The council seemed transfixed with surprise and horror at this bold act, and untouched Lightfoot scalped his fallen enemy and darted from the council-lodge, knowing that nothing but instant flight could save him from a horrible and disgraceful death.
Pursuit was made, and for nearly a score miles the Kickapoo fled with the avengers of blood treading close upon his heels. Twice he was wounded, else he would have distanced his enemies, for the name he bore had not been idly bestowed.
"It's unlucky our being cooped up here, just now," muttered Boone, uneasily. "It's big news you've told me, chief, and the settlers don't suspect thar danger. If the red-skins strike to-night, I'm dub'ous this'll be a black day for us."
"Mebbe not strike so soon, now Huspah dead—so mus' choose 'nudder chief to lead 'em."
"He was the head one, then?"
"Yeh."
A movement among the enemy now put a pause to the conversation. The dark dots upon the river's surface were cautiously retreating toward the further shore, in obedience to a peculiar signal from one of the number, whose face, washed free of paint by the water, now showed white and clear.
"He white Injun—Osage call him White Wolf," said Lightfoot, in answer to a look of inquiry from Boone.
"Seth Grable!"
The words came hissingly through the tight-clenched teeth of the old hunter, and a stern fire filled his eyes. Evidently he bore the renegade little love.