CHAPTER XVI.

THE KING OF THE WOLVES.

Gradually the shades of night fell around the Indian town, and, unattended by human escort, a form emerged from Alaska’s lodge.

The step proclaimed the person a white, but the costume an Indian. A great blanket covered the body, the nether limbs were inclosed in close-fitting leggins, and a circlet of feathers surrounded the head. At the person’s feet trotted a large wolf, which ever and anon ran before its master, and gazed up into his face with a puzzled expression.

The solitary walker was Mayne Fairfax, now Co Hago, King of the Wolves!

He had left Alaska’s lodge, with her knowledge and consent, for a stroll--not an unpremeditated one--through the village. He had declined Tecumseh’s invitation to tread with him the war-trail, on the pretense that his wounds unfitted him for service, when his wounds had ceased from troubling.

He had cause for remaining in the Shawnee town.

The night was well advanced when he left his “mother’s” lodge, and his footsteps tended toward that portion of the “town” wherein was situated Eudora’s prison.

The night was not intensely dark, for the stars threw shadows, and Fairfax kept in the darkest spots as he approached the place well marked by him the preceding day. When quite near the lodge, he dropped upon all fours, and glided forward in that manner.

At last the wigwam loomed up between him and the golden worlds that almost dazzled his eyes when he looked aloft. Instead of two figures before Eudora’s lodge, three greeted his vision. The third figure was gigantic in its proportions, and easily recognized as the renegade, Jim Girty!

Fearful of his intentions, the renegade had added himself to the guard of the prison lodge.

An expression of dismay enthroned itself upon the young Virginian’s face, as his eyes fell upon Girty, and he gazed at the man a long time, before he gave utterance to his thoughts.

“I am baffled for to-night,” he murmured. “Jim Girty fears me, and guards his prisoner the closer. I must bide my time. He will relax his vigilance some time, his guards will sleep some night, when I shall tear Eudora from them. Can I wait until they sleep? No, no, I will not wait, for the renegade nightly changes his sentries. I must seek subtle assistance; but where shall I look for that? I am a Shawnee now; will not a brother aid me? Shall a mean, white dog baffle the King of the Wolves?” and a smile played with the young man’s lips, as he mentioned his title. “No, I swear he shall not. I wonder if Hewitt and Oonalooska will return to assist me?”

With this muttered interrogation, Fairfax retraced his steps, attended by his solitary guard.

It was near midnight, for the beautiful constellation of Cygnus had gained the meridian, and, in all its magnificence, was slowly sinking toward the western horizon.

Suddenly the hoot of the great horned night-owl came dismally distinct from the densely-wooded knoll to the right of the village.

The Wolf-King paused, and his companion pricked up his long, ashen ears.

Thrice that doleful hoot was repeated, and, as the last echo died away in the recesses of the forest, Fairfax wheeled and walked rapidly toward the spot.

What to him was the hoot of an owl?