Then the Night-Hawk knelt, bent his bow, and the blazing arrow soared whistling with flame, and fell behind the rock on the shelf.
Arrow after arrow followed, whizzing upward and dropping accurately; but the wet mosses of the cliff extinguished the flashes.
As the last arrow fell, flared a moment, then merely smoked, an insulting laugh came from aloft, and my Indians uttered fierce exclamations and cuddled their rifle-stocks close to their cheeks, fairly trembling for a shot.
“Dogs of Oneidas!” called the Erie. “Go howl for your dead pig of a Stockbridge slave.”
“The Mole wears his scalp with Tharon!” retorted the Grey-Feather, choking with fury. “But Tahoontowhee’s hatchet is still sticking in the Senecas’