“Then let the white girl go,” said the youthful Ottawa. “Her hand can cool the scarlet soldier’s head.”
“Omatla, has any thing unusual transpired at the fort to-day?” questioned Effie, determined not to leave the trading-post without caution.
“Now must Omatla’s lips close,” was the unexpected reply, “and he must go to the soldier and say that the Angel of the Maumee turns from him when the dark clouds gather.”
“No! no!” cried Effie, springing forward and detaining the Indian, with the magic touch of her tapering fingers; “I will not desert him in his trouble, Omatla. He is the dearest friend I have in yonder fort, and he shall not call on me in vain. Tarry here until I run into the Post.”
Nodding assent, the Indian remained stationary, and Effie hurried into the structure.
The secret of her interviews with the British major beneath the cottonwood, she had long since confided to her adopted parents, causing them the more to yearn for the match to which they thought the eclaircissements were leading.
“I’m going down to the cottonwood,” she said, glancing at the old couple, as she threw a rich shawl over her head. “I won’t be gone long, and you need not bar the gate till I return.”
Then she stepped across the room, and drew from beneath the pillow of her couch a delicate silver-mounted pistol, lately received as a present from the major’s hands. This she thrust into her bosom, drew the shawl tighter around her head, for the wind was blowing quite briskly without, and left the room.
Mitre St. Pierre and his half-breed wife exchanged mystified glances.
“What can the girl mean in taking the pistol?” questioned the trader, in his native tongue. “She never took it to her love-meetings before.”