One crumb of comfort came to her. One thing at least she could do; one small recompense she could exact. She could demand Jack’s safety. She could send a message to Tecumseh that would make the lad’s comings and goings safe. She knew he would hate her for it. But he would hate her anyway. She would not stop for that. She would make him safe. And when it was all over and he knew, she would die as an Indian maid should die. Noiselessly--as noiselessly as she had moved through the forests--Alagwa rose from her bed and slipped to the door. Inch by inch she opened it and looked out. The house was black and silent; its inmates slept. Slowly she crept to the entrance to the big bar room. The night was hot and the windows and the door stood wide open, letting in a faint glimmer from moon and stars. In its light the sleeping forms of men on the floor loomed black. Side by side they lay, so close together that Alagwa could see no clear passageway between them. Suppose they waked as she tried to pass! It did not occur to her that her going out would surprise no one--that no one would dream of questioning her. Her conscience made a coward of her and made her think that to be seen was to be suspected. Desperately she caught her breath and looked about her, seeking Jack’s form, but failing to find it. He was indistinguishable among the blanket-wrapped forms. Long she stood at the door, peering into the room, her heart hammering in unsteady rhythm. At last she stepped forward gingerly, threading her way, inch by inch, catching her breath as some sleeper stirred uneasily, expecting every moment to hear the ringing out of a fierce challenge. Foot by foot she pressed onward till the door was at her hand. Through it she stepped out beneath the midnight sky. The night was very still. High overhead the slim crescent of the moon peered through swift-flying clouds. Round about, the great stars, scarcely dimmed, flared like far-off candles. The broad shallow river ran away to the east, a silver whiplash laid across the darkened prairie. Beyond, the huddle of huts that marked the Indian village stood out against the horizon. To the left, nearer at hand, rose the black quadrilateral of the fort. All around rose the voices of the night. A screech owl hooted from a near-by tree. A fox barked in the long grass. Nearer at hand restless horses and mules stamped at their fastenings. Over all rose the bellow of bullfrogs, the lapping of the river against its banks, and the ceaseless, strident calls of the crickets. Once more Alagwa’s hot eyes sought the fort. Within it were the men of the race she hated--the men who had derided and had threatened the young white chief. There, too, the murderer of Wilwiloway slept safe and snug, pardoned--yes, even commended--for his crime. And should she withhold her hand? Never! She would take revenge upon them all.