“No, no!” said Segowatha, his face suddenly growing pale, and a convulsive shudder passing over his giant frame. “The War Wolf must go to his people; the Peoria’s bullet struck deep. Segowatha is near the dark river. But give the snake’s den to the fire, and call the Yellow Chief back.”
With the bare thought of their war-chief’s approaching end, the savages gave themselves over to a rage which knew no bounds, and defies description.
They flew to the work of destruction; they ripped the weather boarding from the cottage, and split it with their hatchets, piling it in the lower rooms. Presently the flints were applied again, and soon Oliver Blount’s home was wrapped in flames. While the tongues of fire licked up the toil of years, a chief repeated the shrill cry of the night-hawk three times in rapid succession. Then they waited anxiously for the coming of some one, but, whoever that one was, he did not come.
The demons danced about the trader’s burning home; they tore down the neat fence that surrounded it, and cast it into the fire; they applied their hatchets to the beautiful silver maples which afforded delicious shade, and gave them to the devouring element. In short, they spared nothing, even tearing up the broad stones which led to the well, and hurling them with terrible yells after the trees.
At last the cottage was destroyed, and, ready for more hellish work, the Indians turned to Segowatha for orders. The dying chief, for it was plain that he was approaching the river of death, smiled upon their work and inquired regarding the creole.
“He comes not,” answered a young chief—the Lone Wolf, “like a cowardly dog he has deserted us. We will whip him with canes when he sneaks back to our lodges.”
“The Yellow Chief went to watch the spot where the fur-trader keeps his boat,” said Segowatha. “But Segowatha can not dream why he comes not. He must have heard the hawk cry.”
“He may have filled his ears with leaves,” said Lone Wolf, who, though a Pottawatomie, bore no good thoughts for Jules Bardue. “He watches yet, perhaps. We will hunt the dog.”
Touching a warrior’s arm lightly, the young Indian bounded toward Cahokia Creek, followed by the red-skin whom his touch had summoned.
A path led from the cottage to the creek, which almost encircled it, and the two Indians were not long in reaching the stream. Suddenly Lone Wolf’s companion uttered an “ugh” expressive of horror, and dropped before a dark object which lay near the water.