Bradford spoke in the Shawnee tongue; and the Prophet understood every word. The boastful braggart cowered and trembled. Cowardice was written in every lineament of his features. A sickly pallor overspread his face. He could not articulate a sound. He fearfully rolled his eyes from side to side. But no chance of escape offered—no attendants were at hand.
Turning to his companion, Bradford asked hurriedly:
“You brought my gun in with you?”
Ross nodded.
“Well, see that both pieces are in order. I’ll kill this miscreant—then we’ll make a running fight for it. It’s all that is left us.”
Tenskwatawa was shaking like one with senile palsy. Bradford drew his knife and swiftly advanced upon him. The base wretch dropped upon his knees and supplicatingly raised his hands. He tried to speak; but naught save the chatter of his teeth broke the stillness of the big, dark room.
“Die, treacherous devil!” Bradford hissed as he raised his arm to strike.
“Mercy!” Tenskwatawa managed to gasp.
“Mercy!” sneered Scar Face, still holding the knife aloft. “Dare you beg for mercy? What mercy have you ever shown? You condemn my friend and me to death—yet ask me to show mercy to you!”
“Mercy!” the craven lips whispered. “Scar Face and his friend shall go free; my children shall not harm them.”