“Well, what is Splitlog going to do about it?”
The question was put calmly, but there was the lurking of a defiant, devil-may-care spirit in the words.
“He going to make example, as the pale-faces say,” was the reply. “Little Hickory, take the girl—”
“No you won’t!” interrupted the outlaw, and before the chief addressed could advance a step, Jackson threw Huldah Armstrong forward and Funk caught her in his arms.
“I appeal to the braves of the Wyandot nation, and to true English soldiers,” he cried, springing upon a fallen tree and looking around over the crowd. “I have fought for the flag of St. George and for the wampum of the Wyandots. I failed in a duty last night, but to-night we can take the fort. Put yourselves in my place last night. For such a pretty woman as this, who would not have forgotten every thing save love?”
Numerous cheers greeted the outlaw’s speech, but Splitlog, with a cloud on his face, advanced toward the log.
“Stop, chief,” cried Funk, cocking one of his pistols, and looking down upon the Wyandot. “I don’t want to shed blood on this occasion. My men will stand by me—if we go down, ’twill be as the fall of one man.”
Stern determination was written on the Night-Hawk’s face, and he glanced at Huldah, hanging half-senseless across his left arm.
“Don’t give in to him!” whispered O’Neill to Splitlog, who had stopped. “Make an example of the dog!”
The chief was inclined to do so.