“If Alaska does not stay her hand,” he cried, “the White Wolf will have Leperto’s blood!”
The Wolf-Queen suddenly paused, and glanced from Girty to the threatened wolf. Indecision ruled her form, and Girty was on the eve of triumph, when an old Indian, bent with more than three-score years and ten, stepped to Alaska’s side.
His eyes flashed with a fire seldom seen in the orbs of age, when his gaze fell upon the renegade.
“Let the White Wolf shoot Leperto,” he cried, addressing the madwoman. “Old Miantomah will give her another. Let the Pale Flower die for the act of the Lone Man, and if the White Wolf resists, let Alaska’s wolves, his brothers, tear him to pieces.”
Miantomah exercised a weird influence over the Wolf-Queen, and, inspired by his words, she spoke to her wolves.
The mad animals fixed their eyes upon Girty, and crawled forward.
It was a critical moment.
“Shall an old, empty-headed man rule a mad-woman with his forked tongue?” cried Girty, appealing to the crowd of warriors. “Let the White Wolf’s brothers gather around him. He has led them to victory, and will they now desert him for a crack-headed squaw?”
“No!” cried Oonalooska, drawing his tomahawk, and springing to Girty’s side. “Oonalooska is not a squaw. Warriors, follow him!”
His action electrified the warriors, and, a moment later, all, save a dozen, surrounded Girty, and displayed a hollow square glistening with knives, to the Wolf-Queen.