“Now, what says the White Tiger?” cried a savage, triumphantly.
“He says that he slew the Black Eagle with his rifle,” was the reply. “Not far away lie four Chippewas, who have sung the war-song for the last time. Ahdeek struck them! Squaws, the young half-breed has not lived in vain!”
Irritated beyond endurance, the savages contracted their red ranks, and tomahawks shot upward for the carnival of death.
Ahdeek rose with an effort, and faced the savages with folded arms.
“Strike! Send Ahdeek after Black Eagle.”
“The White Tiger of Gitche Gumee dies here!” was the reply, and the spokesman of the party clutched the half-breed’s shoulder, as he raised his knife.
But a yell, the counterpart of which pealed from Ahdeek’s throat when attacked in the dell, startled every one, and the next moment a youthful figure dropped, like a thunderbolt, among the Chippewas.
“Devils!” he cried, hurling aside the Indian who held Ahdeek. “Demons, you’ve caught the wrong man, I say. I am the White Tiger of Lake Superior! I, not the half-breed, am the hunted depopulator of your accursed race!”
The savages recoiled aghast, as a dark cloak fell from the youth’s shoulders, and exposed his handsome figure.
Ahdeek, with a cry of “Nahma!” stepped to the Destroyer’s side.