“I swear, too!” unexpectedly cried a voice in French, and, raising himself with a mighty effort, the Yellow Chief thrust his hand into Segowatha’s blood. “Ha! ha! we will hunt them down—the fugitives of the Illinois! Oh, that they were here now!”
Exhaustion then again followed, and he dropped to the ground, and a moment later a terrific yell, uttered simultaneously by thirty pair of lips, told that the mighty War Wolf of the Pottawatomies had stepped into the impenetrable future.
Over Segowatha’s corpse an Ojibwa dropped with a groan, and two others staggered to their feet to fall to the earth, a second later, wounded to the death.
The uninjured red-skins griped their rifles; but not a foe was to be seen. Everywhere the silence of death reigned supreme!
CHAPTER III.
A MOTHER’S VENGEANCE.
From a trap-door in the roof of the cottage, Swamp Oak, the young Peoria, had noted the approach of the delivering storm, and had hastened to communicate the joyful tidings to his beautiful fellow-prisoner. Well understanding the nature of the summer storms which broke over the forests of the Illinois, they were alert at once, and when the cloud did discharge its fury of wind and rain through the Stygian darkness, they were in the attic, and by the flashes of lightning, saw the awe-stricken guards desert their posts, just as the Peoria knew they would do.
The young red-skin then glided away to the edge of the broad eaves, followed by the girl, whom he lowered to the ground. Handing her the rifles, he sprung down. Then toward the trader’s boat the fugitives of the Illinois hurried.
Suddenly, when they were very near the creek, the Peoria paused, and griped Kate Blount’s arm.
“What is it, Swamp Oak?” questioned the girl, in a low whisper.