The giant bit his nether lip.
“Dohma is a Chippewa, so is Renadah,” he said, after a minute’s angry silence. “Dohma is brave, but his aim is not so long as his big red brother’s.”
“But it is as strong!” retorted Dohma, with determination, and as he spoke he calmly stepped between Silver Rifle and the tall chief.
“Dohma is a young fir; Renadah is the great oak that grows in the big woods. He could crush Dohma with one limb.”
“Let him try it!”
“He would not harm his red brother. Our great king, Pontiac, needs brave red-men now; but Dohma, if he would help exterminate the hated English, must do one thing.”
The young Indian did not speak, but noted the glance which Renadah threw over his shoulder at Silver Rifle.
“He must give to Renadah the woman he loves!”
Dohma heard a low cry of horror part a pair of pale lips, and caught a glimpse of Silver Rifle as she recovered her weapon.
“Dohma will not give Silver Rifle to Renadah,” he said, calmly. “He found her dead and brought her spirit back from Manitou-land—so, she is his!”