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.