Lightfoot glided away from the spot. Now that the deed was done, he realized the folly of which he had been guilty, while other lives depended upon his skill and prudence. True, he had slain a deadly enemy, had kept a solemn oath, but by so doing he had increased the danger threatening those for whom he would lay down his life without a regret. The arrow that had carried death to the Pottawatomie, like all the others in his quiver, was a marked one. A single glance would declare the hand that had sent the death missile. He would be sought for until killed; though it might be years hence, still the search would never cease while he breathed or a Pottawatomie lived to carry on the hunt of death.
For himself alone it would matter little. He was an outcast—his own tribe had outlawed him; the Osages had sworn his death—this made but one more peril to fight against. But Yellow-hair? He almost cursed the arm that sent the death-shaft upon its mission.
Another cry came from the clearing. Lightfoot paused to listen. An answer came from the hill. Then still others—signals, directions for the movements of each party.
Lightfoot smiled grimly as he read them. To spread out and beat every inch of ground—to capture the audacious murderer alive at any cost. Thus he interpreted the signals.
It gave him an idea—bold, desperate, generous. He would yet save Yellow-hair, even though it might be at the cost of his own life. Yet to do so, he must gain speech with Boone.
Rapidly he retraced his steps toward the spot where he had left his friends, yet with a silence that was truly marvelous. Nobly he sustained his sobriquet. The fall of the autumn leaf was scarcely more silent than that of his moccasined feet.
All was still in the forest—not a sound broke the air save the wind rustling among the tree-tops, or the creaking of some dead bough. The dark, shrouded heaven lowered angrily, yet the storm held off as though to gather force to annihilate the living puppets below.
Crouching down, Lightfoot listened. All was still. The hill loomed up before him, dark and indistinct. His friends must be near.
A peculiar sound passed his lips—low but penetrating—the significant skir-r of the wood rattlesnake.
Like an echo a similar sound came from his right. The signal was heard and understood. Boone replied to it in kind.