Without the cabin, yells of rage and disappointment burst from the Indians’ throats.
When the renegade recovered from his astonishment he rushed from the structure.
“I’ll have her heart’s blood for this if it takes me a lifetime!” he cried. “Where’s ’Watha?” and his eyes wandered inquiringly around the throng. “Where’s the White Fox? Kenowatha! Kenowatha!”
He shouted at the top of his voice; but no Kenowatha answered him.
Where was his adopted boy—his “pale spawn” as he, in his angry moments, was wont to call him?
[2] An Indian name for the Maumee.
CHAPTER III.
EFFIE ST. PIERRE.
Near the bank of the Maumee, and almost within rifle-shot of Fort Miami, stood the trading-post of Mitre St. Pierre. It had been erected by the speculating Frenchman, a decade prior to the opening of our story, and the old fellow had grown rich from the investment. Possessing the shrewdness and tact of his people, he gained the confidence of the savages, who patronized him to the dismay of other and rival posts along the river.
Mitre St. Pierre was near sixty years of age; but his eyes flashed with the light of younger years. He possessed a massive frame, and his little head—entirely out of proportion to the rest of his body—seemed buried between broad shoulders, so entirely devoid of neck it was. He kept no assistance at the Post—commonly denominated “St. Pierre’s Den;” he did the work ofttimes of ten men in curing the skins the Indians exchanged with him for fire-water, and various other arduous duties.