But the British soldiers were demanding something of a trial for the outlaw, and his Indians were joining in the clamor. So far as he was personally concerned, he would not punish Funk, and here was an opportunity to favor the forest freebooter. Funk, no doubt, had done Splitlog a service in days gone by, and an Indian never forgets such an action.
He stood before the outlaw a moment in silence, and then spoke.
“Splitlog hears the voices of his people,” he said. “He will not strike the Night-Hawk until they have pronounced on his fate. He,” pointing to Funk, “has lived long among the Wyandots; they know him—he is brave.”
As the Indian paused, O’Neill stepped forward, and laid his hand on the naked shoulder. The Briton’s face was still aflame with rage.
“Say nothing for nor against him, chief,” he said, in the Wyandot tongue. “Tell your braves to say life or death, and that quickly.”
He snapped the words out fiercely, and darted a malignant look at Splitlog as he turned away:
“I’ll pay you for this, you scarlet dog,” he murmured, under his breath. “I’ll pay you for lying, see if I don’t.”
Splitlog smiled contemptuously, and bit his nether lip.
“Down with you, Wyandots,” he cried, angrily, flashing his eyes over his armed nation. “Down like wolves, and let the warriors who vote for life hold up their guns.”
Like one man the red assembly dropped to the ground, and near two hundred guns were held on high!