They were walking toward the lake now, and in the stillness of that festooned woods the half-breed put forth his hand.
“Ahdeek will forgive his pale brother,” he said, in a low, cautious tone. “Nahma could not keep his oath, and save his Ahdeek.”
“Then all is well, boy,” replied the white youth. “The Chippewas now know that Ahdeek is not the White Tiger of Lake Superior, and that instead of hunting one destroyer, they must hunt, and be hunted by, two. But, boy, did you get the powder?”
“Ahdeek wears two big belts full,” replied the half-breed.
“Good! we shall not want now. What are the Indians doing?”
“Bad work! bad work!” cried the half-breed. “Pontiac has struck one hard blow on the big waters.”
“That Ottawa fiend! How I wish he would show his painted face in these parts!” ejaculated the youth, and his fingers closed on his rifle with determined emphasis as he spoke. “But tell me about that strong blow, Ahdeek.”
Then the half-breed proceeded to give an account of the fall of the lake forts, and the investment of Detroit, all of which was news to the white youth.
“While the Ottawas and their allies struck the posts, the Chippewas struck the trappers hereabouts,” said the White Tiger. “Ahdeek, I can tell you of twenty-eight trappers who fell in their huts or at their traps the selfsame night.”
Ahdeek clutched the Destroyer’s arm.