"And they have not sent forward anybody to spy out the country, which is better for us," said Henry.
"An' now I kin hear somethin' else," said Shif'less Sol. "They're singin' a war song which ain't usual when so many are on the march, but they reckon they've got at least two or three hundred white scalps ez good ez took already."
Now the ferocious chant, sung in Shawnee, which they understood, came plainly to them. It was a song of anticipation, and when they translated it to themselves it ran something like this:
To the land of Kaintuckee we have come,
Wielders of the bow and the tomahawk, we,
Shawnee and Miami, Wyandot and Delaware
Matchless in march and battle we come,
Great is Manitou.
The white man will fall like leaves before us,
His houses to the fire we will give,
All shall perish under our mighty blows,
And the forest will grow over his home,
Great is Manitou.
It went on in other verses, rising above the creak of the wheels, a fierce, droning chant that drummed upon the nerves and inflamed the brain. Much of its power came from its persistency upon the same beat and theme, until the great chorus became like the howling of thousands of wolves for their prey.
"Ef I couldn't feel my scalp on my head right now," said Shif'less Sol, "I'd be shore that one o' them demons out thar had it in his hands, whirlin' it 'roun' an' 'roun'."
"Guess I won't need nothin' more to make me yell my very darndest," said Long Jim.
"They'll be in sight in a minute or two," said Paul, "and I'm truly thankful that we have ground so favorable. We wouldn't have a chance without it."
"That's so," said Henry, "and we must never lose our heads for a minute. If we do we're gone."