A BLOW FOR A BLOW.
Silver Rifle, blinded by the flashes, started back; but the next moment
she cocked her gun and sprung with Ahdeek, who, fortunately, had escaped
injury, into the mouth of the cave!
“The Chips no shoot good,” smiled the half-breed, trying to catch a
glimpse of their foes at the risk of his life. “They heard Ahdeek comin’
through the wood, so they wait for him on bank, an’ shoot at him; not to
kill, but to hurt. But, Silver Rifle, where pale hand?”
“I have it, thank Heaven!” said the girl, in tones of satisfaction; “the
ring is at last in my possession. Ahdeek, whose hand is it, and how came
it in your power?”
“Ahdeek not tell pale girl story now,” was the half-breed’s response.
“He say he find both in the wood—so he did; let that answer satisfy her
now. He tell all by ’m by.”
The dead hand lay in the pouch that hung by our heroine’s side, and
while they guarded the entrance to the cave, she tried to slip the ring
from the icy finger. But her efforts were unrealized; the finger clung
to the bauble; it pressed it tightly against the palm, and ceasing her
labors, she looked up at Ahdeek, whose eyes met hers in the dim
starlight.
“Hand hold to ring,” he said, with a faint smile. “Ahdeek take it off by
’m by. He find trapper’s girl at last. Pretty soon he go an’ dig up what
Snowbeard buried.”
“What do you mean, chief?” said Silver Rifle, eagerly, excitedly. “Your
words are clothed in mystery.”
“Light come by ’m by,” was the reply.
The girl was about to urge the half-breed to explain, when his hand fell
lightly upon her arm. She knew the meaning of that touch and remained
silent.
Their foes were moving.
For many minutes a dreadful suspense held the watchers in the mouth of
the cave. Ahdeek crouched in the gloom, knife in hand, and rifle across
his knee. Silver Rifle, too, was ready to encounter the Indians, who
they knew were planning some devilish surprise.
The painful silence told this.
“Injun near now,” whispered Ahdeek, in the lowest of voices, and then he
prepared for a spring.
Silver Rifle held her breath, for it was the decisive moment.
Looking from the cave, they could see the pretty stars that shone upon
the lake.
Suddenly the celestial worlds were blotted from their vision.
A mass of humanity had leaped into the aperture.
Ahdeek met it near the entrance, and for several moments the noise of a
desperate struggle resounded in the dark passage.
Then the shouts of victory cleft the close, hot air, tinctured with the
odor of newly-spilled blood.
The cries were in the Chippewa language!
While Ahdeek was aware of the proximity of his foes, he was not wholly
prepared for the tactics which they displayed. They knew that he and
Silver Rifle were just beyond the threshold of the corridor, and had
decided upon the action which inaugurated the attack. The advantages
were with the assaulters, and in a brief time, which had cost the
Indians two of their braves, the whites were overpowered and secured.
“Now,” cried Mossuit, elated with his triumph, “now we catch the
traitress, and all shall die by the torture.”
Down the dark, grim corridor the captors went, bearing their prisoners,
whose hands were lashed on their backs, and afforded no hopes of
liberty.
“You best not touch Clearwater,” hissed Ahdeek, thinking only of the
wounded girl, whom he had left on her couch of skins in the cave.
“She shall die!” was the response, “and that before the eyes of her
yellow lover.”
“Who is not dead yet. Ahdeek swears that the brave who hurts Clearwater
shall tread the long trail before the Manitou calls him home.”
The savages chuckled audibly over this threat, and examined the
captives’ bonds to see that they were secure.
Suddenly they halted and placed their prisoners in the van.
This was upon the suggestion of Mossuit, who knew that loaded rifles lay
within Clearwater’s reach, and that, if strong enough, she would drop
the first red-man who showed his face in the cave. Therefore, he
shielded himself and braves with those whom she would not slay.
This piece of strategy was successful, for, as Ahdeek came in sight of
Clearwater, he saw a rifle drop from her fingers, and she sprung half
erect with a low cry of mingled pain and terror.
Had the savages been in the advance, one or two would have fallen.
The Indians were delighted with the success of their plans.
“Clearwater go to woods,” said Mossuit, turning suddenly upon Ahdeek,
whom they had permitted to kneel beside the couch. “Oagla trails the
forest for the traitress, and Mossuit might cross his trail before the
light comes.”
Ahdeek sprung to his feet with a look of resentment.
“Clearwater is still as weak as the young squirrel,” he said. “She can
not walk a step.”
“Then she crawl. She must go into the woods with Mossuit. We can not
tarry here. Mossuit has a prisoner in the woods, and he would see him
now.”
Silver Rifle’s heart leaped for joy.
Mossuit’s prisoner was the White Tiger!
“Let me carry Clearwater, an’ she go,” said Ahdeek.
The Indians exchanged glances of horror.
“Ahdeek wants the Chippewas to untie his limbs, that he might run away
in the big woods.”
“Liars!” was the thunderous response. “Is Ahdeek’s word worth nothing?
Here, bind Clearwater on my back, an’ I’ll carry her with my hands still
bound. If she leaves this hole in the ground it shall be on my person,
not in the arms of an Indian.”
The half-breed was at once taken at his words. Clearwater was lifted
from her couch, and, with more tenderness than the Indians usually
exhibit to an enemy, lashed to her lover’s back.
A minute later the entire party were crawling through the gloomy passage
again, and at length gained the forest above the lake.
Several hours had passed since the first combat in the cave, and the
position of several stars told that it was near midnight.
From the lake came the hoarse mutterings of a storm, and the savages
quickened their steps as they entered the city of ghostly trees.
Ahdeek, with his lovely burden, kept pace with them. He was a strong
young fellow, who did not mind his load in the least, and often glanced
with a smile at Silver Rifle, who kept at his side.
All at once, at the foot of a knoll, and on the brink of a sluggish
forest stream, Mossuit halted. The rest of the party followed his
example, and silence fell over all.
Presently the chief imitated the hoot of the little night-owl, and then
moved forward.
There was no response to the cry, which was thrice repeated, and at last
the chief returned.
“Come; Mossuit show braves something,” he said, in a hoarse, excited
tone; and the party followed his leading.
Suddenly the chief stooped, and raised a dark object from the ground.
It was a dead Indian whose limbs were still warm.
The savages greeted the spectacle with ejaculations of horror, which
increased in number and intensity when a second Chippewa, as dead as the
first, was exposed to their view by the chief.
“White Tiger gone!” gasped Mossuit, burning with rage. “Mossuit bring
him here from cave, and Indians promised to watch him well. But he too
much for ’em. He kill ’em and go!”
And, in the silence of chagrin that followed, Silver Rifle uttered an
inaudible “Thank heaven,” and an expression of satisfaction stole over
Ahdeek’s face.
Several minutes were spent in hunting the Destroyer’s trail; but Mossuit
could spare no warriors to pursue, and reluctantly turned away.
“We hunt him when three captives safe,” he said. “We cut his heart out,
an’ make him eat it—the base white dog. Now, braves—”
He paused abruptly, for a cry, similar to the one which he had just
repeated, floated through the forest, and after a brief interval the
chief replied in a like noise.
Then, for several moments, a conversation was carried on by means of
bird-calls, and at last footsteps came from a certain quarter of the
black wood.
Mossuit turned to his warriors, with an announcement that Oagla and his
trail-hunters were approaching.
The meeting of the bands was unexpected, but quite cordial, and when
Oagla recognized the captives, he started forward, with a cry of joy,
and grasped Mossuit’s hand again.
“They escape no more!” he said. “Now Hondurah can rid the Chippewas of a
traitress.”
Mossuit shook his head.
“Hondurah is on his last trail,” he said.
“On the trail which leads to the happy hunting-grounds?”
Mossuit nodded.
“Who sent him thither?”
“Either Silver Rifle or the White Tiger!”
In the terrible suspense of calm that followed, Oagla turned upon our
heroine.
“Who shot Hondurah?”
“Silver Rifle.”
A cry of rage burst from the red band, and the next moment a lithe young
warrior leaped to Oagla’s side.
“There is the dog that stole the little talker!” he cried, pointing to
Ahdeek. “He has given it to Silver Rifle. Oagla has sworn to make it
talk to him. Make it talk now!”
Impulsively the chief stepped toward the girl, and in the light of a
fire which several braves had kindled upon the forest meeting, the
maiden shrunk back with blanched cheek and flashing eyes.
“Girl, give Oagla little talker!” demanded the chief.
“Unbind my hands, that I may do it,” was the reply. “What is it to
Silver Rifle now? ’Tis near a spot which the Indian’s hand must not
touch; but Silver Rifle will give it to him when she is free.”
Oagla smiled faintly, drew his knife, and, before Mossuit could
interpose to prevent him, severed the girl’s bonds.
“Silver Rifle is Mossuit’s captive,” said that red worthy, stepping
before Oagla.
“Oagla is a chief; Mossuit little more than a brave!” was the angry
response, as the speaker, disdaining further words with his questioner,
turned to the girl again.
“Give Oagla the little talker,” was the demand. “His blood’s hot now.”
Silver Rifle drew back an inch as the big Indian, with outstretched
hand, stepped toward her as though he would crush her; but the next
moment she leaped forward, and held his knife in her right hand.
Mossuit and his band applauded the lightning action, and, thus goaded to
further madness, Oagla darted upon the girl!
Then Mossuit leaped forward and flung the giant aside.
“If Oagla wants blood—”
Mossuit was sent reeling from the giant, with whom he could not cope,
and the challenge was broken.
Nor was it ever renewed, for in the second that followed, Oagla sprung
upon the girl again, and staggered back with a crimson spot on the bosom
of his hunting-frock.
And from the point of the knife which Silver Rifle griped, fresh, warm
blood dropped and stained the leaves at her feet!
“I’ll defend the little talker to the death!” she cried, facing the
savages, whose tomahawks shone and clashed scarce five feet away. “I
have but paid Oagla for his indignity of other days. I scorn to fly now.
I am the prisoner of Mossuit, and the Oaglan brave who touches me
receives the blade damp with the blood of his chief!”
The avenging warriors shrunk from her flashing eyes, and the tableau was
broken by Mossuit himself, who sprung into the gap, and declared that
the path to Silver Rifle led over his dead body!
Sullen, but not silent, the braves eyed the chief whose wiles had
encompassed Hondurah’s death; but not a movement was made, until the
report of a rifle, discharged not thirty yards away, startled every one.
Silver Rifle reeled and fell into the arms of her red companion!
If she was dead, it was murder most foul!