It had belonged to one of his own kind, to the race into which he had been born and with which he had passed his boyhood.
His heart filled with hatred of these Shawnees, but the warriors of his own little tribe would take scalps, and if occasion came, the scalps of white people, yes, of white women and white girls! He tried to dismiss the thought or rather to crush it down, but it would not yield to his will; always it rose up again.
He walked back to the edge of the encampment, where some of the warriors were yet singing the war songs that with all of their monotony were so weird and chilling.

Twilight was over the forest, save in the west, where a blood-red tint from the sunken sun lingered on trunk and bough, and gleamed across the faces of the dancing warriors.

In this lurid light Henry suddenly saw them savage, inhuman, implacable.

They were truly creatures of the wilderness, the lust of blood was upon them, and they would shed it for the pleasure of seeing it flow.

Henry's primeval world darkened as he looked upon them.
He was about to leave with Black Cloud and his friends when it occurred to him to ask which way the war party was going and who were the destined victims.