The Californian looked grave as he arose from examining the wounded man. Jessie shuddered as she read his face.
“There is no—no hope?”
“I am sorry to say it, but a lie would do no good now,” sadly replied Cook, for something in this woman stirred his heart strangely. “You may bid him good-by; an hour hence may be too late.”
The injured man stirred—slowly raising his head, supporting his weight upon one hand. As he gazed wonderingly around, a brand broke in two and a bright flame momentarily flashed up, clearly outlining the party.
Minnie shrunk back in horror. In this man she fancied she beheld the murderer of her father. The long, matted hair and beard—the shaggy dress of skins, now torn and tattered by the wolf-jaws all corresponded to the picture drawn by John Temple.
“Jessie—where are we—what does this mean?” muttered the man, in a wondering tone, as the woman knelt beside him.
“Thank God! you know me—you remember, William?”
“Yes—why shouldn’t I?” I remember all—how those he felt his already greatly impaired strength deserting him. Now and then a contrary current of wind would drive the smoke away and enable him to see his exulting enemies; but this was only for a moment, and before he could drop one with his pistols, he would be forced to resume the coat and fight the smoke again. The heat was as intolerable as its black accompaniment. The undergrowth fringed the very edge of the fissure, and when it took fire great blisters appeared on the felon’s skin, and the flames scorched his coat.
There seemed but one result to the startling drama. The foes in the ravine watched their work with self-congratulations of triumph, for they already felt the daring culprit in their grasp, and in fancy saw him paying the penalty of his crime between heaven and earth in Fort Miami.
A short distance from the main body of painted braves, stood a man easily recognizable as Mitre St. Pierre. Though not clad in the nudity that characterized his followers, he wore a head-dress that proclaimed him a chief among the Ottawas. True to his word, given to Mark Morgan, in the heat of passion, he had joined the Indians against the Americans, found himself elevated to the dignity of a chief at once, and entered into the work of blood, with the avidity of the jungle hyena. Upon the morning when he and his band discovered the major and his captive on the Canada trail, he was hunting for one of Mad Anthony’s spies, who had ridden through the Ottawa village in the broad light of day, and who was supposed to be in the neighborhood of the ravine.