Boldly among the red demons sprung the trio, fighting with that determination and despair of a person driven to the wall.
The trader had dropped two warriors, when a tomahawk, thrown by a young brave, struck him in the head, and he dropped his rifle, as he sunk back without a groan.
“Girl,” cried the White Tiger, who had witnessed the fall of the trader, “we can but die; then let us fall in the run for life.”
Suddenly they whirled to the right, and parrying several blows, furiously given, dashed through an opening, which they had made in the red ranks, and darted toward the lake once more.
The Indians were surprised at this move, and for a moment could not realize the unexpected state of affairs.
That moment proved of value to the fugitives; they had put many rods between them and their foes, and after a chase which terminated near the lake-shore, the latter returned bootless to the scene of battle.
Here they were greeted with mystery and horror. Their dead had been scalped during the last pursuit; the body of Clearwater was missing, and upon the giant tree at whose foot she had lain, was the dreaded mark of the White Tiger, lately cut, with a bloody tomahawk!
The warriors gathered around the tree with bated breath, and stared at the deeply cut double cross.
“Clearwater plays the White Tiger,” said a young brave, at length.
“Clearwater!” yelled a gray-haired chief, turning fiercely upon the speaker. “Clearwater’s arm was weak, and the tomahawk went through the bark. A man’s muscle drove the hatchet;” and then, raising his thunderous voice to its highest pitch, he swept the young braves with a finger of scorn. “Chopah knows all!” he cried. “The young warriors have lied!”