and his warriors have been to him. Come—and leave everything to me.”
At that moment Tenskwatawa lifted his head and fixed his one eye upon them. A malicious smile flickered about the corners of his sensual mouth—and was gone. Again he was a graven image.
Bradford was about to speak, when a gigantic Indian accompanied by a score of warriors unceremoniously elbowed him aside and stopped before the Prophet. The newcomer was Winnemac, the great Pottawatomie chief. His hands were clenched; his features, black with rage. The Prophet kept his gaze fixed upon the ground and gave no heed to the angry chief’s presence.
“Tenskwatawa is a Shawnee squaw!” Winnemac thundered.
“He promised us success; we received defeat. He said the palefaces were crazy; but they were in their senses, and fought like devils. He told us that we should rejoice over the destruction of the White Chief’s army; we mourn for our young men slain. He assured us that we should not taste death; we feasted upon it. Tecumseh is a brave warrior; Tenskwatawa is a squaw! See, braves! I spit upon him and slap his face!”
And suiting the action to the words, the enraged chief spat upon the Prophet and dealt him a resounding slap upon the cheek.
The assembled warriors yelled in derision. Scores of others, attracted by the uproar, came running to the spot. Bradford and Douglas found themselves in the center of a mob of hooting, gesticulating demons, ready to wreak their rage upon any object that offered. The two white men looked anxiously about them, but saw no way of escape.