“Dohma come home by um by an’ find Silver Rifle in Chippewa lodge.”
“Alas!” thought the girl, “Dohma would never return to his people.”
“Pale girl got pretty rifle,” said a tall young Indian, who wore a head-dress of hawk-feathers. “She have heap silver in her lodge. Let Hawkeye see rifle.”
With the last word the Chippewa put forth his hand, when, with a startling cry, the girl started violently back.
Something glittered in the moonlight on Hawkeye’s tiniest finger.
“What frighten pale girl?” demanded the chief, not wholly unfrightened himself.
“My ring! my ring!” cried Silver Rifle, starting forward. “Hawkeye, you’ve got my ring! Give it here!”
She pointed to the ring as she spoke; but the savage drew back, with an Indian oath.
“Ring Hawkeye’s,” he cried. “Him find it here by dead panther. Sequesta grabbed ring when Hawkeye saw it; so they fought for it, and Sequesta sleeps in Gitche Gumee. Girl shan’t have ring. It’s Hawkeye’s. Too pretty for Silver Rifle.”
“Then the price I shall pay for my own property shall be your blood!” cried the determined girl. “The glitter of that ring has drawn me from the white man’s greatest city. I will have it, and, for the last time, I demand it. Take it from your finger, Hawkeye!”