“Killing him won’t mend matters; but—”
The interruption that broke the sentence was caused by the sudden appearance of a young Wyandot warrior, who informed the twain that Royal Funk and his Night-Hawks were boldly approaching.
O’Neill and the chief exchanged looks of surprise.
“That man possesses the audacity of the devil,” said the colonel. “Now stick to your word, Splitlog; pay him up. Do not listen to his excuses. If you do, he’ll conquer.”
White and red occupied the tent of the former, and when they stepped out, they beheld a large body of soldiers and savages approaching.
At the head of the array walked Roy Funk and his remaining Night-Hawks, six in number, for Sam Cole had slain his white adversary at the tree to which Wolf-Cap was bound at the opening of the fort fight, and the second Night-Hawk whom Silver Hand threw into the river on the same occasion, would march no more to deeds of brigandage.
There was a cloud on the outlaw’s face as he neared the little group; but he walked boldly erect, unmindful of the fierce looks and muttered epithets that the Indians hurled upon him.
At length he halted before the couple at the tent, and looked them calmly in the eye without a word.
“You have come to report,” said O’Neill, suddenly and sarcastically.
“With your permission, sir,” retorted the Night-Hawk captain.