“The Yellow Chief,” was the reply, and then the Indian left her standing alone.
A flash of lightning had revealed to Swamp Oak the figure of the creole chief watching the boat, as though he were certain that the besieged would escape, in which event they would, of course, seek the boat.
Several minutes of silence followed the Peoria’s departure, and then the sounds of a desperate struggle were borne to the girl’s ears. In the gloom she stood and trembled for the safety of her ally, and when at last the lightning revealed the two men locked in each other’s arms, writhing and twisting like two panthers on the verge of Cahokia Creek, she sprung forward to put an end to the conflict. The electric light had told her that the Yellow Chief was uppermost, and Swamp Oak’s situation critical in the extreme.
A few bounds brought her to the spot; her rifle flew above her head to deal a death-blow to the coward who sought to destroy her happiness, when she saw him roll from the Indian and lie perfectly still on the bank.
“Ugh!” grunted the victorious Peoria, springing to his feet, and shaking himself after the manner of a dog emerging from the water. “The Yellow Chief is as strong as the buffalo; but he was no match for Swamp Oak.
“Come!” he said, stepping to the water, “we must fly, even as the wild geese fly from the gun of the white hunters.”
“But father and the others?” said Kate, involuntarily pausing beside the boat.
“They will come to the Lone Dove in time,” said the Swamp Oak; “she will nestle in her father’s bosom soon, and she will plait the young trader’s long hair before the death of another moon. Come!”
Thus reassured, Kate Blount stepped into the boat, and the next moment they were flying toward the head-waters of Cahokia creek.
“Why did you not fly to the fort, chief?” asked Kate, after a lengthy silence.