The young hunter was almost satisfied that Alaska, in the days of sanity, had dwelt near his own home; but her chaotic mind refused her the recollection he coveted. Again and again he questioned her; but, learning nothing, at last gave up in despair. He hoped that the “some day” to which she referred with prophetic mien, would soon arrive, and he prayed that he might witness its arrival. He felt deeply interested in that insane woman! During the day he busied himself in forming the acquaintance of Alaska’s wolves. At first the animals were inclined to shyness and war; but their queen drew them to Mayne Fairfax’s side, and at last they acknowledged their king--coming at his beck and call. “After three more sleeps,” said Alaska, when the shades of night were gently falling around the village, “Co Hago will be proclaimed King of the Wolves, in the presence of the entire Shawnee nation. Then he can come and go when and where he pleases, and none--not even the hated White Chief--dare cross his path.” “Then,” murmured our hero, “I can work, and I will snatch my friends from their perilous situations, upon my life.” He retired early to the inner apartment, and an hour later a hand roused him from slumber. He started to his feet and confronted Alaska. “Hist!” she cried with finger upon lip. A chorus of yells penetrated the lodge. “The mad squaws seek the captives’ lives!” cried Alaska, seizing Mayne’s arm, and darting from the wigwam. “Alaska will let them burn the prisoners, for the blood of Nethoto and Sagasto cry aloud from the forest.” As she uttered the last words she sprung forward in the direction from whence floated the hell of mad cries. Had her hand not encircled the hunter’s wrist, he would have experienced great difficulty in keeping beside her. With every bound the yells grew more distinct, and presently they found a response from the wolves that trotted at Alaska’s heels. CHAPTER XIV. SQUAW VENGEANCE, AND SQUAW RAGE. Mayne Fairfax and his red companion soon gained the immediate neighborhood of the exciting scene that was being enacted. On the southern side of the village square, and before the door of the prison lodge, surged a crowd of women with disheveled tresses, and hands full of clubs, hatchets, and knives. Against the door of the hut stood Tecumseh, with flashing eyes and drawn tomahawk; and confronting the chief were two gaunt hags--perfect furies in looks and contour--demanding the surrender to them and their supporters, of the two prisoners. A short distance from the sachem stood Jim Girty, smiling upon the vengeful work of his hands. Tecumseh maintained a firm and dignified bearing, though a close observer might have noticed sighs of trepidation, as his piercing eye took in the scene.