The great council-square of the village soon thronged with Indians of both sexes and all ages, whose eyes were turned to the north, from which direction the shout had emanated.
“There they come, down the hill,” whispered Cromer, as a dark body of Indians descended a rise among the suburbs of the town. “They’ve got a captive, but not Ahdeek.”
A few minutes later, the band joined their comrades in the “square,” where the red ranks broke at a signal, and the gaze of the prisoners fell upon Silver Rifle!
“The Spirit of the Lake!” cried the White Tiger, starting from his post.
“True, by hokey! Not much ghost there, boy. I wonder how they came to catch ’er? Surely they won’t kill her—she’s too pretty. Some chief’ll take her for his squaw.”
“Not if I can drive a knife to his heart!”
Cromer turned quickly upon the fiery speaker.
“You claim her, then!” he said, with a smile.
“No; but she sha’n’t be an Indian slave. I never met her with a word. She knows I live, that is all, and she may see me die.”
“True as Gospel. But let the gal alone. Think of John Burton; he tried to cheat an Ottawa out of a white gal, an’ got his everlastin’ fur his trouble. Gals ar’ dangerous things—worse nor rattlesnakes to fool arter. Therefore, let that white piece out thar alone.”