Steadily, monotonously, the rain poured down all night long. The
morning dawned cheerless and murky. The earth was sodden; every rivulet
was swollen; and the creek was bank full. A dense fog rose from the
water-courses and spread itself over the land. The feeble rays of the
winter sun could not penetrate it; and at midday the depths of the forest
were gloomy and oppressive.
The savages huddled together in their mean hovels and silently watched
the dreary downpour. Nothing broke the stillness, save the steady drip of
the rain and the rumbling roar of the fast hurrying streams. All the fuel
was wet, and the fires burned dismally. It was a wearying, soul-trying
day.
Douglas and Bradford sat by the fire that smoldered in the middle of
the floor of the miserable hut they occupied. Occasionally, one or the
other arose and peeped out at the pouring rain. But the scene was too
depressing; and, shivering, he returned to the fire. The pungent smoke
refused to find its way out at the hole in the bark roof, but swirled and
eddied about the interior and added to the general discomfort.
Neither man was in a talkative mood. Hour after hour, they sat staring
into the ash-masked embers, each busy with his own thoughts.
As the day advanced, Ross’s apathy left him. He grew strangely restless,
and like a caged animal paced from one end of the cabin to the other.
Bradford noted his companion’s changed mood, but said nothing. By four
o’clock it was growing dusk. Douglas suddenly picked up his hat and
started for the door.
“Where are you going?” Bradford inquired.
“For a walk,” was the non-committal reply.
Duke arose, stretched himself, yawned, and rubbed against his master’s
legs.
“Surely you’re not going out in such a rain,” Bradford remarked. “You’ll
get wet to the skin.”
“What’s a little rain to a man who has spent his days in the open air,”
Douglas returned quickly, still moving toward the doorway.
“Wait!”
And Bradford sprang to his feet and placed himself in front of the other,
his broad back against the closed door.
“What do you mean?” Ross cried, drawing himself up stiffly.
It was a strange scene. The flickering firelight alone lighted the black
interior and outlined the forms and faces of the two men. The bloodhound
stood looking from one to the other. Outside, the rain fell and the wind
soughed fitfully.
“I mean that you’re not going out to-night,” Bradford answered firmly.
Douglas’s temper was rising.
“You dare to say that I shan’t go out to-night, if I choose?” he asked.
“Yes; that’s what I mean.”
“And you think I’ll submit?”
“You must—you can’t help yourself.”
“That remains to be seen.”
“Oh!”
“Yes.”
They stood glaring at each other, like brutes at bay. The older man was
cool and collected; the younger, angry and excited. Each was striving to
stare the other out of countenance; but neither shrank from the ordeal.
“Stand aside!” Ross cried chokingly.
“I will not.”
“The consequences be upon your own head, then!”
Scarcely were the words out of his mouth, ere Douglas leaped forward and
grappled with his antagonist. Around and around the small, dark room
they whirled, each striving to trip and throw the other. Douglas was the
stronger, the more active; Scar Face, the cooler, the more skillful. They
were evenly matched.
Duke snarled viciously, and ran around the two combatants, seeking
an opportunity to leap at Bradford’s throat. Both men were breathing
heavily. The terrific exercise and excessive strain were telling upon
them. But the younger man’s wind was the better—was in his favor.
Besides, each moment he was growing cooler, more determined, while
his antagonist, seeing defeat staring him in the face, was losing his
presence of mind.
Of a sudden, Douglas swung Bradford clear of the ground, and with
stunning force dashed him against the log wall. Scar Face’s hold relaxed,
and he dropped to the floor, senseless. In a moment the dog was upon the
helpless man, and would have buried his fangs in the throbbing throat,
had not Ross panted:
“Down, Duke; out of the way!”
The hound sullenly obeyed, growling fiercely. Douglas leaned against the
wall and breathed hard for some seconds. Then he stooped and carefully
examined his fallen foe.
“He’s only stunned; thank God I didn’t have to kill him!” he ejaculated.
Then, taking a bundle of thongs from a peg upon the wall, he proceeded to
bind the prostrate man, hand and foot. When he had finished, he secured
the other’s gun, ammunition, and knife, and calling to the dog left the
hut, noiselessly closing the door behind him.
By this time it was quite dark. Along the creek bank, the camp-fires
twinkled like watchful eyes. With long, sturdy strides, Douglas set off
toward the ravine up the stream. The smell of the heavy fog was in his
nostrils; the booming roar of the turbulent creek in his ears. He met
or saw no one. He left the camp behind, and neared the spot where he
expected to meet his friends.
Suddenly he stopped and whistled softly. No reply. He drew nearer to the
ravine, and again he whistled. Still no reply. The bloodhound whined and
impatiently scratched the soft, wet earth.
“Find them, Duke,” Ross commanded.
The dog ran forward and disappeared in the bushes.
Douglas awaited the outcome of his experiment. Presently he heard an
eerie-like whisper:
“Come right straight ahead, Ross Douglas. Crawl into the bushes, an’ be
mighty still while you’re doin’ it.”
It was Farley’s voice. Douglas obeyed the words. Dropping upon hands and
knees, he wormed his way through the thick copse of wet bushes, for some
yards. Suddenly a hand was clapped upon his shoulder, and these whispered
words fell upon his ear:
“Drop down an’ keep still. The Injins is all ’round us. They’ve got onto
our game, some way, an’ have been huntin’ fer our hidin’-place ever sence
the middle o’ the afternoon. Me an’ Bright Wing’s laid here fer twelve
mortal hours, without a bite to eat. How the redskins got onto our scheme
is more’n I can tell; but they’ve done it. Have you got a gun with you,
Ross?”
“Yes,” was the cautious reply.
“All right. We didn’t dare to answer y’r whistle, fer fear the Injins
might hear us. They was mighty close right then. That dog o’ yours’s got
a heap o’ sense—he has, by ginger! He jest nosed ’round us an’ never
barked n’r nothin’. Wher’ are you, Bright Wing?”
“Me here,” came from the depths of the Wyandot’s chest.
“Well, lead off, an’ we’ll foller you. This is a ticklish business, ’r
my name ain’t Joe Farley! Ross, y’r dog was goin’ back to you, but I
c’ncluded I’d best risk callin’ you. Go ahead, Injin, we’re right at y’r
heels.”
“Ugh!” was the guttural response from the blackness.
To the bottom of the ravine they stealthily descended; crept through the
water and mud of its bed; and ascended the opposite bank. Bright Wing led
the way; Duke brought up the rear. Reaching the open wood, they arose to
their feet and silently threaded their way through the intricate mazes of
the black forest.
They had proceeded but a short distance, however, when Bright Wing
dropped to the ground and lay motionless. The others followed his
example. Duke growled menacingly, and ere his master could lay a
restraining hand upon him, darted into the wall of blackness ahead. To
the ears of the three comrades came a sharp exclamation, followed by the
sounds of a tussle. Then all was silent.
“What’s the meaning of those sounds?” Ross inquired softly of Farley.
“Don’t know,” was the reply in the same cautious undertone.
“S’pect the purp got hold of a redskin’s guzzle, an’ shut his wind off so
quick he couldn’t——”
“Ugh! Duke him bite bad Shawnee much hard,” the Wyandot volunteered.
“Here Duke him is now. Come.”
The dog trotted back to his place and, panting, threw himself upon the
ground. Again they moved onward, creeping along inch by inch and pausing
frequently to listen. In this manner they covered quite a distance. They
had arisen to their feet, and were congratulating themselves that they
had eluded the vigilance of their watchful foes, when the patter of
moccasined feet sounded on all sides of them. They were surrounded.
A short and sharp conflict in the intense darkness ensued. Rifles were
discharged and blows were struck at random. Then the three comrades found
themselves beyond the line of their enemies, and blindly dashed away in
the impenetrable blackness.
For some time they continued their mad flight, through thickets and over
fallen logs, stumbling, falling, scrambling to their feet and running on.
At last they paused momentarily to listen. All sounds of pursuit had died
out. Naught was to be heard but the patter of the rain-drops upon the
dead leaves and the boom of the creek near at hand.
“We have distanced them,” Douglas panted.
“Yes,” Farley gasped in reply. “But it was a mighty close shave. Is
either o’ you fellers hurt?”
“I’m not,” Ross replied.
“Me no hurt,” Bright Wing grunted. “Where dog Duke?”
“Here at my side,” Douglas answered.
“I guess I’m the only critter that got a scratch,” Joe grumbled. “I alluz
was an unlucky mortal. One o’ them red devils has raised a strawberry on
my cheek, as big’s a walnut. He must ’ave struck me with the butt of his
hatchet. I’m much obleeged to him that he didn’t use the blade. I’d ’ave
needed a surgeon, I would, by Polly Ann! Seemin’ly the cusses didn’t want
to kill us; they didn’t fire a gun. Wanted to take us alive, I reckon.
But our charge was too much fer ’em. But we want to reload our rifles,
an’ git out o’ here. They’ll git torches an’ be hot on our trail ’fore a
half hour, ’r I miss _my_ guess. Gol-fer-socks! But I’m hungry. I could
eat hoss-meat now an’ relish it. Say, fellers, which way do we want to
steer?”
“It makes little difference,” Ross answered impatiently. “Any direction
that will carry us from this vicinity is good enough for me.”
“That won’t do,” Joe said firmly. “We’ve got to do one o’ two ’r three
things: steer fer Fort Harrison on the Wabash, Fort Defiance on the
Maumee, ’r make a break ’cross the country fer Franklinton on the Scioto.
The question is which way ’ll we go. What do you say, Injin?”
“Me say go toward rising sun; go toward home,” Bright Wing answered
promptly.
“What do you say, Ross?”
“I’m willing to abide by Bright Wing’s decision. But let’s be off.”
“All right,” returned Joe. “We’ve got to ford the creek then, an’ keep
bearin’ east. We want to strike through by Greenville an’ Fort Recovery.
Come on. Le’s git out o’ here, an’ find a place where we can cook some
meat. The Injin’s got some in his pouch. I’m jest ’bout starved, I am, by
cracky! Injin, take the lead.”
All night they pressed forward, bearing toward the northeast. At daylight
they went into camp upon a rocky elevation, and, after kindling a fire
and cooking and eating a quantity of venison, stretched themselves upon
the damp ground and fell asleep.
* * * * *
While they are snatching a few hours of repose, let us go back to the
Indian camp upon Wildcat Creek.
Fifteen minutes after Douglas’s departure, Bradford regained
consciousness. At first he lay and stared vacantly around him. Then a
keen remembrance of all that had occurred came to him, and he attempted
to arise. He tugged at his bonds; half arose to a sitting posture; and
fell back helpless.
“Overpowered, but not outwitted!” he muttered, rolling his aching head.
“The Indians are on the _qui vive_, and will recapture him. Also, they
will take his venturesome comrades prisoners. I hope they’ll not hurt
either of the three.
“How long have I lain here? I must have received a severe blow; I’m
dizzy, and my head aches. It’s a wonder he didn’t kill me while he had
the chance. Perhaps he doesn’t hate me as he did. God grant that it may
be so! Of course he has taken my arms with him. Well, I can’t blame him;
I robbed him of his own. I was a fool to send away the two guards. I
should have kept them at hand day and night. Why don’t the redskins come;
what can be the cause of their delay?”
Again he essayed to arise, and again fell back with a groan. The fire had
burned down; the room was in darkness. No sound came to his ears, but the
patter of the rain upon the bark roof, the fitful sough of the wind, and
the sullen boom of the rushing stream. A half hour passed. He strained at
the thongs that bound his limbs, but accomplished nothing.
“Curse the luck!” he cried angrily. “Why don’t the red hounds put in an
appearance? Can it be possible he has escaped them? How strong and active
he is. He was too much for me, with all my skill as a wrestler. Mercy,
how my head aches! And how manly and brave he is; a young man of whom any
father might be proud! But he hates me—hates me! In the name of all the
fiends, must I lie here helpless while he makes his escape? I shall go
mad. Hark! Footsteps and voices.”
A moment later the door flew open, and a number of braves strode into the
room.
“Is that you, Long Gun?” Bradford asked excitedly.
“Ugh!” grunted the leader of the party.
“And the palefaces—where are they?”
“Gone.”
“Gone!” shouted the prostrate man, writhing like one undergoing torture.
“Gone! You shall pay dearly for allowing him to escape!”
Long Gun kicked the half-burned faggots into a blazing pile. Then folding
his arms upon his brawny chest, he answered composedly:
“Scar Face should not talk big and loud. See! He lies helpless, like
a tethered dog. He can bark, but he cannot bite. He snaps and snarls,
and finds fault with Long Gun and his warriors, because they did not
capture the armed palefaces, in the black forest. But Scar Face could
not overpower _one unarmed paleface, in his own cabin_. The young man
joined his friends. They fought in the darkness and made their escape. My
warriors bear the marks of the fight.”
“Fool!” Bradford bellowed chokingly. “Don’t stand there gloating over my
predicament! Sever my bonds at once.”
The chief silently obeyed. Bradford struggled to his feet, shook himself,
and rubbed his stiffened limbs. Then he inquired briskly:
“All three escaped?”
“Ugh!”
“And the dog?”
“Ugh!”
“Which way did they go?”
“Long Gun and his warriors tried to follow them, but could not. The black
night swallowed them.”
“Bah!” sneered the white man. “And you call yourself a Shawnee warrior!
Do not palefaces leave tracks in the dark, as well as in the light? You
must find their trail; you must follow and overtake them. Do you hear me?
Rouse yourselves! Get torches! I will accompany you. Five pounds to the
brave who first strikes their trail; ten pounds to him who first gains
sight of them! Let’s be off! Hurry! Hurry!”
Stimulated by the prospect of reward, the braves hurriedly prepared
for the pursuit. Out of the cabin they trooped, Long Gun in the lead.
Bradford accompanied them. The camp was enveloped in darkness; the rain
still fell steadily—persistently. Up the creek they proceeded, their
flaming torches lighting the surface of the muddy stream. They reached
the ravine, crossed it, and disappeared in the thick woods. And still the
rain fell, and still the camp was wrapped in darkness and slumber.
The next day, the allied tribes at Wildcat Creek packed their scanty
effects and set out for the village of the Miamis, upon the Mississinewa.
* * * * *
Now let us return to the escaped captive and his friends.
The sun was several hours high when Ross awoke. The sky was clear; the
morning air crisp and biting. The young man stretched his limbs and
drank deeply of the sweet, invigorating atmosphere. The grateful odor
of cooking meat greeted him. A brisk camp-fire blazed at his feet; and
suspended over it, by means of a tripod of green sticks, was a hunk of
venison, roasting. Douglas took in all this at a glance. Then he looked
around for his companions. They were nowhere in sight.
“Strange,” he muttered, picking up Bradford’s rifle and carefully
examining it. “Are mysteries never to end? Where can Farley and Bright
Wing be? Of course they have not deserted me. But where are they? Why
didn’t they wake me? They have gone to investigate something, probably,
for they have left the meat cooking. How soundly I must have slept! Their
absence makes me uneasy.”
Dropping upon the ground, he continued his critical examination of the
gun he held in his hands, all the while communing with himself:
“An excellent piece of English manufacture, and richly carved and
ornamented. It must have cost a pretty sum of money. Bradford will
hardly thank me for relieving him of it. He must have set great store by
it.”—And the speaker smiled.—“I wonder what he thought and did when he
regained consciousness and found me gone, and himself unarmed and tied.
A mysterious personage! He kept me a prisoner; yet he was kind to me and
protected me. And La Violette, how beautiful! A form and face to drive a
man mad with love. But all her witcheries could not efface from my heart
the image of little Amy Larkin. Pshaw! what nonsense I’m talking. Am I
a love-sick schoolboy, doomed to fall in love with every pretty face I
see? Divorce La Violette from her romantic environment, and she would be
commonplace, perhaps. At any rate, she is naught to me; nor I to her. Why
should I bestow a thought upon her? She forgot her promise to me, as soon
as she had made it. I’ll think of Amy—gentle, loving, faithful little
girl!”
A moment he hung his head and was silent. The blazing camp-fire crackled;
the roasting meat steamed and sputtered. Presently Ross shook himself,
and again looking about him, murmured impatiently:
“Confound the luck! Where can those two runaways be? We should be upon
our journey. We are still within reach of the Indians and Bradford. At
this moment a party may be hot upon our trail. We’re wasting precious
time. The campaign is over; and I’m anxious to return to Amy, to fulfill
my promise. But Bradford! How my mind reverts to that man. The threads of
our lives have crossed. Will they remain entangled? Ah! What are these
letters engraved upon the stock of his gun? J. D.—eh? Those are not _his_
initials. Evidently he stole the piece—as _I_ did. Bradford! I hate the
treacherous villain—but I could not kill him. Duke hated him, too. Ah!”
Hastily he scrambled to his feet and once more swept his eyes around the
place, grumbling in an irritable undertone:
“Where _is_ the hound? I hadn’t thought of him. He wouldn’t go far from
my side, unless he were forced to do so. I’ll call him.”
As has been stated, the site of the three friends’ bivouac was the summit
of a small, rock-strewn elevation. It was bare at the top, but surrounded
at its base by a fringe of stunted bushes. On all sides of it stretched
the forest.
Douglas threw his rifle upon his shoulder and swiftly descended the
slope, softly calling the dog’s name as he went. Just as he reached the
bottom of the gentle declivity, there was a stir in the underbrush, and
Duke bounded forth to meet his master. A moment later, the limbs parted
and the smiling face of Joe Farley peeped out. The hound fawned at Ross’s
feet and whined gleefully.
“He seems mighty glad to see you,” Joe remarked as he stepped into the
open.
“Yes,” Douglas answered dryly, keenly eyeing his friend.
“What’s the matter?” Farley laughed. “Did you sleep so long you let the
meat burn up? A purty cook you’d make.”
“The meat’s cooking nicely,” Ross interrupted. “But why did you leave it?
What are you doing down here?”
“Jest stepped down here to take a squint ’round an’ see if I could find
anything o’ the Injin.”
“Bright Wing?”
“Yes.”
“Where is he?”
“I don’t know no more’n the man in the moon. When I woke up an hour ago
he was gone. You was sleepin’ so good I didn’t want to wake you. So I
hung up the chunk o’ venison, started a fire under it, an’ come down here
to see what I could see. After a little while the dog follered me.”
“And what discovery have you made?”
“None. I hain’t seen hide n’r hair o’ the Injin, n’r nobody else. I don’t
see what’s become o’ him. I can’t make it out.”
Douglas was silent; and Joe asked:
“What do you make of it?”
“I don’t know what to think,” Ross replied meditatively. “One thing is
certain, however. We’re tarrying too long.”
“Of course,” assented Joe.
“But we can’t proceed until Bright Wing returns.”
“No, of course not.”
“What do you suggest?”
“That we go an’ have somethin’ to eat while we’re waitin’. I’m as holler
as a gun bar’l. I’ve fasted fer three ’r four days, an’ it seems I can’t
git filled up, somehow. I’m jest like a feller in love—I am, by Caroline!
Can’t git enough of it. I remember one time when a score o’ purty women
was hankerin’ after me. They was perfectly distracted over my good looks.
But I wasn’t in love with one of ’em; an’ it didn’t take me long to git
enough o’ their billin’ an’ cooin’. Then I remember another time w’en
a small piece o’ linsey-woolsey got in my mind, an’ I couldn’t git ’er
out. She was purty as a pictur’, an’ sharper eyed ’n a blackbird. But she
didn’t keer a continental fer me; an’ I nearly starved to death fer the
want o’ her love. I pined away to skin an’ bone, an’ become a reg’lar
shadder. Served me right, fer the way I’d used them other women, I
reckon. I ain’t much on religion, but I b’lieve a man gits his punishment
fer his evil deeds right here on earth—I do, by Samanthy! But what’re you
thinkin’ ’bout, Ross Douglas?”
Ross stood absent-mindedly gazing into the somber depths of the
surrounding forest. Evidently he had heard little that his loquacious
friend had been saying. But at the question he started, and replied
serio-comically:
“I was thinking I had heard you speak of your numerous conquests before,
Joe.”
“So you have.”—And the other nodded solemnly and vigorously.—“The Good
Book says that from the fullness o’ the gizzard the tongue wags—’r words
to that effect. I never _was_ good at quotin’ Scriptur’. Anyhow, a man’s
liable to talk ’bout what’s on his conscience. It’s a consumin’ fire that
won’t let him rest. As fer _me_, toyin’ with women folks’s affections has
been my besettin’ sin. Now I’m gittin’ up in years, I’d like to find a
purty woman, an’ marry an’ settle down. But I’ve burned out the candle
o’ the Lord’s mercy an’ blowed the ashes in his face, an’ he won’t hear
my prayers.”—Here Joe sighed deeply, lugubriously.—“Be keerful you don’t
do the same thing, Ross Douglas. Let my horrible example be a warnin’ to
you. Don’t toy with women’s hearts. As I was goin’ to say——”
“Did I understand you to say you’re hungry, Joe?” Douglas interrupted.
“Of course, I’m hungry,” Farley answered in an injured tone. “I’m alluz
hungry. When I was a boy I foolishly took a drink o’ water out of a frog
pond, an’ swallered ’bout a dozen tadpoles. Well, sir, them tadpoles
growed to frogs; an’ they’re in my stomach yit. They take all the
victuals I put into my mouth; an’ w’en they git _re’l_ hungry, they set
up such a croakin’ I can’t sleep fer the noise they make. Once I got to
foolin’ ’round a log bear-trap in the woods, an’ the door fell down an’
shut me in. I was a pris’ner fer ’bout a week; an’ was nearly starved to
death an’ crazier ’n a loon, w’en some fellers found me an’ let me out.
Well, sir, first them frogs went to croakin’ fer somethin’ to eat, an’
they kep’ it up fer four days, never lettin’ up a minute. Then they got
dry fer water, an’ they commenced hoppin’ ’round in my inside an’ tryin’
to git out. Talk ’bout sufferin’! The ol’ martyrs never had to stand
what I stood out there in that bear-trap. The ’xperience left lines o’
sufferin’ on my comely visage, that I hain’t never got red of. It come
purty near spilin’ my beauty ferever—it did, by Melindy Jane! W’y,
dang-it-all-to-dingnation! I tell you——”
“Joe.”
“Well?”
“If you don’t mean to feed your colony of frogs on charred meat, you’d
better look after that roasting venison. It’s scorching; I smell it.”
“By my great uncle’s snuffbox, but that’s a fact! An’ me a-standin’ here,
a-blowin’ my bugle, like a shaller-pated fool!”
Farley loped up the slope, to the camp-fire, and rescued the hunk of
venison from the coals where it had fallen. Douglas followed leisurely, a
preoccupied look upon his dark, handsome face. Duke trotted at his heels.
“It’s done now—an’ _good an’ done_!” Joe grumbled. “But it’s all we’ve
got, an’ we’ll make the best of it. Dang a long an’ limber tongue,
anyhow! Mine’s alluz gittin’ me into some dangnation trouble. Well, we
can cut off the burnt parts an’ feed ’em to the dog. Jest see the hungry
purp! Looks like he’d like to take a slice out o’ me, this very minute.
Ther’, Duke, clap y’r jaws on that. Gone a’ready, an’ wantin’ more?
Ross Douglas, I may have a colony o’ frogs in me, but this houn’ o’
yours is infested with a tapeworm bigger ’n a black-snake—he is, by King
Solermen’s harem! Git y’r knife out, an’ le’s fall to an’ eat; no use to
wait on the Injin—no tellin’ where _he_ is.”
Ross’s preoccupied air had not deserted him; and he ate sparingly of the
tempting food. The eccentric woodman ravenously devoured great slices
of the meat, grudgingly tossing the dog the burnt portions. At last he
paused in his masticatory process and exclaimed:
“Ross, somethin’s botherin’ you the worst kind; an’ whatever it is, it’s
takin’ y’r appetite.”
“I’m thinking,” Douglas replied.
“Well, what’re you thinkin’ of?”
“Of what has become of Bright Wing.”
“An’ what’s yer c’nclusion?”
“That he has gone back over our trail, to discover if we are followed.”
“It’s more’n likely,” Joe assented. “But we can’t do nothin’ but wait fer
him, can we?”
“No.”
“Well, that’s settled then. Say!”
“Well?”
“Why didn’t you kill that Bradford—the low-lived skunk—when you had a
chance? ’Twould ’ave saved us no end o’ trouble, p’r’aps. Maybe he’s on
our trail this minute, with a band o’ murderin’ red devils at his back.”
“It’s probable.”
“Well, why didn’t you kill him?”
“I had reasons for not doing so.”
“What was they?”
“I don’t care to say.”
“Huh! You’re gittin’ closer ’n a clam,” Joe muttered irritably.
Then he continued:
“An’ you didn’t kill that ol’ cuss of a Prophet?”
Ross remained silent.
“N’r Tecumseh, n’r none of ’em?”
“I was hardly in a position to make a wholesale slaughter of my enemies,”
Ross replied laughingly. “I was a captive, and surrounded by hundreds of
bloodthirsty savages. I consider myself fortunate to have escaped with my
life.”
“Yes, that’s so,” Farley assented in a dissatisfied tone. “But it seems
to me this campaign hain’t amounted to much. Tecumseh’s back among his
warriors; an’ Bradford an’ the Prophet’s still alive. They’ll be hatchin’
more devilment, ’fore the next new moon. Howsoever, I’ve done _my_ part
an’ hain’t got nothin’ to regret. But I don’t want to be a soldier no
more; I’d ruther fight on my own hook. This thing o’ drivin’ oxen from
one end o’ the Indiany Territory to the other ain’t what it’s cracked up
to be.”—And he sighed feelingly.—“All I want’s to git back to my cabin
on the ol’ Scioto—W’y, ding-it-all-to-dangnation! There’s the Injin this
blessed minute!”
Both white men hastily arose and ran to meet their red comrade, who came
bounding up the slope, with the speed and grace of an antelope. Ere they
reached his side, they saw him place his finger upon his lips, in token
of silence.
“What is it?” Douglas asked in an anxious whisper.
Bright Wing drew a full breath and replied:
“Scar Face and many braves.”
“Where? How far away?”
“Three—four gunshots.”
“And upon our trail?”
“Ugh!”
“Are they moving rapidly?”
“Ugh! Soon be here. Scar Face, bad Shawnees and Pottawatomies. Come fast;
soon be here.”
“Let’s be off, then,” Ross said calmly. “We have no time to lose.”
“Grab up that piece o’ meat, Injin, an’ put it in y’r pouch,” Joe cried,
excitedly. “You can eat it on the run. We’ve had our sheer. Dang the
varmints, anyhow! They mean to give us a long an’ hot chase.”
Quickly they descended the eastern slope, worked their way through the
fringe of bushes surrounding its base, and set off at a rapid pace
through the forest. Bright Wing led the way. They bore toward the
southeast. With the foresight and cunning of trained woodmen, they
exercised all the arts of their craft to throw their pursuers off their
trail. Here they followed the bed of a stream, soaking their moccasins
in the icy water to hide their faint footprints; there they doubled on
their track and took a new direction. At intervals, they separated and
made wide detours from the main course, only to meet again further on.
Occasionally they paused momentarily, to drink from some running stream
or to strain their senses for sight or sound of their enemies. Then on
again—swiftly, tirelessly.
The noon hour came and went. The sun—now veiled by scudding clouds, now
shining brightly—began a descent of the western arc of the heavens. The
wind rose raw and disagreeable. Black cloud banks began to pile up on
the horizon, indicating an approaching snowstorm. The short winter day
advanced rapidly.
The topography of the country again changed. The surface of the land grew
flatter; open glades appeared here and there in the thick woods. At last
Joe stopped and remarked complainingly:
“I’ve gone ’bout as far’s I’m goin’ in one day—I have, by Molly! My
feet’s wet an’ cold, an’ I’ve got a crick o’ the rheumatiz in my back,
that’s pesterin’ me like the nation. Feels like a swarm o’ hornets had
took a roost there. We hain’t got nothin’ to eat, which is purty sad; but
we can build a fire an’ rest an’ roast our shins, which ’ll be some sort
o’ comfort, anyhow. I’m o’ the ’pinion we’ve throwed the redskins off our
track; we hain’t heerd n’r seen nothin’ of ’em sence we broke camp. I’ve
purty nigh come to the c’nclusion that you was mistaken, Injin—that you
didn’t _see_ no one follerin’ us.”
Bright Wing’s beady eyes flashed.
“Joe heap big fool some more!” he grunted contemptuously. “Bright Wing
see Scar Face and many braves. Bad Shawnees and Pottawatomies still on
trail. Like hound; no give up and go back. Want scalps bad. Bright Wing
go on. Joe stay; build fire; loose scalp. Ugh!”
“An’ a heap you’ll keer, if I _git_ my hair raised,” Farley retorted
crossly. “You’re jest like the rest o’ y’r people.”
“Joe!” Douglas interrupted sternly.
“Well, what is it?” was the surly response.
“Once more you are talking idle nonsense. Your tongue will again get you
into trouble. You know, as well as I, that Bright Wing has told us the
truth. We can’t stop here; we _musn’t_. Such an act would be the sheerest
folly.”
“Yes, I s’pose you’re right,” Joe admitted in a mollified tone. “We’ve
got to keep on. Dang the redskins, anyway! The doctors says exercise is
a good thing; but I ain’t hankerin’ fer any more of it, jest now. They
say it’s a mighty powerful thing to give a feller an appetite; an’ I
can believe that statement without half tryin’, fer them frogs in me
has gone to croakin’ like sixty. That’s what made me so flustered an’
cantankerous. Well, Injin, lead on. I’ll foller you, if I wear my legs
off up to my shoulders—I will, ’r my name ain’t Joseph Peregoy Farley!”
Once more they set forward. But they had gone only a hundred yards, when
the Wyandot, with a startled grunt, came to an abrupt stop.
“What ’ave you diskivered now?” Farley inquired, stepping forward.
“A fresh trail!” Ross exclaimed, stooping and examining the moist earth
and damp leaves.
The three comrades bent down and closely scrutinized the numerous tracks.
The light in the forest was dim; and they painfully strained their eyes
over the alarming discovery, as they attempted to read its meaning
aright. After a minute’s examination, they arose and silently looked at
one another. Presently Douglas said in an undertone:
“What do you make of it, Bright Wing?”
“Redmen,” was the emphatic reply.
“And quite a number of them.”
“Ugh!”
“Of course that trail was made by redskins,” Joe volunteered in a stage
whisper. “’Cause ther’s nobody else in these parts to make it. An’ more’n
that, there’s a score ’r more of ’em, an’ they’re movin’ in the direction
we’re goin’. That trail ain’t more’n a few hours old, at most. I’ll tell
you my explanation o’ the affair.”
“What is it?” Ross asked.
“W’y, dang-it-all-to-dingnation! that Scar Face an’ his murderin’,
scalpin’ gang o’ red devils has sarcumvented us an’ got ahead of us,
that’s what. Though how in the name o’ Dan’l Boone they ever done it, I
can’t imagine! They must ’ave found some short cut.”
Bright Wing decidedly shook his head and grunted:
“No believe.”
“You don’t believe Joe’s theory that the trail was made by Scar Face and
his band?” Douglas said quickly.
“No believe.”
“By whom, then?”
“Winnebagoes.”
“But,” Ross objected, “the Winnebagoes have returned to their northern
village.”
“Not all go,” the Wyandot asserted positively.
“Why do you say that?”
“Winnebagoes make tracks.”
And the Indian pointed to the fresh trail.
Stooping and passing his finger over a moist spot of bare earth, Bright
Wing replied triumphantly:
“See, moccasin track. No Shawnee moccasin, no Pottawatomie moccasin;
Winnebago moccasin.”
In silent wonder the two white men stood staring at their red friend. At
last Farley burst forth:
“Well, if that don’t beat _me_! The idee o’ tellin’ one moccasin track
from another! I’d as soon think o’ tellin’ one bear’s track from
another—I would, by Hanner Ann! It’s easy to tell a _wolf’s_ track from
a _fox’s_, but to tell _one_ redskin’s track from _another’s_ is a thing
I never learnt; an’ I never could, if I lived a thousan’ years. But no
doubt the Injin’s right, Ross Douglas. It’s prob’ly a huntin’ band o’ the
Winnebagoes that’s loiterin’ ’round in this neck o’ woods. An’ we’ve got
redskins behind us, an’ redskins before us. Now what ’re we goin’ to do?
That’s what I’d like to know.”
“It will soon be dark; we must push forward,” Ross replied.
“An’ tumble plump into the clutches o’ the Winnebagoes,” Joe answered.
“They’re devils to fight; an’ as cruel an’ bloodthirsty as the Shawnees.”
“To remain here means to fall into the hands of the band upon our trail,”
Douglas returned hastily. “The Winnebagoes know nothing of us; perhaps we
can avoid them. What have you to say, Bright Wing?”
“Scar Face and braves back there; Winnebagoes out there,” the Wyandot
answered, indicating each direction with his finger. “Go that way.”
“You mean we should leave the Winnebago trail to the south, until we have
passed them?”
“Ugh!”—With a vigorous nod.
“Very well. Let’s be moving.”
“But,” cried Joe, “that’s goin’ to take us ’way out of our course.”
“It’s better to leave our course than to lose our lives,” was Douglas’s
answer, as he shouldered his rifle and followed the Indian.
Farley offered no reply, but silently brought up the rear. Duke
trotted softly at his master’s side. The shadows of night gathered
noiselessly—swiftly. The four dusky figures moved forward. The sky was
thickly obscured by clouds; the darkness was intense. Snow began to fall
in fine, downy flakes. Still the four black forms—now a part of the
general blackness—glided onward, slowly and cautiously.
“I say we’ve got far enough,” Farley ventured at last, in a soft whisper.
Douglas was about to turn and make reply, when Bright Wing suddenly gave
a grunt of warning and dropped to the ground. His companions followed his
example. A hoarse growl rumbled up from Duke’s deep chest, as he crouched
like a tiger preparing for a spring. The next moment the sound of light
footfalls came to the ears of all.
“Surrounded!” gasped Douglas.
“Fell into a trap, jest as I expected!” muttered Farley. “We’re out o’
the fryin’-pan into the fire!”
Duke uttered a vicious bay and sprang to his feet. Then the forest rang
with a chorus of fiendish yells, as though all the imps of hell had
broken loose at once.
In a moment the three men were upon their feet. The belching rifles of
their enemies surrounded them with a ring of flame. Ross Douglas felt
a stinging, burning sensation in his right breast. He discharged his
gun, and staggered against a neighboring tree. Sparks of red and green
light flashed before his eyes; a cataract roared in his ears. Dimly he
discerned the savage forms swarming around him; faintly he heard the
whoops of the Indians and the lusty cheers of his two comrades. Then he
grew faint and dizzy. His limbs trembled; his brain swam. He coughed; and
a stream of hot blood welled up in his throat. His legs failed him, and
he sank upon the ground. As one in a dream, he heard Farley saying:
“The poor boy’s done fer, Bright Wing! He’s bleedin’ from the mouth, an’
senseless. ’Taint no use to stand by him no longer; he’s past all help.
Le’s try to cut our way out o’ this muss. We can’t more’n die! An’ maybe
it’ll draw the cusses away from the spot, an’ save his scalp!”
The Wyandot’s war-whoop and Farley’s stentorian bellow again sounded
above the yells of their enemies. Fainter and fainter grew the
indescribable sounds of conflict in the darkness; and Ross was alone.
No, not alone; for a dark body sprang to his side and, whimpering
pitifully, crouched and licked his face. It was Duke.
Then the wounded man became blind, deaf, unconscious. And the soft snow
fell and covered him, as a winding-sheet.
[Illustration]