“There! he has ceased calling; he is hunting for Kenowatha now.”
“Let him hunt.”
And for many minutes the twain stood on the river’s bank, listening to the confused sounds that the night-wind bore from the Ottawa “town.”
And while they—Nanette Froisart and Kenowatha—stand there, let us narrate the deeds that transpired between Joe Girty’s exit from his lodge and his return with the vengeance-hunters of the allied tribes.
The first speech, delivered after the opening of the council, caused Girty’s protege to turn in disgust from the assembly. He listened to that speech with the blood coursing through his veins like molten lava, and, as he turned away, he determined to carry out a project he had formed long before.
No longer would he dwell among the savages, though a sub-chief; no longer would he be called the son of one who had perhaps butchered his parents. He would that night fly the village; he would seek the advancing legions of Wayne, and avenge the kindred whom he believed to be dead. As far back as he could recollect his thoughts were associated with Joe Girty and his squaw wife, with the death-dance, war-path and forest chase. The renegade told him that his parents were dead, that he had snatched him, then a mere babe, from the hands of an Indian who was about to dash his brains out against a tree. At nine years of age, to all outward appearances, he became an Ottawa. His skin was dyed with paint, he received the feathers of a young sub-chief, and an Indian name—Kenowatha, or the White Fox.
He had reached his seventeenth year now, was faultlessly formed, becoming of countenance, and instead of the black locks that crown the red-man’s head, a wealth of auburn tresses, inclined to curl, touched his shoulders.
“No more will I live among those who strike against my people,” murmured Kenowatha, in a determined tone, as he walked toward the rough cabin that had sheltered him for years. “This night sees me free, and ere long Mad Anthony will see the White Fox among his spies. Oh, that I could encounter Captain Wells in the forest! I will get my rifle. Loosa is asleep—full of his rum, and he is far away. Then—”
A footstep in that silent portion of the village broke his sentence, and a moment later, while he crouched upon the ground, the form of Joe Girty flitted past him.
There was no mistaking the burly figure of the renegade, and the young fugitive noticed the burden that the villain bore. He saw the white face that seemingly looked at him over Girty’s shoulder.