“Did Splitlog vote?” cried the chief. “No! he left it to his men. But he will look to the vote of the red-coats. He says that the Night-Hawk shall fly from the land of the Wyandots before the sun sweeps over the bosom of the Huron again, and he shall never return. Does this suit the king’s soldier?”
“He should die. We, his own people, say as much,” said O’Neill.
“But Indians say, ‘Live, Night-Hawk.’ Splitlog must listen to his people; when they say ‘No,’ he must not say ‘Yes.’”
“So be it, then. But he shall not take his captive along.”
“Whatever is his he may keep,” answered the Indian, and then he looked up at Royal Funk.
“Night-Hawk, you are free to go,” he said. “After this night, let these forests hear your tread no more. Splitlog and his braves say so.”
“Agreed,” answered Funk. “I accept your mercy. I go, never to return. Soldiers who voted for my life, I thank you; and, Colonel O’Neill, my fervent prayer is that we may meet again.”
“Amen!” grated the Briton. “I echo your prayer from the bottom of my heart!”
“Come, boys,” said the outlaw, descending from his perch, and addressing his band in a low tone, “we’ll leave this accursed place at once, or so soon as we can get off. We’ll go down the river in barges, and after a while strike over land toward Detroit. There’s no use in talking. Our days are up in the ‘fire-lands,’ though I’d like to linger here to settle scores with Wolf-Cap.”
The Night-Hawks expressed their willingness to follow their leader, but they abominated the thought of a forced exile. They had lorded it over the fire-lands until they believed themselves invincible, but they had discovered one at whose command they must depart.