“Why comes the Little Coon alone to the war eagles of the Illinois?” demanded Odatha.
“He comes from the Yellow Bloodhound,” answered the new arrival, glancing around upon the prisoners with mingled surprise and triumph. “He ran before his people who are coming up the deep creek in canoes. They seek what Odatha has found,” and again his eyes fell upon the captives.
Odatha understood the sentence.
“Yes, Odatha has found the pale-faces,” said that worthy. “Why trails the Yellow Bloodhound them?”
“They slew Segowatha.”
The Ottawa caught the runner’s arm and shot him a look of blank astonishment, while the other chiefs and warriors contracted the circle with exclamations of disbelief and wonder.
“Yes, the pale-faced girl or the Peoria dog, Swamp Oak, slew Segowatha. The Yellow Bloodhound fell beneath the dog’s knife, but he leads his band upon the trail again. They have sworn by the Manitou to tear the pale-faces’ hearts from them; and let the arm raised to tear the white snakes away drop before they come. Like a whirlwind, they can not be stopped.”
He paused, and, glancing at Nehonesto and Coleola Odatha spoke.
“We must not thwart the Yellow Bloodhound,” he said. “He is a mighty whirlwind, and when he comes the pale-faces must become his—that he may avenge, according to his oath, the death of Segowatha. Coleola—”
He reverted his eyes to the mad red-woman, but with her remaining snake she was forcing a path through the throng of braves, and her warriors were following in her wake.