Probably a trader, who had escaped the late massacre, was the slayer, as Oagla suggested, and Hondurah swore to hunt the avenger down.
The gathering broke up with the decision that the white trio should be tortured during the coming day, and a few Indians remained to wrap Omaha in his blankets and bury him.
The young men had promised that the captives should not be disturbed during the night; but Hondurah, who had seen so many like promises broken, smiled knowingly as he shook his feathered head, and stationed the guards as he had previously designated.
Silver Rifle saw six dark forms encircle her lodge, and heard Hondurah tell them that their lives would be taken by his hatchet if she escaped. Sternly the war-tiger of the Chippewas spoke to his daughter; he loved her, he said, but despite the affection she might have for the Girl Trailer, if she assisted her to evade the stake, he would give her, his only child, over to the vengeance of his people.
The interior of the chieftain’s lodge was clothed in Cimmerian darkness. Clearwater said that Silver Rifle wanted to sleep, and dream for the last time of the birds and flowers that sung and grew beyond the straits of Gitche Gumee.
Several hours passed away, and nothing came to disturb the Indian village. Even the noisy dogs were silent; but Clearwater sat before her father’s lodge, and conversed in low tones with Yucata.
That she had broached a subject which was quite unpleasant to the old commander of the guards, was noticeable in his countenance, and many times he slowly shook his head while she talked with her lips close to his ear.
“Yucata owes Clearwater a life,” said the old Indian, in a low tone; “but he can not meet Hondurah in the light, and say ‘Silver Rifle outwitted him.’ No, no!”
“Then let Yucata go, too; Pontiac fights the English at Detroit; let him join his king, and fall, if he falls at all, with his face to the red-coats.”
“Yucata will do as Clearwater has said,” said the Indian, suddenly starting forward. “Now, let her go to her work.”