Almost as an echo the yell was returned, this time from the clearing in front. There was a slight—almost imperceptible difference in the cry, that told Lightfoot this was part of another tribe—Pottawatomies.
For a moment he hesitated as if about to return to his friends, but then turned and glided rapidly onward. He stood upon the edge of the lighted clearing, gazing out upon a wild, peculiar scene.
A massive log-cabin and stable were in flames, burning furiously, yet the huge logs stubbornly resisted their doom. Around were grouped a number of human figures, over a score in number. The firelight shone redly over their almost nude bodies. The dull bronze color—the streaks of paint—the brilliantly dyed plumes—all proclaimed the untamed savage.
Other forms was there, lying prone upon the ground. Some clad in light, flowing garments, some nude; some of both races—the white and the red.
The latter were ranged together, their limbs straightened and composed. The pale-faces lay as they had fallen, mutilated almost beyond recognition. The red flame cast a flickering light over the bare, gory skulls. They had been scalped.
As Lightfoot took in this scene, one of the Indians threw back his head and uttered a long, peculiar cry—the eldritch screech of the panther. At this a truly startling change came over the Kickapoo.
His face became convulsed with what seemed fury and deadly hatred—his eyes scintillated, glowing with a venomous fire. He snatched an arrow from the quiver at his back, and then the tough bow was bent until the flint-head fairly touched its back.
The Pottawatomie still stood with one hand to his lips, the yell yet reverberating through the forest, when the taut string relaxed—a sharp twang smote upon their ears, drowned by a dull thud as the feathered shaft quivered deep in the naked breast of Leaping Panther, war-chief of the Pottawatomies.
The giant form reeled, then stood grandly erect, with tightly-clenched fists raised on high. Wild and clear, piercing as that of the beast after which he was named, the Leaping Panther breathed forth his life in one defiant war-cry—then sunk to the ground, dead!
Until then, the braves had stood motionless as though petrified. But as their chief fell in death, they darted aside, each seeking some cover where the bright flames would not betray them to the fatal aim of the hidden foe.