“Punish the young braves.”
“Beware, Hondurah,” said the chief. “The young braves are strong; they will strike back if Hondurah raises his hand. Let them go.”
The chief did not speak; but the silent motion of his lips seemed to frame that determined word, “Never!”
Chopah shook his head to his warriors as Hondurah turned for the second time.
He knew that his nation would soon be sachemless if Hondurah lifted an arm against the younger warriors, who certainly needed punishment for an act to be revealed hereafter.
“We divide here,” said Chopah, after a brief consultation. “The trail of the scalper is plain. Clearwater’s blood stained the leaves. The White Tiger rests in one of Gitche Gumee’s caves. We must hunt him there.”
A few moments later the band divided. Chopah and six braves threw themselves upon the fugitives’ trail, while another chief, with a like number of savages, followed the blood-marks that crimsoned the forest grass.
Soon the forest resumed its ghostly stillness, and for several hours it was not disturbed.
Then a convulsive movement of Doc Cromer’s arm snapped a twig, and the hand essayed to wipe the blood from his face.
And in the demi-gloom he raised his body on his elbow and looked about. His eyes fell upon the motionless forms of the four dead braves, and with great effort he crawled to each.