If curses could kill, the Yellow Bloodhound, as the creole was styled by his adopted tribe, would have fallen dead long before the opening of our story, for the old trader had cursed him as man had never before cursed his fellow.
As the moments passed, the Indians grew impatient for the arrival of Segowatha’s Avengers. The captives had been taken from the trees that they might not afford marks for Coleola’s rifles, for the savages feared that the Snake Queen would steal back, and satiate her vengeance by dispatching the whites from the cliffs.
“All together once more,” said Doc Bell, despite the savage looks of their guards, “an’ I’m gettin’ anxious myself to see that ar’ Bloodhound.”
“We die when he comes!” said Somerville; “but we’ll die like men.”
“That’s talkin’, boy; but we ain’t dead yit,” said the giant, with a faint smile. “We didn’t die when Coleola came, and I’d sooner meet the Yellow Bloodhound than she—yes, by a long shot. We’ve got one true friend in this pack of devils, an’ ye’ve seen a sample ov his nerve. Nehonesto is the only member ov the moon-scar band that I’ve see’d fur four years, and I war thinkin’ erbout others awhile ago. Five ov us—four Injuns an’ me—formed that band on the Saginaw six years ago—afore I see’d you, boy—an’ a part ov our oath was to die if need be for one another. An’ I tell you Nehonesto is jest ready to die for us. Look how that cursed Little Coon watches him; the little Ojibwa suspects his giant brother, which is bad fur us. I’d like to know where we’ll be to-morrow.”
“In eternity, perhaps,” said Oliver Blount, who had listened attentively to the giant’s words.
“Mebbe so,” said Bell; “but I’ve never been thar yet. I don’t care fur my old self. My anxiety is fur your gal—your Kate, Oll.”
“And my Kate, too,” murmured Bob Somerville, inaudibly.
“Fear not for me,” cried the trader’s daughter. “I want my fate to be yours. I can die like a woman.”
“But the Bloodhound won’t kill you, Kate,” said the giant. “He reserves you for a fate worse than death.”