If the young chief heard this question, he did not indicate by any sign that he had done so; but continued calmly on his way.
Again Salano shouted after him. "I say whar did you steal that dog, Injun?" then, with an oath, he added: "Bring him here; I want to look at him."
Still there was no reply.
In the meantime the cur at Salano's feet was growling and showing his teeth as he gazed after the retreating form of Ul-we.
At this juncture his master stopped, and pointing in the direction of the staghound, said, "Go, bite him, sir!"
The cur darted forward, and made a vicious snap at Ul-we's hind legs, inflicting a painful wound.
The temper of the big dog was tried beyond endurance. He turned, and with a couple of leaps overtook the cur, already in yelping retreat. Ul-we seized him by the back in his powerful jaws. There was a wild yell, a momentary struggle, a crunching of bones, and the cur lay lifeless in the dust. At the same moment the report of a rifle rang out, and the superb staghound sank slowly across the body of his late enemy, shot through the heart.
All this happened in so short a space of time that the double tragedy was complete almost before Coacoochee realized what was taking place.
The moment he did so, he sprang to his faithful companion, and kneeling in the dust beside him, raised the creature's head in his arms. The great, loving eyes opened slowly and gazed pleadingly into the face of the young Indian; with a last effort the dog feebly licked his hand, and then all was over. Ul-we, the tall one, the noblest dog ever owned and loved by a Seminole, was dead.
Over this pathetic scene the group about the groggery made merry with shouts of laughter and taunting remarks. As Coacoochee, satisfied that his dog was really dead, slowly rose to his feet, Salano jeeringly called out, "What'll you take for your pup now, Injun?"