ictories that they're goin' to win."

"But did you notice that voice?" Henry whispered back. "It's not a
man's, it's a woman's."

"Now that you speak of it, you're right," said Shif'less Sol. "It's
funny to hear an Injun woman chantin' about battles as she comes into
camp. That's the business o' warriors."

"Then this is no ordinary woman," said Henry.

"They'll pass along that trail there within twenty yards of us, Sol, and
we want to see her."

"So we do," said Sol, "but I ain't breathin' while they pass."

They flattened themselves against the earth until the keenest eye could
not see them in the darkness. All the time the singing was growing
louder, and both remained, quite sure that it was the voice of a woman.
The trail was but a short distance away, and the moon was bright. The
fierce Indian chant swelled, and presently the most singular figure that
either had ever seen came into view.

The figure was that of an Indian woman, but lighter in color than most
of her kind. She was middle-aged, tall, heavily built, and arrayed in a
strange mixture of civilized and barbaric finery, deerskin leggins and
moccasins gorgeously ornamented with heads, a red dress of European
cloth with a red shawl over it, and her head bare except for bright
feathers, thrust in her long black hair, which hung loosely down her
back. She held in one hand a large sharp tomahawk, which she swung
fiercely in time to her song. Her face had the rapt, terrible expression
of one who had taken some fiery and powerful drug, and she looked
neither to right nor to left as she strode on, chanting a song of blood,
and swinging the keen blade.

Henry and Shif'less Sol shuddered. They had looked upon terrible human
figures, but nothing so frightful as this, a woman with the strength
of a man and twice his rage and cruelty. There was something weird and
awful in the look of that set, savage face, and the tone of that Indian
chant. Brave as they were, Henry and the shiftless one felt fear, as
perhaps they had never felt it before in their lives. Well they might!
They were destined to behold this woman again, under conditions the
most awful of which the human mind can conceive, and to witness savagery
almost unbelievable in either man or woman. The two did not yet know
it, but they were looking upon Catharine Montour, daughter of a French
Governor General of Canada and an Indian woman, a chieftainess of the
Iroquois, and of a memory infamous forever on