“The Kriqs have us saff. The Saxons are dead. The Scots red men slue themm. Fower of us live. Wee goe to Ft. Nue Sevann. Art Bocagh.” Keen news, this, from Art the Lame! Instead of sending Crawford’s men to the coast, Maclish had ordered the Assiniboines to slaughter them. Four of the Irish had somehow escaped and were safe among the Crees, on their way to New Severn--one of the two posts remaining to the English on the bay. Art Bocagh had sent this word that Crawford might be warned against Maclish, and might know where to find the remnant of his men if ever he returned. “The murdering hound!” said Crawford. A swirl of hatred swept up in his heart. Something burst within him--all his restraint was gone, all his self-control, all his cold caution. He whirled on Black Kettle, a blaze in his blue eyes. “You shall look after Metaminens--he needs only food and rest. This message says that Red Bull has murdered my men. I am going on ahead of him, past him, over him, to find the Star Woman--and to find him, also!” The Mohegan regarded him steadily, then made indirect protest. “My white brother is very angry. Does his manitou tell him that anger is a good companion on such a trail?” Crawford snarled an oath. The murder of his men was the last straw. Every atom of his cold reserve was swept away. “If I find that dog Maclish I’ll slit his throat instead of his face, this time! What about you and Perrot? Will the Stone Men follow that idiot here?” “No,” said the Mohegan. “They are not coming this way. They are north of us.” “You’ll be safe if the Dacotah war-party finds you, then?” “My father Metaminens is a chief of the Dacotah.” “Then farewell.” The Mohegan grunted in reply. Pausing only to retrieve his musket, Crawford plunged into the trees, with hatred of Maclish burning like a living flame in his heart. CHAPTER V VENGEANCE RUNS A RED ROAD It helped much that Hal Crawford had hunted with Mohawks and had worked his way during these frozen months across an unknown wilderness. Now, heading into the northwest, he had need of all his woods lore, all his hard iron strength, all his sheer fighting frenzy. Of this last he had no lack; indeed, his mood was little short of actual madness, and the more he thought about that note from Art Bocagh, the more infuriated he became. He cared much less about himself than about the men who trusted him. The murder of Phelim Burke had formed his resolution to torture Maclish to the uttermost; but the treacherous slaughter of his men smashed this resolution, wakened in him a furious resolve to kill the burly Scot at the first chance, and in default of him, those who followed him.