“You shan’t!”
The knife of the last speaker suddenly leaped from its leathern sheath, and he advanced upon Cole, who turned and pushed him back.
“Stand off, Duke White,” were Cole’s menacing words. “I don’t want a difficulty with you. I know what I’m doing. I’ll try Wolf-Cap if I wish to.”
“You shall not!” and White tried to step between Cole and the captive.
But, with a fierce oath, Cole hurled Duke from the tree. Duke recovered in a moment, and with all the baser passions of his soul fully aroused, he sprung at his Titan comrade.
Cole saw the movement, and received the attack with the knife, for it was apparent that the blood of a Night-Hawk had to be shed by a brother’s hand.
I say that Cole met the attack with the knife, and blood flowed from the wound inflicted in Duke White’s breast by the shining steel. The next moment they had grappled, and swayed to and fro in the struggle of life and death like contending giants.
The third white guard started forward to strike Cole with clubbed rifle, when one of the Indians, with a quick glance at his companion, leaped toward the tree.
A knife flashed in the brave’s hands, and when it descended Wolf-Cap sprung from the sycamore—free! He saw the second savage hurl the third guard into the murky waves of the Huron, and glanced at the struggling Night-Hawks, now on the ground.
“Wolf-Cap run down the river,” said the trapper’s deliverer, quickly pointing down the stream.