Between these two ferocious characters an inseparable gulf had ever rolled, and each succeeding year it grew wider.
For a long time the Bloodhound and Coleola had lived at knife-points, and even in times of peace had attempted each other’s life.
She found Bardue’s trail without any difficulty, for she was an expert trailer, and came up with her great enemy in his own cave, when the rifles of our friends covered his cowardly heart, and when he held the lives of all in his hands.
The Snake Queen did not comprehend the situation, else she would not have fired without sober second thought. She did not realize the danger she was in, and flushed with anger, hightened by the presence of those whom she hated with all the bitterness of a mad-woman’s hatred, her rifle spoke the words of doom.
Well might Bob Somerville’s heart sink into the slough of despair when he comprehended his hopeless situation—when he saw Kate in the gripe of the mad Snake Queen, and found himself bound.
“Ha! ha! ha!” laughed Coleola, fastening her baleful eyes upon the trader’s daughter, whose cheeks had suddenly assumed the hue of the undriven snow. “The Lone Dove is Coleola’s at last, and her mate with the long plumage is hers, too. Coleola and her braves saw the Ojibwas and the white Hunter creep along the willowed banks, and when they entered the bushes she followed, and lo! here she is. Yellow dog!” and tossing Kate Blount to one of her giant followers, she turned abruptly upon the prostrate Frenchman, who was glaring at her like a tiger. “Ha! the yellow dog is in the folds of the Snake Queen, and they are going to squeeze him to death. The pale-faces will hear him yelp with pain, directly, and then they shall yelp themselves. Coleola’s enemies are all here save one—Swamp Oak, the Peoria dog. Oh, if he were here, and oh, if there stood at his side the girl who has no tongue!”
A moment’s silence followed Coleola’s bitter words, and then one of the braves jerked the creole to his feet.
He was dragged across the cave and stood upright against the wall composed of very soft limestone rock. He made no effort to escape; he knew that his strength would accomplish nothing, but he glanced wistfully from the fire to the powder-funnel. Oh, if he were free a moment! How quickly would he spring to the fire and hurl a torch upon the explosive heap—thus, at one fell swoop, sending his enemies as well as himself to eternity.
Coleola saw his glance, and laughed fiendishly at his despair.
“The black dirt shall not become fire by the Yellow Bloodhound’s claws,” she cried. “Warriors, nail him to the stones!”