“The Yellow Chief!” exclaimed Lone Wolf.
A brief examination proved the creole to be still living, and just recovering from the deathly swoon into which a terrible blow had hurled him.
A glance about the star-lit spot showed evidences of a fierce struggle, and the missing boat told the result of the combat.
The Indians lifted the Yellow Chief and bore him to Segowatha.
The War Wolf raised himself on his elbow, and for a long time looked down into the creole’s face without speaking.
“Segowatha leads the red-men of the big lake no more,” he said, at last, in the calmest of tones, which the Indian loves to assume when he stands upon the threshold of death. “The Manitou grips his hand now, and the War Wolf must go. Warriors—Pottawatomies, Ojibwas,” his eyes swept the circle of tawny faces, “who followed Segowatha hither, you must swear.”
In the momentary pause that followed, thirty hatchets flew aloft, and thirty hands covered the hearts of their respective owners.
“Swear!” cried the dying War Wolf—“swear to hunt to earth the Peoria skunk and the white house-snake who crawls after him. Swear to tear the hearts from all whom she loves—her bearded father, the Pale Giant, and the boy with long hair. Segowatha hates them all!”
“We swear!” cried Lone Wolf. “Warriors, by our chieftain’s blood we swear all this.”
With the last word the young brave dyed his hands in the warm blood that gushed afresh from Segowatha’s wounds, and the other red-skins followed his example.