Wilwiloway did not pause. Over the dead form of his enemy he sprang, leaping upward at the man on the box, to meet a crashing blow that hurled him backward and downward into the dust of the road. With a whoop the man on the box sprang to the ground, knife in hand. An instant later he was up, waving a bloody trophy. He saw the girl still clutching at the air and rushed toward her. Alagwa saw it all. Wilwiloway was dead, and she was at the mercy of her enemies. She could not even move; her legs had grown strangely heavy. But her spirit rose indomitably. Forgotten was her white ancestry; once more she was an Indian, trained in Indian ideals. Steadily she drew herself up, folded her arms across her breast, and stared unflinchingly at the coming death. She would show them how a Shawnee could die. Deliberately she began to sing the Shawnee death chant: Behold, the water covers now our feet: Rivers must we cross; deep waters must we pass. Oh Kawas, hear: To thee we call. Oh come and aid us. Help us through the stream to pass and forward go. Here is the place we seek; here is our journey’s end. Here have we come; here is our journey’s end. Her sight was failing, but she sang on. Dimly she saw the white man with the hunting knife and behind him the young white chief on his horse coming like a thunderbolt. She did not heed them. Round her cool green waves were rising; the forest was stretching out its arms to pillow her. Then came a shock. The young white chief had driven his horse against the man on the ground, hurling him backward. “Stop! you d--d butcher,” he yelled. “Don’t you see it’s a white boy!” He leaped from his horse and caught the girl as she fell. The touch roused Alagwa to sudden blind terror and she began to struggle furiously, striking with soft, harmless hands. Then abruptly a voice sounded in her ear--a voice gentle yet strong, whimsical yet comforting. “It’s all right, youngster,” it said. “It’s all right. Nobody’s going to hurt you. We’re white men--friends! friends! There now, boy, be still!” The girl’s eyes lifted to the face that hung above her. Feverishly they roved over the broad brow, the fair curling hair, the whimsical blue eyes, the smiling yet pitiful mouth. As she read their message terror slipped from her, her strained limbs relaxed, a sense of peace and safety came over her, and she drifted away on a sea of blessed unconsciousness. [Illustration: ALAGWA, BEING WOUNDED, IS RESCUED BY JACK TELFAIR] CHAPTER VII