Jim Girty had learned to read his chieftain’s face, and in the ghostly glare of the torches, he read thereon an unsuccessful expedition. Tecumseh was in a fit mood to wreak vengeance on any man who owned a white skin.
With drawn tomahawk he paused before the renegade, and shouted, as his eyes drank in the whole scene:
“White Wolf, deliver the Pale Flower to Alaska!”
“The White Wolf will obey his chief,” answered Girty, shooting the mad-woman a singular look. “Let Tecumseh enter the lodge, and lead the captive to the Wolf-Queen.”
As he finished, he stepped aside, and Tecumseh sprung into the lodge.
One loud yell parted the chief’s lips as his eyes fell upon the untenanted couch, and a moment later his brawny hand closed on Girty’s throat.
“White Wolf’s tongue is forked!” he cried. “Let him tell Tecumseh where the Pale Flower is, or die!”
“The White Wolf knows not,” gasped the white liar. “She has been stolen while we watched.”
The chief’s grip relaxed, and, at his command, Girty was bound, and a guard placed over him.
Alaska could scarcely be restrained from throwing her wolves upon the prostrate renegade.