Then he turned again, plunged into the wood, and was lost to view.
The owl-hoot meant much.
It told Yucata that he might fly from the lodge which had sheltered him long, and that the cunning of one woman had outwitted the sharpest chief of the Chippewa nation.
“Lead us to the lake, girl,” said a low, but strong voice. “Once there, we’ll defy the sagacity and bravery of your people. I want to be loose once more; I want to remind the scarlet fiends that they have tortured Ahdeek.”
A sorrowful sigh escaped the lips of the figure that walked beside the speaker, and she paused and touched his arm.
“Look up, White Tiger.”
He obeyed.
A single star glittered overhead, the others were obscured by clouds.
“That star, Ahdeek,” said a whispered voice. “He tells Clearwater not to spare young braves. She spare ’em not.”
Four figures flitted through the darkness that enwrapped the Indian village; they were Clearwater, Silver Rifle, the White Tiger, and Doc Cromer, the trader.