A brief time elapsed between Jackson’s disappearance and his return.
A line of knolls or hills encircled the southern side of the fort, and terminated at the river. They enabled the outlaw to perform his errand without being seen by the besieged settlers, and he approached the assemblage with Huldah Armstrong and the treacherous borderman.
“There!” said Funk, in triumph, looking at his prisoners. “Colonel O’Neill, have I lied?”
The British soldier did not reply, for he was looking at the settler’s daughter, whose wonderful backwoods beauty was entrancing his Highland-tainted heart.
“What does Night-Hawk want to do with white girl?” asked Splitlog, breaking the silence that followed Funk’s speech.
“I intend making her Mrs. Funk, as I have told the colonel,” said the outlaw, quickly, glancing at the officer as he spoke. “She is mine!”
“But Night-Hawk didn’t give signal. He let a squaw run off with his head.”
Splitlog’s anger was rising again, and O’Neill was secretly rejoicing.
“I know it, chief; but to-night we’ll work together.”
“Like we did when it was dark before,” hissed the Wyandot, and his right arm started back threateningly. “The Night-Hawk is a traitor, and traitors are dogs. He no man at all who’ll let blue eyes draw him from duty.”