The next moment, the weapon was wrenched from his grasp; he saw it describe a parabola over his head, and a dull plash told him that it had sunk in the waters of the Maumee.
While his hand, shaking with the rage that filled his heart, glided to his tomahawk, his eyes looked into the muzzle of a pistol, uncomfortably near his forehead.
“I do not mean to kill you, Mitre St. Pierre,” said the spy; “but when you have listened to me, you will be at liberty to return to your Post.”
The trader said nothing, but continued to glare upon the young vanquisher with the ferocity of a tiger.
“It is useless to tell you that I love your protege,” began the young man, “though perhaps the information that her hand has been promised me may be new to you.”
An oath declared that the information was new to St. Pierre.
“Ere this, Wayne has marched from Greenville, to punish the red dwellers in these forests, and perhaps their white aiders and abettors. Sir, unless you change your tactics, the simoom of vengeance that is to sweep these parts will not leave a vestige of your Post. I’m speaking for your own good now. You have furnished the Indians with munitions of war to fight us, and, unless you soon swear fealty to Wayne, I say you’ll reap the harvest of justice. It is for the safety of the girl that I remove her from you to-night.”
“Safety!” sneered St. Pierre, pointing toward the British fort. “Those walls are strong, and then who seeks her? He is dead?”
“Yes; undoubtedly your bullet finished him,” responded the young spy, glancing at the river; “but Effie has another lover—one who has sworn in secret and before his sub-chiefs to possess her. To-night he stands before the assembled tribes, spitting his venom at Wayne; to-morrow night he may burst in your doors and bear away, over your corpse, perhaps, the prize he covets.”
A sneer escaped St. Pierre’s lips.