It was common cause, for the bravest of each tribe had worn the She-wolf’s fatal mark—a bloody crescent on the brow!
Scores of the warriors bore torches, which flashed a lurid light far in advance.
The door of the renegade’s lodge stood open.
This was strange; he had closed it, and the wind could not hurl it wide.
By the side of Turkey-foot he crossed the threshold.
No voice greeted him, and the fire had gone out.
But the Shawnee’s torch lit up the small apartment, and revealed the single occupant of which it boasted.
That occupant was the renegade’s Indian wife, and the blood that oozed from a hole over her heart declared her dead!
The young She-wolf was gone!
Turkey-foot stared into Girty’s face so thoroughly astounded as to be unable to utter a word.