She must stop him. But how? Fiercely but silently she laughed to herself. With his own rifle she would check him. It was in the wagon, close beside her! Powder-horn and bullet-pouch hung beside it. Jack had left them in her care without a thought. Noiselessly she felt for the rifle and noiselessly she drew it toward her. It was loaded, she knew. From the powder-horn that hung beside it she primed it and thrust it across the tail of the wagon toward the creeping man. As the sights fell in line upon him hate blazed up within her. He was at her mercy now--he, the murderer of Wilwiloway. The gods had given him into her hand. To slay him was her right and her duty. Should she do it? Her finger curled about the trigger. A little stronger pressure and Wilwiloway would be avenged. Her Indian gods, the gods of vengeance, the gods that called for the payment of the blood debt, thundered in her ears. “Kill! Kill!” they clamored. “Kill! Faithless daughter of the Shawnees! Kill!” Of the Christian God she knew nothing; missionaries had not yet brought him to Wapakoneta, though the time when they would do so was close at hand. Steadily her finger tightened about the trigger. Then it relaxed. What would Jack say--Jack with the broad forehead and the clear blue eyes? Would he approve? She knew that he would not. Instinctively she knew it. Too well her imagination mirrored forth the condemnation in his eyes. She did not understand the white man’s ideas of law and justice. She had suffered too bitterly from their working; but she knew--knew--that Jack understood them and that he would not countenance her taking vengeance into her own hands. Slowly her finger relaxed its pressure. She leaned forward and gently clicked her tongue against the roof of her mouth. The crouching man heard it and stopped short. She clicked again, and he looked up and saw the girl’s face, white in the dawn, staring at him over the round black eye of the rifle. With a muffled cry he sprang to his feet, throwing out his hands as if to ward off the imminent death. The shot did not come, and he began to shrink back. Step by step he moved and silently the rifle followed him. Once he paused and held out his hands as if offering a bargain. But the rifle held inexorably and after a time he resumed his halting retreat. At last he reached his blankets. Above them he paused and shook his fist at her furiously. Dark as it still was, Alagwa could not mistake his gestures nor doubt their meaning. He was swearing vengeance against her. Once more her finger curled about the trigger. She remembered the Shawnee proverb about the man who let a rattlesnake live. Was she letting a rattlesnake live? As she hesitated, Cato grunted, groaned, and moved, and the man dropped swiftly down. Alagwa sighed; her chance was gone, perhaps forever.