“Ah! you may sneer when he is far away. You know him not as I do. I have heard him swear—in spite of the friendship his people bear you—to possess this fair girl—the woman whom I love—whom you have raised from childhood. This woman goes with me.”
“Where would you take her?”
“To Greenville.”
“Through the woods would you guide her alone?”
“Yes.”
“The route is a death-trail now!”
“I have accomplished the journey already,” replied Mark Morgan; “I know every dangerous spot betwixt this place and Greenville, and when Mad Anthony has chastised the Indians, I will bring the girl back.”
“Why would the wolf return the lamb to the fold?”
“Perhaps she would want to see you, and have the ceremony performed at the Post, associated with many sweet memories, to her.”
“Oh, if I had the weapons, Mark Morgan!” hissed St. Pierre, his hand moving mechanically toward his knife. “Oh, if I had the weapons, I’d stretch you dead upon this sod, and then I’d toss you to the fishes that swim in yonder stream. You have the advantage now; but you will not keep it long. You’ve made a devil out of me, Mark Morgan—the bitterest enemy the Americans can own. I return to my Post, seize my arms and join the allied tribes. In days long gone, I trod the war-path with Turkey-foot, Leather-lips, and such chiefs. I have not forgotten the lessons learned from them. This old frame still possesses the elasticity of youth; these eyes have not lost their penetrating powers; this mind still owns the subtlety that baffled the king of France, and when I bring all my powers to bear against you, sir spying dog, you have the same chances for escape that a wood-tick has under the grinding heel of an Indian.