When Ross Douglas regained consciousness, it was still night; but the
heavens were clear and starlit. The snow had ceased to fall; the air was
still and cold. A thin mantle of spotless white covered the earth. In the
uncertain light, the bare tree trunks looked like files and squads of
ghostly soldiers.
The wounded man attempted to change his position, but the pain in his
right breast warned him to lie still. His attempted movement attracted
the attention of his faithful, four-footed friend, who was sitting by his
side. The hound whined plaintively, and licked his master’s face. Ross
put out his hand and patted the dog’s head. This so pleased Duke, that he
frisked about and barked joyfully, doing his best to entice his beloved
master from his icy bed upon the frozen ground.
Douglas instantly remembered what had occurred, and fully realized his
forlorn and helpless condition. But he was not one to yield to despair.
Lying there desperately wounded—in a wilderness full of savage enemies,
and far from any settlement—he resolved to outwit death or die gamely.
He began an examination of himself and his surroundings. He found that
he still lay at the foot of the tree where he had fallen. His wound had
ceased to bleed, but his hunting-shirt was stiff with frozen blood; and
the saline taste of the crimson life-tide was yet in his throat. Every
breath caused him a pang; and a deep inspiration gave him excruciating
torture. But he could move his arms and legs without much pain or
difficulty. Again he essayed to arise, but fell back with a groan; he was
too weak from fasting and loss of blood.
“If only I could get upon my feet!” he murmured. “I shall freeze here.”
Seeing that his master could not arise, Duke had returned to his former
position. Now he tilted his muzzle aloft and bayed mournfully.
“There—there, old fellow!” Ross said soothingly. “Keep up your courage.
Things are not entirely hopeless so long as we two are together. Ah!
Perhaps you can help me to get up. Here, let me get my arms around your
neck. That’s it. Now, Duke, pull—pull!”
The bloodhound was accustomed to obeying his master’s every command.
Digging his claws into the flinty earth, he stretched his lithe, muscular
body, in an attempt to do the bidding of the being he loved. Ross clung
tenaciously to the noble animal’s neck. The result was he was dragged
to a sitting posture. The effort cost him much pain, but he gained
his object. Duke was delighted; he ran about in a circle and barked
vociferously.
Leaning his back against the tree-trunk, Douglas panted:
“This is better! I’m off the flat of my back—half-way upon my feet.
After a short rest I’ll make a further effort. What should I have done
without my faithful dog?”
In attempting to shift himself to an easier position, he placed his hand
upon his gun, which was lying where he had dropped it. With a joyful
exclamation, he caught it up and feebly dragged it across his lap. Then,
taking the skirt of his hunting-shirt, he carefully wiped and dried the
weapon, remarking to himself as he did so:
“I have a gun—I have ammunition—I have flint and steel. If I can manage
to light a fire, I shall be in no danger of freezing. Then, perhaps, I
may be able to shoot some animal for food—provided it comes near my camp.
I must have something to eat.”
He sighed breathlessly. Then drawing his legs well under him and using
his gun as an aid, he commenced slowly to arise to a standing posture,
all the time keeping his back firmly pressed against the tree-trunk. The
task was a herculean one; but after several failures he succeeded. Duke
simply went wild with delight, rolling over and over in the snow and
barking frantically.
After resting a few minutes, Douglas, leaning heavily upon his rifle,
tried to take a few steps. His legs trembled and threatened to give
way under him, and every fiber in his body ached and quivered; but he
resolutely put out one foot after the other. His head swam, and he
reeled and tottered like an infant. But he succeeded in making his way
to another tree, against which he leaned, gasping for breath. Standing
there, he tremblingly reloaded his rifle.
“Better than I expected!” he whispered with bloodless lips. “Much better!
Now I shall seek a sheltered spot and build a fire.”
Putting his resolution into action, he slowly and painfully worked his
way to a small depression, a short distance from the scene of conflict.
It was half-filled with drifted leaves and snow, and almost surrounded by
bushes and briers. Near it were the dead and dry limbs of a fallen tree.
Staggering into this natural shelter, Ross dropped upon the ground.
Duke accompanied him. The wounded man laboriously cleared the cave of
the accumulated mass of snow and leaves. When he had finished his hard
task, he took out his flint and steel, and, after several discouraging
failures, succeeded in starting a fire. Upon the tiny flame he piled
sticks from the fallen tree-tops, which soon were ablaze. With a sigh of
relief and comfort, he fell back and closed his eyes.
After a time, however, the genial warmth penetrated his chilled and
stiffened frame and aroused him from the partial swoon into which he had
fallen. Sitting erect, he held out his hands to the welcome blaze and
murmured tremulously:
“What a man _can do_! Oh, this cough! It almost strangles me; and the
pain is awful. Still I’m better off than I was—much better. I shall
not freeze, at any rate. But I must have food. I am _so_ weak. Let me
see,”—rolling his eyes heavenward,—“the stars indicate that it’s after
midnight. I’ll rest by the fire until morning; then I’ll do what I can to
procure something to eat.”
Again he coughed spasmodically—hackingly. When the paroxysm had passed,
he continued his whispered, broken monologue:
“I wonder what became of Bright Wing and Joe. I’m glad they thought me
dead. They’d have sacrificed their lives by staying; and done me no
good. They may be dead; they may be prisoners among the Winnebagoes;
or they may have escaped. If they got away unharmed, they’ll return to
Franklinton and report my death. My God! My God! Amy—dear girl! The news
will break her heart. And—great heavens! She may be persuaded to marry
George Hilliard!”
Bowing his head upon his hands, he groaned. He was suffering mentally and
physically. His temples were throbbing; his skin was hot and dry. The
demon of fever was dancing through his arteries.
For some time, he sat silently staring into the depths of the fire. Above
him the stars winked pitilessly; around him the lean shadows glided among
the trees and eerily mocked him. No eye but God’s was upon him; no hand
was stretched forth to save him.
He mused mumblingly—half deliriously:
“Even God will not help me. He would not, if he could. He has laid down
inflexible laws for the government of the universe; he will not alter
them to accommodate the individual. But I’ll not despair—I _will_ not! I
will overcome all obstacles; I will cheat fate. The snow has concealed
all signs of our encounter with the Winnebagoes; has covered our trail.
Bradford and his braves will never find me. On the morrow I’ll procure
food; then I shall be stronger. I’ll work my way eastward, by easy
stages. Now I’ll lie down and try to snatch a few hours of natural sleep.
Oh! This terrific cough and pain! And my head!”
He piled more dry wood upon the fire, and stretched himself upon the
ground. Duke nestled at his back and helped to keep him warm. The red
blaze crackled cheerily; the smoke and sparks ascended in gyrating
columns. The wounded man lay and watched them until his eyelids closed.
When he awoke it was broad daylight. The fire had burned down; only
a few gray embers and charred bits of wood marked its place. Duke,
with bristles erect, was sitting by his master’s side, growling
mutteringly—warningly. It was this sound that had awakened the sleeper.
Ross rubbed his eyes and sought to arise. But his limbs were as lead; his
blood was as ice. He stirred; and a thousand needles pricked his flesh.
By great effort he sat erect. His head gave him keenest torture; his
eyes threatened to drop from their sockets. His sight was dim. Strange
noises rang in his ears. He tried to take a deep breath; but the pain in
his chest caused him to moan aloud. His heart was thumping tumultuously.
Thor’s hammer was beating in his brain.
Again the bloodhound uttered a hoarse, rumbling growl; and this time,
sprang to his feet and advanced a step or two from his master’s side.
“Someone or something is approaching,” was Douglas’s mental comment. Then
aloud: “Watch them, Duke—but do not leave me!”
But the dog had no intention of deserting his charge. Rigidly erect,
menace and defiance in his attitude, he stood his ground. Ross listened
intently, and thought he heard stealthy footsteps beyond the fringe of
bushes that shut him in. But, through the interstices in the brush and
brambles, he could see no one. Once more the hound growled, and more
sharply than before. Then Douglas caught the patter of moccasined feet
upon the snow-covered leaves, and the buzz of whispered words. A moment
later the bushes parted and a painted Shawnee peeped into the glade.
Duke’s bristles quivered; his wicked eyes blazed. Revealing a double row
of ivory fangs, he snarled savagely and crouched for a spring. Excitement
lent strength to Douglas’s limbs. In some way—he never knew how—he got
upon his feet and flung his heavy gun to his shoulder. With a grunt of
surprise and terror, the Indian instantly withdrew his painted visage.
Ross sank in a heap upon the ground, whispering brokenly:
“Too weak—too weak! I’m at their mercy. Ah! Duke, old fellow, our time
has come—for you will die fighting for me!”
And closing his aching eyes, he lay gasping.
Then came a thunderous rush among the bushes; and a half dozen savages
stood within the cove, and as many rifles were pointed at the form of
the prostrate and helpless man. Duke leaped at the throat of the nearest
brave, and with him rolled upon the ground. At that moment a husky voice
bellowed:
“Stop, you cowardly curs! Would you murder a wounded and helpless man?
Harm a hair of his head, and I’ll have the life of the last one of you!
Didn’t I tell you he was to be taken alive? Out of my way!”
It was the voice of Hiram Bradford. Douglas had just enough consciousness
left to realize what was occurring, just enough strength remaining to
call off his dog. Then he swooned.
Bradford shoved the savages right and left, and bent over the form of the
unconscious man. He placed his hand over Douglas’s heart and listened
to the faint, irregular respiration. He gazed earnestly, sadly, upon
the pain-contorted features of the young man. His own face was pale;
his brown, sinewy hand trembled. Arising, he said to the savage band he
commanded:
“Start a fire; and be quick about it!”
Then to the Pottawatomie, whom Duke had attacked and who was now
threatening to kill the dog, as the animal lay whining at the feet of his
senseless idol:
“You shall not touch the dog. If you do, I’ll shoot you dead in your
tracks. The brute did his duty—that’s all. He was protecting the life of
his defenseless master. He is a noble specimen of his race. I command you
to let him alone.”
The Pottawatomie sullenly obeyed. Bradford again turned his attention to
Douglas.
“Poor boy!” he murmured softly to himself, his lips quivering. “Although
you hate me, and would kill me now, perhaps, had you the opportunity—I
love you. God knows I’ve wronged you enough in the past. Yet, when you
had the chance, you did not kill me. Would you do it now? Heaven knows!
Oh! Why didn’t you stay with me? Then this would not have occurred. Now
you are wounded unto death—dying, I fear, before my eyes. No! you shall
_not_ die. I’ll save you—I _will_! And who has done this monstrous deed?
Is it the work of white men or red? Whichever it be, they shall pay for
it, if I have to follow them to the ends of the earth. I vow it before
God! Shot through the breast, there you lay in the ice and snow, until
you regained consciousness. Then you pluckily made your way here and
built a fire, bravely fighting against all odds. Somebody left you for
dead—somebody deserted you. But your faithful dog stayed by you. I have
hated the brute; _now_ I could kiss his surly face. Yes, my boy, I can
read it all; you have left in the snow a record of your desperate fight
for life!”
The strong man bowed his head. The savages, engaged in building a fire
and preparing to cook some meat, did not notice the agitation of their
leader. His features worked spasmodically, and the scar upon his cheek
twitched painfully, as he continued to whisper to himself:
“God of heaven, tell me who has done this awful thing! The snow has
hidden all signs of the conflict—if conflict there was. It, also, covered
your trail, my boy, and I stumbled upon you by chance. But, my God! Of
what am I thinking? Do I mean to let you die without an effort to save
you?”
Like one electrified, he leaped to his feet. All his emotion had
vanished. Once more he was himself—the cool, firm, diplomatic leader of
savage men. His ordinarily husky voice rang out sharp and clear as he
cried:
“Listen, braves! This man is not dead—he must _not_ die. You have done
well—you shall have the gold I promised you. In addition, each one of you
shall have five pounds, if you do all in your power to help me to get him
to camp alive. Stir yourselves! Cook your meat quickly. Then cut boughs
and prepare a litter on which to carry him. Here, Long Gun, assist me.”
By this time a huge fire was roaring, that rendered the cave warm and
comfortable. A part of the company raked red coals from their bed, and
upon them commenced to broil slices of meat; while others began to cut
limbs and withes, and weave and bind together a strong and elastic litter.
Bradford seated himself and took Douglas’s head upon his lap. Then he
produced a flask of brandy, and with Long Gun’s help succeeded in pouring
a small quantity down the unconscious man’s throat. A second and third
time he repeated this, ere there were any signs of returning life. At
last the feeble heart began to beat more regularly and forcibly. The
pulse at the wrist became perceptible; color commenced to creep into the
marble face. A long-drawn respiration heaved the wounded chest, and a low
moan escaped from the blue lips. The white lids lifted; but there was no
intelligence in the fever-bright eyes. The wan demon of death had yielded
his throne to the riotous imp of delirium.
Bradford shrunk back and shuddered as these words fell upon his ear:
“Ah, Hiram Bradford, we’ve met at last, in a death-struggle! Now I have
you at my mercy. You kept me a prisoner against my will—you kept me from
the woman I love. You have wounded me—starved me—frozen me. Now you shall
die—_die_!”
Douglas’s hands were clenched as though he held an enemy by the throat.
“Ugh!” ejaculated Long Gun. “The Great Spirit has robbed the young
paleface of his senses. Like a dog dreaming of the chase, he fights in
his sleep.”
The Shawnee understood but little Ross said, but read aright the meaning
of the wounded man’s tone of voice and expression of countenance.
“Silence!” Bradford commanded sharply.
Then, caressingly smoothing the flushed face of the delirious man, he
murmured soothingly:
“Don’t fret yourself. Your enemies are gone; you are with friends now.
I’ll take care of you.”
“Who are you?”
The bright eyes opened very wide.
“Don’t you know me?” Bradford asked, anxiety in his tone and manner.
“Yes—yes, I know you, Joe Farley. Of course I know my old friend. I was
sure you would come back. But where is Bright Wing?”
“He’ll be here soon,” answered Bradford, sighing deeply.
“And Duke—surely _he_ hasn’t deserted me—where is Duke?”
At mention of his name, the hound crept forward and licked his master’s
hand. The dumb caress appeared to soothe and assure the sick man more
than anything else could have done. For, with a sigh of contentment, he
closed his eyes and whispered feebly:
“Oh, yes! Duke, old fellow, you are still with me. You’ll not let the
Winnebagoes return and scalp me. Watch over me, good dog, for I’m
sleepy—sleepy——”
Then he lay quiet. But his breathing was hurried; his pulse, bounding;
and he continued to moan occasionally, and mumble and babble words that
could not be understood.
“The Winnebagoes!” Bradford muttered, scowling darkly.
Arising, he began to hasten the preparations for departure. He partook
of the parched corn and broiled venison the savages had prepared.
Afterward he took a small portion of the tender meat, pressed its savory
juices into a drinking cup, and poured the liquid down his patient’s
throat. Ordering the litter brought to him, he stripped off his own
hunting-shirt—unmindful of the chill atmosphere—and rolled it into a
pillow for Douglas’s head. Carefully and tenderly placing his charge upon
the springy bed, he covered him with a ragged, scarlet blanket which one
of the Pottawatomies had worn around his shoulders; and selecting four
of the most stalwart warriors and giving them minute instructions how to
carry the litter, he ordered the band to start upon the return journey.
“Do we go back to Wildcat Creek?” Long Gun inquired.
“No,” Bradford answered, “we go to the villages of the Miamis, upon the
Mississinewa.”
“But are our people there?”
“Yes, by this time.”
“Ugh!” was the satisfied rejoinder.
And Long Gun relapsed into his wonted silence.
All day long, the band trudged through the sheeted woodland, stopping
only at noon. The Indians occasionally conversed in guttural undertones,
but Scar Face maintained a moody silence. A stillness as of death reigned
in the forest, unbroken save for the sharp rattling rap of a woodpecker
now and then, or the startling whir of a partridge’s wings.
Bradford walked beside the litter and looked after the welfare of his
patient. He gave him frequent doses of brandy, and at noon succeeded in
getting him to swallow a little shredded meat. Douglas coughed almost
continuously, and groaned at every sudden jolt of his swinging bed. A
circular bright-red spot appeared upon each cheek, and the arteries of
his temples and neck pulsated visibly. The wound he had received and the
consequent exposure had done their work but too well. He was suffering
from pneumonia.
At one time during the afternoon, he became violently excited and made
repeated attempts to arise from his couch. In vain Bradford sought to
soothe and quiet him. Apparently understanding the need of his presence,
Duke trotted to the litter and fondly licked the hot hand that was
frantically threshing the air. With a smile upon his face, Ross lay back
and wearily closed his wild, staring eyes.
“Wonderful!” Bradford muttered aloud, sadly shaking his head.
“Wonderful—wonderful,” repeated the delirious man, in a monotonous,
parrot-like voice. Then with animation:
“Oh, Amy! you here? No, it’s La Violette—or _is_ it Amy? La Violette—Amy;
La Violette—Amy. I don’t know.”
His words became an unintelligible jargon; but his fit of violence had
passed.
At nightfall the Indians went into camp. Bradford placed the litter near
the fire, and had a screen of boughs erected to shelter its occupant
from the night wind. Again he got his patient to take a small portion of
shredded meat and a little of the expressed juice. The supply of brandy
was almost exhausted; and he wisely resolved to save what was left for an
emergency. All night he sat by Ross’s side, giving him water, for which
the poor fellow begged piteously at frequent intervals, and protecting
him as best he could from the cold.
Duke fared well. Seeing his unparalleled devotion to his master, the
Indians took a fancy to the intelligent animal, and fed him all he would
eat.
At daylight the wearisome march was resumed; and at noon the party was
drawing near the Miami village upon the Mississinewa. As they entered the
town, hundreds of savages swarmed around them, and gazed in stupefaction
upon the unusual spectacle of four grave and dignified warriors bearing
the litter of a wounded paleface.
Pushing his way to the center of the village, a large collection of
well-built lodges and cabins upon the eastern bank of the stream,
Bradford asked for the Prophet. Tenskwatawa’s domicile was pointed out
to him. Unceremoniously pushing aside the curtain of skins, he entered
the dark hut. The Prophet lay stretched upon a fur rug near the center of
the floor, his feet to the fire that alone lighted the dismal interior.
He did not offer to arise at Bradford’s entrance; but greeted him with a
grunt of recognition. The intruder went straight to the point, by saying:
“My prisoner escaped. I have recaptured him and brought him here. But he
is badly wounded; and I want the largest and most comfortable cabin in
the village, in which I may place him and nurse him back to life.”
The Prophet arose to a sitting position, before replying. Then he made
the heartless rejoinder:
“Let the young paleface die! He is a member of the Seventeen Fires—he is
an enemy. His death will subtract one more from the number that ere long
will appear against us, to do battle.”
“He shall _not_ die,” Bradford returned firmly.
“Why?”
“Because I will not have it so.”
“Why does Scar Face so much desire to save the young man’s life?” the
Prophet inquired, with a cunning leer.
“Why I wish to save his life—why I _will_ save his life—concerns no one
but myself,” was the bold reply.
“Tenskwatawa, there is no use in our re-threshing old straw. I have told
you that this young man is my friend. I repeat it. You know me well
enough to realize that I will have my way—that I will not be balked in
whatever I undertake. Let’s have an end of all parleying. I want the
largest and best cabin in the place. Can I have it?”
“Scar Face asks for what is not mine to bestow.”
“What do you mean? Be quick. I have no time to waste in idle diplomacy.”
“This is the village of the Miamis,” was the shrewd answer. “The lodges
are theirs. They have granted my people the privilege of staying here,
but we must erect lodges for ourselves. When that is done, Scar Face
shall have one placed at his disposal.”
Bradford’s anger was rising. His face flushed, then paled; the red scar
upon his cheek quivered tremulously and twitched the corner of his mouth.
He nervously fingered the trigger of his rifle—which he again had in his
possession—as he said huskily:
“An end to your lies, Tenskwatawa! You cannot deceive _me_. The Miamis
are a part of your family. You are here in one of their cabins. Tecumseh
has another; and your braves are busily engaged in erecting others. I
want the best one in the village; and I am going to have it. Do you
understand?”
The Prophet’s repulsive face became more repulsive. He was angry—afraid.
He bent his head in reply, but did not open his lips.
“Well, go and give the order!” Bradford roared impatiently.
“Hurry!—before I lose control of myself and stamp the life out of your
miserable carcass!”
Tenskwatawa slowly arose. His limbs were shaking; his lips, trembling.
The arrant coward was desperately afraid his companion would carry his
threat into execution. And no help was at hand. When he could command his
voice, he said:
“But the best lodge has been given to La Violette and the woman who
attends her.”
“What of the council lodge?”
“I have made it a temple of the Great Spirit. You cannot have it.”
And the Prophet flung up his head, with a gesture of weak defiance.
Bradford was furious. He was on the point of giving full sway to his
seething passion, and beating the brains out of the miserable wretch
before him; but he thought of the wounded man upon the litter outside,
and checked himself.
“Where is La Violette?” he hissed fiercely.
As if in answer to the question, the curtain of skin was pushed aside,
and the young woman stepped into the room. Bradford turned at her
entrance. By the dim light of the flickering fire, he saw that she was
pale and excited.
“Hiram Bradford, what is the meaning of this?” she cried sharply.
He thought she referred to his presence in the Prophet’s hut, and was
attempting to frame a suitable reply, when she imperiously stamped her
little foot and demanded:
“Answer me! Why have you killed that young man? And you claimed to be his
friend!”
“Do you mean Ross Douglas?” Bradford returned wonderingly.
“I mean Fleet Foot—Ross Douglas—yes.”
“He’s not dead,” Bradford hastened to explain, “but he’s——”
“Desperately wounded,” she completed in icy tones.
“Yes.”
“Why did you do it?”
“You wrong me. I didn’t harm him——”
“No,” she interrupted angrily, “but you permitted the warriors you had
with you to shoot him, when he was trying to regain his liberty. It was
murder! For shame! You are worse than a wild beast!”
As she finished speaking, her breast was heaving and tears were in her
violet eyes.
In a few words Bradford explained to her what had happened, and asked her
for the use of the cabin she occupied. The cloud partially lifted from
her face, and she answered quickly:
“I am glad that neither you, nor the warriors under your command,
committed this awful deed. For I have learned to look upon you as a
brave man, and merciful even to your bitterest enemies.”—Bradford winced
slightly.—“You can have the cabin I have occupied, on one condition.”
“Name it,” he said promptly.
“That I be permitted to nurse your—your friend, shall I say?—back to
health.”
For a moment she keenly eyed him, to note the effect of her words.
Then, seeming to realize that she had made an unusual proposition, she
continued confusedly:
“I—I promised when he saved my life, to do all in my power to set him
free. I meant to keep my word. But his friends came to his rescue, and he
regained his freedom without my assistance; only to lose it again. Now
he is in great need of tender care; and I want to repay him for risking
his life in my behalf. I feel that I am indebted to him. Do you accept my
proposal?”
“Gladly,” Bradford answered quickly, a strange light flashing in his blue
eyes. “Nothing would please me more than to have your assistance.”
“Then it is settled,” she returned quietly. “Carry him to the cabin at
once. I will come soon.”
The Prophet witnessed all that passed; but he offered no opposition to
the arrangement. Perhaps he felt it would be useless to do so.
After thanking the young woman, Bradford withdrew and had the wounded man
carried to the place agreed upon. As he placed his charge upon a couch of
soft furs and strove to make him as comfortable as possible, the older
man whispered to himself:
“Oh, if I can save his life! If I can save his life! Fate is playing into
my hands. All will yet be well. I shall realize my desire. But he might
_die_! Oh, God! He _must_ not, he _shall_ not!”