The rain still fell; the wind still blew in fitful gusts. The canvas
walls of the officers’ tents swelled in and out, and cracked and popped
boisterously. In the shelter of the traverses, soldiers huddled together
and smoked in silence. The parade ground was deserted; and the sodden and
trampled earth, the dripping flags clinging closely to their staffs, and
the cloaked figures of the sentries stubbornly pacing their beats, gave
to the interior of the American fortification a gloomy and depressing
aspect.
Ross Douglas left the blockhouse, where he had found the father he
had never known, and at a rapid pace walked toward General Harrison’s
quarters. The young man’s countenance reflected his contending
emotions—the varied and exciting experiences through which he had gone.
He was glad he had learned La Violette’s history—but sorry he had heard
of his father’s misspent life; he rejoiced at the thought that the sweet
girl loved him, that he loved her, that she was to be his wife—yet he
grieved over his father’s impending fate. Then, also, he sincerely pitied
Amy Hilliard, and worried that La Violette was still among the British
and Indians. Indeed, his heart was torn and bleeding!
On reaching the commander’s tent, he pushed past the orderlies at the
door and stood in the General’s presence. He was preoccupied and did not
stop for ceremony, but said abruptly:
“General, I have seen Hiram Bradford, and have returned, as you ordered.”
Harrison was closely studying a map that lay spread out upon a rough
table before him. Without looking up, he made reply:
“And you found him much changed?”
“In many ways, General.”
The commander lifted his head and answered sharply:
“I noted no change in the scoundrel, except in his appearance. His health
is broken; but he is the same cool, unscrupulous, defiant knave.”
Ross winced, but sturdily returned:
“We didn’t observe alike, General Harrison. I found him in ill-health,
weak, repentant——”
The hero of Tippecanoe whirled about upon his stool. His rugged face
darkened ominously. A storm was brewing.
“My young friend,” he interrupted in hard, cold tones, “you talk as if
you came to plead his case.”
“I came to intercede in his behalf,” Ross replied calmly.
General Harrison sprang to his feet, his face black with rage.
“By heavens!” he cried. “You are——”
Then the grizzled warrior stopped suddenly. He bit his thin lips—and was
silent. At last he said quietly, but firmly:
“What I would say, young man, is this: It’s useless to ask me to show
clemency to Hiram Bradford—the spy, the deserter. I can’t blame you—I
_don’t_ blame you—for feeling sorry for him. He has befriended you—in a
way, perhaps. But you’re an _American_—you love your country. And you
mustn’t forget that this man is your _country’s_ bitter and avowed enemy.
That’s not all. During the Tippecanoe campaign, he entered my service as
a scout—he enlisted regularly. At that time, he was in the employ of the
English—was their spy. He plotted against my life—he deserted. I needn’t
tell you all this; you know it only too well. _You_ were the first to
arouse my suspicions. _You_ put me on my guard—and saved my life. After
your escape from the savages—at Franklinton, you remember—you told me
that Hiram Bradford had confessed all to you. As a spy, I should let him
go; for his scheme failed—and his attempt upon my life was in another
war. But a deserter once is a deserter forever;”—fiercely—“and the
penalty is _death_! To-morrow a preliminary court-martial will be held;
and you will appear as a witness against Hiram Bradford.”
Douglas dropped upon a stool, moaning:
“I can’t! Oh, God!—I _can’t_!”
His keen, mental agony was shown in his face. General Harrison was
surprised. Advancing, he laid a hand upon the young man’s shoulder and
said kindly:
“You mustn’t take the matter so to heart, my boy. Hiram Bradford
deserves to die. He shall have full justice; but no mercy will be shown
him, if proven guilty. I cannot fathom why you—a pure-minded patriot—are
so anxious to have a traitorous deserter escape merited punishment.”
“Let me tell you, General Harrison,” Ross cried, springing to his feet.
“Then do as you will. Hiram Bradford, the English spy—the American
deserter, is John Douglas—my _father_!”
Had a British shell exploded within the tent, General Harrison could not
have been more dumbfounded. He tried to speak, but failed. After staring
blankly at his companion for some time, he commenced to pace rapidly
up and down the room, clasping and unclasping his brown hands, in an
agitated manner. At last he stopped in front of Ross, and said calmly:
“Sit down and tell me all about it.”
A number of officers entered the tent, before the tale was concluded. The
commander paused long enough to say:—“Be seated, gentlemen; I shall be
through presently.”—And again he gave Douglas his attention. At last the
two arose. Taking Ross’s hand, the commander murmured:
“Circumstances change the aspect of many plain cases. Your father shall
not be tried for his crime; he shall go free. But the matter must forever
remain a secret between ourselves—even your trusty comrades mustn’t know.
This afternoon an officer and escort will bear a flag of truce to the
British camp, to complete arrangements for an exchange of prisoners. You
will take your father and accompany them. Bring the young woman back with
you; but leave your father there, with the injunction that he is to make
his way to Canada and never set foot upon American soil again. Wait a
moment—I’ll give you an order for his release.”
A quarter of an hour after, father and son issued from the blockhouse
together—and John Douglas was a free man. In the full light of the murky
day, he looked bent, worn, and feeble; and he kept close to his stalwart
son’s side, as though looking to him for guidance and protection.
Shortly after noon, the two joined the officer and escort, who were
setting out for the British encampment. On their way toward the eastern
gate of the fortification, they were joined by Farley, Bright Wing, and
the hound.
“Where’ve you been all the forenoon, Ross?” the old woodman demanded
in an injured tone. “Me an’ the Injin an’ dog’s been huntin’ you all
over the place. Duke nosed ’round, an’ said you was down at that
blockhouse”—pointing with the barrel of his gun.—“But me an’ the Injin
knowed that couldn’t be, ’cause ther’s pris’ners in there—an’ you
wouldn’t have no business with them. Then the houn’ took up a ’maginary
trail, and tracked you to Ol’ Tippecanoe’s tent. We knowed that was a
lie, too; ’cause we peeked in, an’ you wasn’t there. So we’ve kind o’
lost faith in the purp. The smell o’ blood, yisterday, must ’ave spiled
his scent. But where’ve you been?”
Scarcely slacking his pace, Douglas replied briefly: “I was at the
blockhouse and at General Harrison’s quarters. Duke told you the truth.”
“You was!” Joe ejaculated. “Well, dang my skin if the dog didn’t know
more’n a couple o’ human critters—he did, by Tabithy! Purp, I beg y’r
pardon. But where’re you goin’ now, Ross?”
“To the English camp.”
“I’ve heerd it said,” Farley grumbled, “that the burnt child dreaded the
fire; but you seem to be an ’xception to the rule. Ross Douglas, what in
the name o’ goodness ’re you goin’ over there fer? Oh, I’m an ol’ fool! I
might ’ave knowed. You’re goin’ over to git that little red-headed gal,
of course——”
He suddenly stopped speaking. His watery eyes bulged; his jaw dropped. He
had caught a square look at Ross’s companion.
“W’y, dang—it—all—to—dingnation!” he mumbled. “If that ain’t the
scar-faced scout that was with Gener’l Harrison, at Tippecanoe, it’s his
ghost. An’ he looks more like a ghost ’n a mortal man—he does, by cracky!”
“Ugh! Scar Face—much sick, sight lean,” Bright Wing grunted.
Ross made no reply; John Douglas did not glance around, even. By this
time, the squad of soldiers had reached the gate and were passing
through. Father and son hastened to overtake them. Farley and his
companion kept close upon the heels of those in advance; and with them
left the fortification. Ross thought his comrades had stopped within the
walls—and felt relieved. He did not notice their presence, until he stood
at the water’s edge.
“What are you doing here, Joe?” he demanded sharply.
“We’re goin’ with you,” Farley returned coolly.
“You cannot,” Ross said firmly. “Take the dog and return to the fort.”
But Joe and the Wyandot stubbornly shook their heads; and Duke, dropping
upon his haunches, looked appealingly into his master’s face.
“Take Duke and go back to the fortification,” Ross repeated, with
difficulty repressing a smile at the childlike pertinacity of his friends.
“We ain’t a-goin’ back,” Farley answered sullenly.
“Ugh! No go back—go with Fleet Foot,” the Indian muttered.
“Why?” the young man asked impatiently.
“You may need us,” Farley explained. “We don’t over an’ above like the
company you’re keepin’.”—With a jerk of his thumb toward John Douglas.
Ross dropped his eyes to the ground. His face flushed hotly. He was in a
quandary; he did not know what to do or say.
The soldiers had launched a boat, and were scrambling into it.
“Come on—don’t delay us,” the officer called.
“Here are two of my comrades who desire to accompany me,” Ross hastened
to explain.
The officer cut him short with:
“Bring them along—but be quick about it. The boat will accommodate us
all.”
A few minutes later, the entire party had landed on the opposite shore
and were making their way toward the British encampment. There the
American officer engaged in a consultation with General Proctor and his
staff, while Ross Douglas and his companions went to the quarters of
Tenskwatawa and La Violette, at Fort Miami.
John Douglas led the way into the stockade of the old fort. The place
was filled with Indians and white prisoners. Some of the latter were
ill-fated settlers; others were the luckless Kentuckians of General
Clay’s command. Several of the militiamen knew Ross Douglas and, calling
to him, asked what were the prospects of a speedy exchange. He answered
their questions briefly as he hurried along. Occasionally a guttural
voice exclaimed—“Fleet Foot!”; and the young man became aware that many
of the savages recognized him and were scowling at him. But they did not
offer to impede the progress of the small party. Scar Face, whom they
hated and feared, was leading it.
On reaching the farther side of the inclosure, John Douglas stopped and
whispered to his son:
“Here’s the cabin Violet occupies. You’ll enter with me; your friends
will remain outside—on guard. The Indians are dissatisfied—restless—and
ready for any desperate venture. I don’t think they’ll dare to interfere
with us in any way—but they may. Caution your comrades to be discreet—to
give no heed to threatening words and gestures, unless the savages offer
to attack them.”
Ross, turning to Farley, said in a low tone:
“You and Bright Wing will keep Duke with you and guard the door. Do
nothing rash—you understand?”
Joe nodded gravely; and Ross continued:
“We’ll transact our business and get out of here, as soon as possible;
the place is unsafe. Be careful of your words and actions, and restrain
the hound.”
Again Joe nodded. For a wonder, he did not utter a word in reply.
Just as father and son were about to enter the low door of the hut, the
latter caught sight of a burly, thick-set Indian swaggering up to the
spot. His fat and flabby features were grotesquely and hideously painted.
He wore a complete suit of coarse cloth, and carried an English rifle.
Nearing the group at the door, he stuck his tongue into his cheek and
leered impudently.
Ross started. There was something about the obese brave that seemed
familiar; yet the young man could not recall that he had ever seen the
bloated wretch.
“Who is the greasy knave?” Ross murmured to himself.
Farley caught the words and muttered in reply:
“I don’t know—but I’ve seen him somewheres. He’s as sassy as a pet fox—he
is, by Jerushy!”
“Ugh!” Bright Wing ejaculated explosively—and was silent as a graven
image.
“Come,” John Douglas said, plucking his son by the arm. “Things are not
to my liking. You must take Violet and be off.”
Together the two passed into the cabin. The place was in semi-darkness.
Ross heard a startled exclamation in the far corner of the room. Then he
became aware that someone had arisen and was moving toward him. His eyes
grew accustomed to the gloom; and he dimly perceived a sylphlike figure
advancing toward the center of the floor. There it stopped. The murky
light streaming in at the hole in the roof fell upon it.
Ross Douglas distinctly saw a halo of red-gold hair, the outlines of a
fair, sweet face—and murmured tenderly:
“La Violette!”
“Fleet Foot!” was the joyful exclamation.
She stood leaning far forward, her hands clasped in front of her; but she
did not offer to move nearer to him. Ross swept a hurried glance about
the interior. He was alone with her; his father had left the cabin. The
young man heard her quick respirations—saw her attitude of indecision—and
opening his arms, he called softly:
“I love you, darling! Come to me!”
With a glad cry, she flew to him and nestled in his arms. He strained her
to his breast—too happy to speak. At last he breathed into her ear the
needless question:
“Do you love me, La Violette?”
Lifting her golden head and reproachfully fastening her violet eyes upon
his face, she answered:
“Can you ask me such a question, Ross Douglas? You _know_ I love you—have
loved you ever since you saved my life. But do you really love _me_?”
In answer he kissed her ripe lips and murmured:
“I worship you, dear—love you better than I love anyone else on earth.
I’ve loved you ever since I first met you. But I was betrothed to
another; and I wouldn’t admit to myself, even, that I loved you. But
to-day I am free. I have come to take you from this place—from this life.
Will you go with me, La Violette?”
“To the ends of the earth,” she whispered.
Holding her from him at arm’s length, he asked playfully:
“Violet Brownlee, will you be my wife?”
“Ah! you know all,” she returned smilingly.
“I know all,” he returned soberly. “My father has told me.”
“Your father?” she remarked wonderingly.
“Yes, my father—Scar Face, Hiram Bradford, John Douglas.”
Again she nestled in his arms, and for a moment was silent. Presently she
murmured musingly:
“I used often to wonder why Hiram Bradford took so great an interest in
me. A few months ago he told me my history. Then I fell to wondering why
he had kept you a prisoner against your will, yet was anxious for your
welfare. Nor could I understand why he was so worried over your escape
and the fact that he could not find you. Now all is plain.”
He stroked her red-gold hair, but made no reply. He would have been
content to hold her thus for hours. Suddenly she lifted her head from his
shoulder, and whispered:
“Ross.”
“Well, darling?”
“Let me see your hand. No, the other. Ah! you still wear Tenskwatawa’s
ring. You carried off the Sign of the Prophet; now you come to carry off
his daughter.”
He bent his head and breathed in reply:
“I valued the Sign of the Prophet; it assured my safety. I value his
daughter much more; she assures my happiness.”
Standing upon tiptoe and pulling him down, she fondly kissed him and
answered:
“This is a fit reward for your pretty speech. But Tenskwatawa will
be here presently; your father has gone for him. Do not let him see
the ring. He has lost much of his power; and it is better so. He and
Tecumseh have deceived their people and led them astray. I see it all
now. The wisest of them are but ignorant savages. And the English—my own
people—have made tools of them——”
She stopped speaking and hastily withdrew from her lover’s embrace. He
turned to discover the cause of her action, and observed Tenskwatawa
entering the door.
Not deigning to notice the young man, the Prophet walked up to La
Violette and, laying his hands upon her shoulders, murmured gutturally:
“My daughter, Scar Face has told me that you mean to leave the tribe—your
father, forever. Is it so?”
“Tenskwatawa, my father, it is true.”
“Has Fleet Foot stolen your heart, my daughter?”
“He has, my father,” she replied in a voice hardly audible.
“And La Violette will accompany him to his lodge and dwell there?”
The girl looked her interrogator in the face and nodded. Tenskwatawa
remained silent. The stillness of the room was oppressive. At last the
Prophet removed his hands from her shoulders and, bowing his head,
muttered brokenly:
“It is well. Where her heart is, La Violette should be. She is a paleface
maiden; she loves a paleface brave. She shall be the light of his
lodge—as she has been the light of Tenskwatawa’s life.”
Then, extending his hand to her:
“My daughter, farewell. The Great Spirit gave you to me—he takes you from
me. Great is my sorrow; but I will bear it as becomes a Shawnee. My sign
is lost; my power has departed. My children spurn my words of advice; the
English laugh at my undoing. My sorrow is great. I can bear it—I am a
Shawnee. My daughter, farewell—farewell, _forever_!”
Impulsively she threw her arms around his neck and sobbed upon his breast.
“Tenskwatawa, my father, you have been kind to me. I have tried to be
a daughter to you. Now I am about to leave you forever—to return to my
own people. The Great Spirit wills it so. My father, I would exact one
promise from you at parting.”
Gently he disengaged himself from her embrace, and answered:
“What my daughter desires, I will do.”
“Then,” she cried, “use all your influence—all your power—to dissuade
your children from fighting longer under the English banner. The
Seventeen Fires will conquer in the end. The Great Spirit wills it. The
redmen will lose their lives and their lands to no purpose. Promise me
you will do what I ask.”
“It is too late,” he replied dejectedly. “My children are mad with
the taste of blood. No longer will they listen to my voice. I helped
to lead them into this; now I cannot drag them out. They are dogs for
the English; they bay along the trail—they obey the lash. Tecumseh, my
brother, has their ears; they will not hear my words. I have sinned; and
thus the Great Spirit punishes me. My daughter, I shall see you no more.
Farewell!”
Drawing his blanket over his head, to hide his emotion, the Prophet
quitted the cabin. His thin lips were set; and his horrid, painted face
was drawn and ashen. A moment afterward, John Douglas entered and
remarked briskly:
“You must be off. Make haste! I’ll accompany you to the river.”
La Violette made a compact bundle of her few effects, and announced
herself as ready. John Douglas led the way from the cabin. Farley and
Bright Wing still stood without; and Duke was smelling around the door.
As La Violette stepped into the open air, the dog fawned upon her,
evincing his pleasure at again meeting her. Tears sprang to her eyes;
and, patting the animal’s head, she murmured:
“Ah! You remember me, good fellow.”
“Duke forgets neither his friends nor his enemies,” Ross said smilingly.
Farley stepped forward and, doffing his cap and extending a grimy hand,
remarked:
“So you’re La Violette, young woman. I’ve heerd somethin’ of you in
the last day ’r so.”—He grinned maliciously at Ross.—“This youngster
here couldn’t do nothin’ but talk ’bout you—he couldn’t, by ginger!
I’m glad to meet you, I am. Thought I’d intr’duce myself—seein’ Ross
Douglas wasn’t goin’ to do the job fer me. He’s ’fraid o’ my beauty,
little gal—’fraid you might shine up to _me_. An’ this is Bright Wing, a
Wyandot. He’s a purty good feller, if he _has_ got a red skin. Me an’ the
Injin’s Ross’s ol’ comrades. Lordy! Hain’t we been in many a scrimmage?
Gol-fer-socks! I guess so.”
La Violette laughed musically at Joe’s absurdities; and, grasping the
extended hands of each, said: “I trust we shall become better acquainted
in the future—and be fast friends.”
“Ugh!” was the monosyllabic response of the Wyandot, as he stepped aside
and, leaning upon his gun, fixed his black eyes upon a distant part of
the stockade.
Farley had not yet had his say, however; and there was sincere admiration
in his voice and manner, as he resumed:
“You’re a dang sight purtier ’n I ’xpected you to be, little gal—you are,
by Katherine! As near’s I could git it from Ross Douglas’s ravin’s, you
was a kind of red-headed Injin squaw—somethin’ like the Winnebago jade
that wanted to marry _me_. You see, miss, the women’s alluz been after
_me_——”
“Joe—Joe!” Ross cried, smiling in spite of himself.
“It’s a fact, as sure’s my name is Joseph Peregoy——” the woodman began.
But John Douglas impatiently interrupted him with:
“This is no time to recount your love affairs, my friend. After you
have reached the other side of the river, you may boast to your heart’s
content. Let’s be off.”
With the words, he started toward the gate of the dilapidated palisade,
the others of the party closely following him. Farley grumbled as he went
along:
“Ol’ Pucker Face is as imperdent as a squawkin’ catbird—but he’s _right_.
Ding-it-all-to-dangnation! When _will_ I learn not to let my limber
tongue git the best o’ me?”
Then aloud to Ross:
“That fat an’ greasy redskin, that come sidelin’ up to us jest as you was
goin’ into the hut, has been slippin’ ’round ’mong the other Injins an’
doin’ a heap o’ talkin’. I’ll bet a new ramrod he’s up to some devilment.
I wish I could place him—I’ve seen him somewheres.”
Ross merely nodded; and, taking La Violette’s arm, hurried her onward.
Just outside the walls, John Douglas turned and whispered in his son’s
ear:
“We’ll proceed to the landing-place at once. If the officer who came over
with us isn’t there with his soldiers, you must hail your friends on the
other side and have a boat brought to you immediately. The Indians know
and hate you and your comrades. There’s mischief brewing. Let’s hasten.”
The little party moved rapidly. John Douglas’s whispered words and
anxious demeanor had warned his companions, of the gravity of the
situation; and they realized that no time was to be lost, if they would
escape. At last they came in sight of the place and, to their great
relief, beheld the American officer and his escorts just ready to embark.
An English officer and two subalterns were among the group upon the
shore.
Ross frantically waved his hand and hallooed at the top of his voice. The
American soldiers gave him a ringing cheer in reply, thus signifying they
would await his arrival.
At that moment, a score or more of savages, quickly emerging from the
shelter of the trees, confronted Ross and his companions.
Bright Wing uttered a sharp grunt and cocked his rifle. Farley did the
same, muttering as he did so:
“Jest as I ’xpected! Ther’s that dang fat brave leadin’ ’em.”
Ross placed himself in front of La Violette, and looked to the priming
of his weapon. John Douglas carried his own gun, which had been restored
to him on leaving the blockhouse at Fort Meigs. Now he boldly stepped
forward—his hollow eyes blazing—and shouted authoritatively, in the
Shawnee tongue:
“Out of the way, you hellhounds! Do you not know me?”
From force of habit, the Indians retreated a few steps. But the thick-set
warrior, who acted as leader of the band, scowled fiercely as he replied
in blunt backwoods English:
“You needn’t fire any Injin lingo at me, Mr. Scar Face—as the redskins
call you. I don’t understand it. But I know you—I’ve seen you ’round the
camp. An’ I know what y’r little game is now—an’ I’m goin’ to block it.”
“George Hilliard!” Ross exclaimed.
“The low-lived critter!” Farley hissed, nervously fingering the trigger
of his rifle.
The fat warrior overheard Ross’s exclamation, and returned savagely:
“Yes, I’m George Hilliard; an’ I’ve come to have a final settlement with
you, Ross Douglas——”
“Out of the way, you infernal renegade!” John Douglas cried menacingly.
“Not till I’m through with my business, Mr. Scar Face,” Hilliard answered
coolly. “An’ you’d better not be callin’ hard names, ’r you’ll git a
dose o’ the same medicine we mean to give that young dandy at y’r side.
I’m commandin’ this squad o’ redskins; an’ they don’t like _you_ much
better’n they do _him_. You jest keep quiet till I git through with my
business.”
Then turning his attention from father to son:
“Ross Douglas, you an’ me’s goin’ to have a final settlement right here.
You toted off my wife last night—me an’ my gang trailed you ’cross the
river. An’ now you’ve come to carry off the Prophet’s gal. You ain’t
content with one woman—you want two. But then I happen to want this young
miss myself—an’ I’m goin’ to have her. Fair ’xchange is no robbery. You
can have my wife; I’ll take your plump little sweetheart. Hand her over
peaceably, an’ you an’ y’r crowd can go on to the fort; refuse, an’ my
warriors ’ll kill an’ scalp the last one o’ you. Do you understand?”
“I understand you—you devil incarnate!” Ross answered in a voice hoarse
with rage. “Do your worst! You shall not lay your vile hands upon this
pure being, as long as the breath of life is spared me!”
“Which won’t be very long!” Hilliard muttered with an oath.
Farley and Bright Wing set their teeth and calmly awaited the attack.
Ross turned to his father and asked:
“What can we do?”
“Fight to the death!” was the cool and determined reply.
Slipping an arm around La Violette’s waist, Ross whispered:
“Good-by, darling! Lie down behind that mound, out of the way of flying
bullets. As soon as the first discharge of firearms is over, run toward
the boat at the top of your speed. If I escape death, I’ll rejoin you
there.”
She was very pale; and her limbs were trembling. But she replied firmly:
“I will not leave your side, Ross. If you must die, I die with you!”
The soldiers on the shore had been witnesses of the whole proceeding. At
the distance, they could not tell what was going on; but knowing that
something was amiss, and fearing the worst, a number of them had left the
boat and started toward the scene of disturbance. Now they came running
at full speed along the bank. The Wyandot’s quick eyes caught sight of
them and he grunted:
“Palefaces come—heap many. Ugh!”
“That’s a fact, Injin!” Farley muttered in reply. “If we can only hold
the red devils off till——”
Ross Douglas was anxiously watching the actions of the savages. Suddenly
he saw them quit talking and make a move to encircle their victims. An
inspiration came to him. Taking a step forward, he raised his right hand
and cried in ringing tones:
“Children of Tenskwatawa!”
The attention of the Indians was arrested. They stopped and stared hard
at the speaker.
“Behold the Sign of the Prophet!” Ross shouted.
At the same time, he slowly waved his hand to and fro, and, imitating the
sinuous movements of the red hypnotist, advanced upon the semicircle of
warriors. The effect was marvelous.
“The Sign of the Prophet! The Sign of the Prophet!” they wailed in
terrified accents, shrinking away from him—their eyes immovably fixed
upon the talisman.
For a moment George Hilliard was dumbfounded. He could not understand
what was happening. Realizing that Ross, in some way, was sending terror
to the hearts of the red fiends, the thick-set villain’s face grew purple
with rage. He stormed and raved. But all to no purpose; the savages were
spellbound—they could not hear his voice.
Slowly advancing—and continuing his serpentine movements—Ross continued:
“Children of the Prophet, I wear his sign—I have his power! I am doing
the will of the Great Spirit. Away—away! Go—ere I strike you blind——”
“Curse you, Ross Douglas! _I’ll_ strike you blind!” Hilliard howled
frantically.
Quick as a flash, he threw his gun to his shoulder and fired. But quick
as his movements were, John Douglas’s were quicker. Just before the
roar of the firearm rang out upon the air, the father sprang in front
of his son. The next moment he sank to earth, mortally wounded. With a
lionlike roar of rage, Duke leaped upon the murderer and dragged him to
the ground. Three rifles cracked in rapid succession; and three painted
braves met death.
The spell was broken. The savages gazed about in stupefaction. Then,
dimly realizing what had happened, they broke and fled toward the cover
of the woods, just as the soldiers, cheering lustily, dashed up.
La Violette dropped upon the ground and pillowed John Douglas’s head upon
her lap. Ross bent over the dying man, and in a voice full of anguish
asked:
“Father, can you see me—can you speak to me?”
The fast-glazing eyes looked steadily into those of the questioner, and
the white lips whispered faintly:
“I see both of you, my—my children; but very—very dimly. Do not—move out
of my sight. I’m dying! It is best so. I have given my life for you, my
son; and I—I die happy. I am going—give me your hands! Good-by—I—I——”
With a deep, tremulous sigh, he closed his eyes. Twice the deep chest
heaved spasmodically. And he was dead.
“My father—oh, my father!” Ross moaned, still clinging to the dead man’s
hand.
Joe Farley overheard the words and muttered to himself:
“Ross Douglas’s father! Scar Face—Hiram Bradford—John
Douglas—all one an’ the same. Dang-it-all-to-dingnation!
Hang-it-up-an’-take-it-down-an’-cook-it! Won’t wonders an’ mysteries
_never_ come to an end?”
Then, in a low tone, he said to the Wyandot:
“Injin, we’d better call Duke away from that painted lump o’ taller out
there. I s’pect the dog’s worried the cuss a good ’eal by this time.”
“Ugh!” Bright Wing snorted contemptuously. “Duke no worry fat
paleface-redman now; fat paleface-redman heap much dead. Me stick knife
in him.”
“Huh!” Farley ejaculated. Then to the dog:
“Here, Duke, come away from that carcass. You’ll git p’izened nosin’
’round such a varmint—you will, by Molly! Come away, I say!”
The hound obeyed.
Ross, had arisen, and stood silently gazing into the face upturned to the
clouded heavens. La Violette was weeping bitterly. The English officer
advanced to Ross’s side and said with much feeling:
“I can’t tell you, young man, how sorry I am that this thing has
happened. But the savages are unruly; they can’t be controlled——”
Then he abruptly stopped speaking and peered into the upturned
countenance. Starting back, he exclaimed excitedly:
“Why, this is Hiram Bradford—one of our own men!”
Ross nodded stiffly.
“Curse the savage brutes!” the officer muttered as he turned and strode
away. “Whom will they turn upon next?”
Taking with them the body of John Douglas—but leaving George Hilliard
and his red associates where they fell—the company made their way to the
boat, and embarked for Fort Meigs.
[Illustration]