Alagwa understood not more than half of what she heard, but she gathered its purport. Jack’s last words settled his identity once for all. Beyond a doubt he was the young white chief from the south. She understood, too, that he had had no part in the killing of Wilwiloway and that he was glad that the murderer had been punished. A soft comfort stole into the girl’s heart as she realized that she would have no blood feud against him. She had only to call to him and to show him the trinkets that Tecumseh had given her, and all would be well. Impulsively she opened her mouth to speak; then closed it again. What was she doing? Had she forgotten her mission? Had she forgotten the slaying of Wilwiloway? Was his murderer to go unpunished? No! A thousand times! No! Jack’s voice broke in on her thoughts. “There’s Girty’s Town just ahead,” he remarked. “See that your scalp is tight on your head, Cato.” Girty’s Town! The words struck the girl like a blow. For the first time she realized that the wagon was taking her, not toward Piqua, not toward the camps of the white men for which she had set out, but away from them, back toward Girty’s Town and the St. Marys river. Often had she visited Girty’s Town and well she knew all the two score Shawnees who dwelt within it. Her revenge was ready to her hand; in a moment she would be in the midst of the warriors; then she would have only to rise in her place and call to them that Wilwiloway had been murdered, foully and treacherously, and that she herself had been shot by the man on the box, and they would hurl themselves upon him and drag him down. Her blood ran hot at the thought. Then suddenly it cooled. The young white chief would not stand tamely by while his prisoner was killed. He would fight! He would fight hard. He would kill many of her people. But he would be pulled down at last and--and--No! Not that! Not that! Her revenge must wait. Besides, Tecumseh had not sent her south to fight but to spy. If she called for vengeance on the murderer of Wilwiloway she betrayed herself and wrecked her mission. No! she must wait. There would be other chances. But her friends in the village would know her! What would she say to them? Abruptly she remembered the saving grace of her costume. All the Indians knew her as a girl with painted cheeks, fillet-bound forehead, and long braids of hair. Not one had seen her in shirt and breeches with clean-washed cheeks and short hair that curled upon her forehead. In such a guise perhaps even their sharp eyes might fail to recognize her. The road grew smoother and she realized that the wagon was within the village. A moment later it halted and the pad of running feet and the murmur of voices arose about it. Jack’s voice arose, telling of what had happened and expressing his regret, but presenting the facts so as to screen the living murderer and lay the blame on the dead man.