He knew it too well now.

He saw himself guilty and guilty he was.
But in that moment of agony and fear for his own he was paying the price of his guilt.

The sense of helplessness was crushing.

In two hours the war party would start and it would flit southward like the wind, as silent but far more deadly.

No, nothing could save the innocent people at Wareville; they were as surely doomed as if their destruction had already taken place.
But not one of these emotions, so tense and so deep, was written on the face of him whom even the Shawnees did not know to be white.