Turkey-foot divined the meaning of the renegade’s terror.
“Men who fear squaws should wear long hair and tear their sinews from their arms,” hissed the Indian, in a tone of cutting derision. “To-morrow night a league that shall hunt Kenowatha and the She-wolf to the cold waters of the dark river, forms in Turkey-foot’s lodge. Turkey-foot had a boy once—a gracious son; but the mark of the She-wolf’s teeth is on his skull. Until this moment, warriors have refused to take the oath a childless father would impose upon them. Now the time has come. Turkey-foot met the young chiefs last night. Leather-lips, Wacomet, Segastaro, and others yearn for the red oath. Ah, the Manitou’s cheeks will become as white as my brother’s, when the red-man’s words enter his soul. If the white Ottawa can chase the snow from his cheeks, let him enter Turkey-foot’s wigwam when another sleep shuts the eyes of the women.”
“I will be there,” cried the renegade, with a mighty effort, appearing calm. “These fingers itch to clutch the White Fox’s throat, my knife shall blush beneath his heart’s blood. You may have the She-wolf;—she’s killed enough Ottawas to entitle her to a thousand deaths; but I want the boy—recollect that.”
“If the white Ottawa joins us he shall have the boy,” said Turkey-foot. “We want the She-wolf’s heart.”
Girty’s eagerness to step upon the trail of the youth whom he now hated with all his heart, made him impatient.
“Why not to-night?” he said.
“The white Indian can step before the young She-wolf’s bullet,” said the chief, sarcastically, as he stepped aside and waved his red hand toward the door. “But Turkey-foot waits until the oath has been taken.”
The renegade remained in his tracks.
As well might he discharge his pistol against his own temple, as to attempt to hunt down Kenowatha and his avenging companion alone. While Turkey-foot spoke, his mind flitted back upon the history of the past, covered by one short year. He could count twenty chiefs whose brows had worn the fatal crescent of the She-wolf. Before the council fires impetuous chiefs had sworn to hunt the Girl Avenger down; for that purpose had they left the village, and awhile later a hunter would find them in the forest, scalped and wearing the red crescent. Well might Joe Girty tremble, for Nanette’s rifle had once been aimed at him, and nothing but an accident—the stumbling over a hidden root—had saved his life.
“In union there is strength.”