Clearwater had led the trio to comparative freedom. Her cunning had outwitted her own father, and, like Yucata’s braves, he guarded an empty lodge. The hunters were not unprepared for rescue, for, during the day, Clearwater, while talking to a dandyfied brave who guarded the lodge, had managed to smuggle a piece of bark to the captives, upon which were traced Indian characters which, from their acquaintance with savage life, they easily deciphered.
By a stratagem Hondurah and his warriors were thrown off their guard, for the old chief did not dream that his daughter would attempt treachery before his very eyes, and presently the whites found themselves free.
Noiselessly they left the hoodwinked Indians, and soon joined a single figure, dressed like Clearwater. It was Silver Rifle.
Then the owl-hoot which drove Yucata away pealed from Clearwater’s throat, and the quartette moved on.
One or two Indian dogs which came smelling about them were noiselessly dispatched, and, as the party reached the summit of a knoll, and were beginning to breathe freer, they came upon the burial of Omaha.
The best trail to the lake led by the Chippewa burying-ground, and the night interment of the slain savage was unknown to the chief’s daughter. Several torches threw their ghostly light upon the scene, and the escaping party dropped to the earth which they hugged closely, and watched the burial.
They were within thirty feet of the group, and held their breath while the Indians lowered Omaha into his grave, incumbered, as he was, by his rifles, hatchets, knives, and well-stocked medicine bag.
“We must go,” whispered Doc Cromer; “they will smoke over him, and pow-wow an hour. Let us try the right. Tell the gal.”
The Destroyer spoke to Clearwater.
“We must crawl like the cat,” she said. “Clearwater would sooner wait till the Indians go. But she will lead the pale faces to the right, on a little trail covered with leaves.”