All at once, at the foot of a knoll, and on the brink of a sluggish forest stream, Mossuit halted. The rest of the party followed his example, and silence fell over all.
Presently the chief imitated the hoot of the little night-owl, and then moved forward.
There was no response to the cry, which was thrice repeated, and at last the chief returned.
“Come; Mossuit show braves something,” he said, in a hoarse, excited tone; and the party followed his leading.
Suddenly the chief stooped, and raised a dark object from the ground.
It was a dead Indian whose limbs were still warm.
The savages greeted the spectacle with ejaculations of horror, which increased in number and intensity when a second Chippewa, as dead as the first, was exposed to their view by the chief.
“White Tiger gone!” gasped Mossuit, burning with rage. “Mossuit bring him here from cave, and Indians promised to watch him well. But he too much for ’em. He kill ’em and go!”
And, in the silence of chagrin that followed, Silver Rifle uttered an inaudible “Thank heaven,” and an expression of satisfaction stole over Ahdeek’s face.
Several minutes were spent in hunting the Destroyer’s trail; but Mossuit could spare no warriors to pursue, and reluctantly turned away.