With his eyes starting from their sockets, Girty, devoid of volition, awaited his doom.
The wolf’s hot breath almost scorched his face, and, as the jaws flew open to close on his throat, Tecumseh sprung to Alaska’s side.
The renegade drew a breath of relief.
“Alaska must not slay the White Chief,” said the sachem, calmly meeting the fiery gaze she shot at him.
“Why?”
“Long ago he snatched Tecumseh’s son from the waves of the Scioto.”
Almost instantly the frenzy abated, which was a wonderful proof of the influence Tecumseh possessed over poor, mad Alaska.
“Alaska loves Tecumseh,” she said; “but the captives?” and her eyes fell upon the trio at the trees.
Tecumseh’s gaze followed the mad queen’s, but he said nothing.
“Let them be Alaska’s prisoners,” suddenly cried the Wolf-Queen. “Let them return to the strong lodge, and when Alaska has mourned for her two children, killed by Newaska, she will deal with them.”