By this time the sun had reached the rim of the horizon, and the shadows were deepening under the trees. Deerfoot dropped further behind the Sauk and Pawnee, the three still pushing westward, which was opposite the course that would have been taken to reach the camp-fire. The highly trained senses of the young Shawanoe could hear and see nothing to show that his enemies were near at hand.

Every minute now lessened the danger, for only a little more obscurity was required to prevent the keenest eyes of an American Indian from detecting the footprints in the forest. He concluded that, from some cause or other, the Pawnees had given over the pursuit.

So soon as Deerfoot was convinced on this point, he hastened to overtake Hay-uta, who was walking almost on the heels of the captive. The latter was not lacking in a certain dignity. He did not shamble along, as though his courage had been driven from his body. He walked erect, with head high, scarcely deigning to bend it to avoid an occasional interfering limb. He preferred to flank rather than stoop to such an obstruction. His carriage was so proud indeed that it looked as if he were a conqueror, with his two slaves walking behind him. Not once did he look about, or act as though he suspected the presence of friend or foe.

This curious procession lasted until the three were nearly a half mile from camp. By that time, night was closing in, and the gloom was such that Deerfoot was persuaded he need give no further thought to the Pawnee war party.

Hay-uta had acted the part of conductor, without much thought as to the course they were taking. Swerving to the right, they were soon beyond sight of the open space, and for a while the march was through the trackless forest; but, while the red men deviated very little from the path, the river, like all streams, took a winding course, and, just at the moment that Deerfoot joined the Sauk, the three debouched from the woods and (inasmuch as the open space had dwindled to a mere ribbon) found themselves close to the edge of the stream. There of necessity they halted.

The Pawnee now glanced over his shoulder and stopped, as if waiting for some command. Receiving none he started along the stream, but was checked by a word from Deerfoot, whose gesture explained what he meant. The warrior paused, and folding his arms confronted them with the same calm defiance as before.

There was something in his demeanor that compelled the admiration of his captors. It proved that whatever the Pawnee might be, he was not a coward, and it recalled to the young Shawanoe, the days when he wandered through the forests and cane brakes of Kentucky, like a raging cat o' mountain in his hatred of the pale-faces. There were depths in the nature of the youth which were rarely sounded; but now and then he caught glimpses of the possibilities within himself which caused him to shrink back, as if from the presence of a supernaturally evil being.

For the last part of the march the same thought occupied the minds of both Deerfoot and Hay-uta: in what manner could they win the friendship of the captive, and thus open the way to a solution of the mystery respecting Otto Relstaub?

Now that the journey was over for the present, the captors consulted together. When Deerfoot called on Hay-uta for the method that had presented itself to him, the Sauk replied that the only thing of which he could think was to make the Pawnee believe that he had but a few moments to live that there was no possible escape; and then, when that view was impressed on the prisoner, they would present him with his liberty.

Such was the plan also of Deerfoot, but when Hay-uta proposed that the Pawnee should be soused into the water and held under the surface until on the point of drowning, the Shawanoe shook his head.

Deerfoot showed a far-seeing mind in the course which he adopted, and to which Hay-uta assented without fathoming its full purpose. The youth felt that the circumstances were such that it was more important for the Sauk to figure as a merciful captor than for himself to play that part.

Deerfoot, it may be said, had proved his ability to take care of himself, where it was possible for a human being to do so. The Sauk was skillful, but in the perilous times close at hand, he was likely to stand in greater need of a friend "at court" than was the Shawanoe. It was this motive which actuated the latter in what he now did.

"Deerfoot will make ready to slay the Pawnee," said he, "and then Hay-uta will stay his hand."

The Sauk nodded to signify he understood the arrangement.

"Let my brother wait till all is ready; let him stand still till the Pawnee has no hope: when Deerfoot raises his tomahawk, then shall my brother forbid."

There was something touching in the dignity of the Pawnee, when he felt that no hope remained to him. He had no blanket, and all his weapons had been removed. He stood perhaps twenty feet, or slightly less, from Deerfoot, in plain sight, though the twilight had given place to that of the moon, which was partly full and shining from a sky in which were a number of drifting clouds. He was only a step or two from the woods, which it would seem offered a temptation too great to be resisted.

Doubtless some such thought entered his mind, but the Shawanoe never turned his face, and maintained such unremitting watch, that the captive must have felt he was shut in on every side.

Deerfoot had laid aside his bow and rifle and grasped his tomahawk—that weapon which in his hands was as unerring for a short distance as was the arrow from his bow. On the first motion of his captive toward flight, no matter how quickly made, the tomahawk would split the skull as if it were a rotten apple.

The Pawnee made no such attempt. He remained with his fine figure drawn to its full height. The weight of his body supported mainly on his right foot, while the left rested lightly a few inches in front, the posture similar to that which a trained athlete would assume when about to leap over a slight obstruction.

His arms were folded across his chest, his shoulders thrown back, while his eyes were fixed on the face of his captor a short distance away. Once or twice they flitted to the gloomy woods on his left, as though a faint hope fluttered in his heart that his friends would rush to his relief; but he knew that if such a thing were possible, it would have been done long before. Night and darkness had shut out all help from them.

The words between Deerfoot and Hay-uta were few, for the arrangements were so simple that many were not required. Hay-uta stepped back, and Deerfoot gathered himself like a marksman about to fire at a target.

The slightest incident did not escape the Pawnee. He saw that his last minute was at hand. Without changing his posture or unfolding his arms, he leaned forward and bowed his head, so that the crown was presented to his master, and his eyes, had they been open, would have looked directly on the ground. But they were closed, and his attitude was that of the devout worshipers in the congregation who, having risen to their feet and joined in the singing, bow their heads while the minister pronounces his benison.

The feet of Deerfoot were placed similarly to those of his victim, and his tomahawk was held idly in his left hand, the blade pressing the side of his knee. When necessary it would be raised over and back of his shoulder like a flash of light, and sent crashing into the brain of his victim.

The stillness became more impressive from a sound which blended with, rather than broke into it; a low monotone, like the sweeping of the wind over the strings of some rude instrument of music, issued from the lips of the Pawnee. It became broken, but at no time lost its distinctive character. It never rose to a high key, and from the beginning to the end, its variation in tone was no more than two notes of the musical scale. Had the volume been less, it would have called to mind the crooning of the housewife by her spinning wheel or over the cradle of the infant she was lulling to sleep.

But there was a depth, and a certain sonorous resignation in the death-song of the Pawnee, which rendered it unlike any thing else. The Shawanoe and Sauk had heard it sung more than once, and, accustomed as they were to the most dreadful scenes, they were always relieved when it ended; it was too much like a despairing refrain from the grave itself.

Gradually the volume of the Pawnee's death song deepened. For a time it was as if the voice were swaying from side to side in the struggle to free itself from some weight holding it down and smothering it. The weight was flung off, when, throwing up his head again, the Pawnee defiantly confronted the Shawanoe. The unspeakably dismal monotone sounded loud and clear as a trumpet blast borne on the wind, which, having blown at angles to the line of sound, suddenly becomes favorable, and throws the notes forward as if on eagles' wings.

The death song was ended; the Pawnee had finished his preparation for the leap into the dark, and he calmly awaited the pleasure of his master.

Instead of whirling his tomahawk aloft, Deerfoot slowly brought it above his head, the blade making a gleaming circle, as it swung over and finally paused, the handle so held that it pointed upward and backward, at an angle of forty-five degrees. He seemed to be gathering his muscles for the supreme effort, which should extinguish life in the defiant Pawnee as quickly as if he were smitten by a bolt from heaven. But, before the missile could leave his hand, the Sauk uttered an exclamation, and, having laid aside his gun, strode forward with both hands raised in protest.

His first two steps were rapid, and then, making a great bound, he seized the left arm of Deerfoot with both of his hands. The Shawanoe seemed to struggle fiercely to free himself, and his voice sounded harsh and angry as he ordered the other to step aside and leave him alone. But the Sauk, with no abatement of earnestness, refused, and, for a second or two, the contest was so desperate that the wonder was the prisoner did not make a break for life. Possibly he did not understand the nature of the struggle until it was over, or it may have been that, having made his preparations for death, he was loth to change the programme.

But the dispute ended as quickly as it began. The Sauk triumphed, as, judging from the size of the two, he was likely to do in such a wrangle. The hand of Deerfoot became nerveless and dropped to his side. He stood silent and sullen, as though he had no more interest in the matter.

Using mild language again, the Pawnee was surprised when the Sauk walked forward, and handed back the rifle, which Deerfoot had taken from him a short time before. The prisoner hesitated a moment as if in doubt, but the manner of Hay-uta was too plain to be mistaken. He accepted the weapon, giving utterance to what was probably meant as an expression of thanks.

Returning a few steps, the Sauk picked up the tomahawk and knife from the ground, and advancing once more in front of the Pawnee, presented them to him with the grace of the Crusader. His pleasure in giving was surely equal to that of the Pawnee in receiving them.

All this time Deerfoot remained like a statue of sullenness, glowering on the two, as though he would have been pleased to tomahawk both actors in the singular drama.

The Pawnee was quick to catch the purport of his friend in need. He shoved the blade of his knife into the skin-sheath at his girdle; he thrust the handle of his tomahawk through the same support, but further to one side, as if to balance the other weapon. Then he grasped his gun near the flint, and was ready for the next step in the proceedings.

Placing his hand on the prisoner's shoulder, Hay-uta turned him partly around, so that he faced up stream and in the direction of the camp, where so many of his friends were gathered. Pushing him gently forward, he exclaimed in an undertone and in his own language:

"Go!"

The Pawnee obeyed, the same dignity marking his movement as when he stood in the presence of death. He strode forward until he reached the darkness of the wood, into which he seemed to blend as if a part of the gloom itself.

When within the shelter, however, he laid aside his courtliness, as it may be called, and used the utmost haste in placing himself beyond danger.

Having played a part so long, he seemed to "go all to pieces", and dashed under the limbs and among the trunks like a terrified deer.

This panic, however, was soon over, and he came to an abrupt stop when only a short distance away. Standing a second or two, as if in deep thought, he turned, and began stealing toward the narrow open space where he had stood a few minutes before, with bowed head, while he chanted his death song. His movement was noiseless, and he speedily peered from among the trees upon the forms of the Shawanoe and Sauk, who were in the act of moving off. They were in plain sight, and the swarthy countenance gleamed, as, carefully muffling the sound of the hammer, he drew it back and brought the rifle to his shoulder.

The distance was short and he could not mistake his aim. Though his life had just been spared by the couple, he fairly held his breath in his eagerness to take their lives. Could he have done so, he would have waited till they were in range, in order that he might bring both low.

But only a moment elapsed, after raising his rifle, when he pressed the trigger.

The dull click of the flint was followed by a whirring flash, as the powder vanished in a white puff, but there was no report. Deerfoot, while carrying the weapon, had quietly withdrawn the charge, leaving the priming, however, in the pan. He knew just how far it is safe to trust the average American Indian.