The crashing of branches sounded as some heavy body ran along the
Doom Trail.
"Did ye hear that screech?" shouted a rough voice.
"Yaas, Red, me hear him. He bery much like feller feel something he
not like."
Peter nudged me, and Ta-wan-ne-ars seized the bow and quiver of one
of the dead Keepers. We crouched beside the bodies behind the sumac
screen. My gun was still where I had left it in the gully by which I
had approached the lair of the watchers. In its stead I selected the
musket of the man the Seneca had just knifed.
"Funny they don't answer us--'nless that was an answer we heard,"
continued the rough voice. "Give 'em another hail in their own
lingo."
A third voice was raised--in the Cahnuaga dialect, which was a
corruption of the Iroquois speech and perfectly understandable to my
comrades.
"_Qua_, O Keepers who watch," shouted the third speaker. "We
acquaint you that we approach. We have with us the Red One and the
Black One."
We remained quiet, but Peter possessed himself of the gun of the
second Cahnuaga and placed it where he could reach it as soon as his
own piece was discharged.
"That's ---- funny, Tom," called the first speaker, who was plainly
Bolling.
"Yaas, him ---- ---- funny," answered the negro.
They were approaching over the trail which forked into the one we had
followed from the stream with the pebbly banks. And at this point
apparently they came to the junction of the two branches.
"Hullo," commented Bolling's great voice--he spoke habitually in a
roar. "Somebody come by this way."
"Mebbe them Keepers go look for us the other way," suggested Tom.
"Mought be so, but I ain't figgerin' on takin' no chances with them
green arrows. French put the Injuns up to dippin' the points in
rattlesnake p'ison, and I seed them try it on a poor devil of a
Mohican they gathered in. I ain't hankerin' to die in no
snake-snarl."
The Indian who had shouted before repeated his hail.
"Them Keepers done gone away, Red," declared Tom. "Mebbe some
Maquas[1] come dis way. The Keepers chase 'em out o' hyuh."
[1] Hostile term for Mohawks.
"----! I'm agoin' to find out," returned Bolling.
He trotted out of the mouth of the trail into the open space on the
brink of the muskrat swamp.
"Nobody here," he called back after a casual look around. "Guess you
was right, Tom. The Keepers got after somebody--or else the lazy
dogs have turned in for a sleep. I'll find out later for sure. Now
you rustle them packs up, and I'll get the dugout ready."
He dragged a canoe hollowed from a tree-trunk from its hiding-place
in a bed of reeds, and produced two paddles from the prostrate trunk
of a hollow tree. But we paid scant attention to him. Our eyes were
fastened upon the odd procession which emerged from the trail in
obedience to his summons.
First walked the negro Tom, a huge pack bowing his enormous
shoulders. After the negro, in single file, came eight Cahnuagas,
each with a large pack braced on a _ga-ne-ko-na-ah_, or burden frame.
They carried their muskets in their hands.
"We've got to hurry if we're goin' to get everything ferried over the
swamp tonight," grumbled Bolling. "Waall, what's bitin' you?"
This question was addressed to a Cahnuaga who, in unslinging his
burden-frame, had chanced to see the arrow in the ground which the
Keepers had shot in their first attempt to bait us.
The Cahnuaga pointed silently to the green-feathered shaft.
"By ----!" swore Bolling with a start. "D'ye see that, Tom?"
The negro dropped his pack and shook some fresh priming into the pan
of his musket.
"Nobody nebber done come here befo'," he said dubiously. "Howcome
dat arrow dere, Red?"
"---- it, how the ---- do I know? I want to tell you this ain't no
joke. Something's happened here."
Bolling glanced about him uneasily.
"The Keepers have gone, that's sure," he announced. "What most
likely happened was some party broke in here, and the Keepers chased
'em."
He chuckled wickedly.
"Ain't no blood nor nothin' around, so it 'pears likely the Keepers
got the jump on 'em."
Ta-wan-ne-ars, who had been occupied in extracting arrows from a
quiver and setting them in a row before him with points lightly
thrust into the ground, now notched a shaft.
"Shall we begin, brothers?" he whispered. "Hold your fire until I
run out of arrows."
"Ja," agreed Peter. "Budt do not shoot Red Jack or der nigger. We
will safe them if we can."
"You can take on the negro," I spoke up. "Leave Bolling to me."
Peter looked doubtful.
"He is a goodt knife-fighter," he commenced to argue; but
Ta-wan-ne-ars chose that moment to open his bombardment, and the
Dutchman's remonstrance went for naught.
A green arrow streaked across the grove and buried its barbed bone
head in the chest of one of the Cahnuagas. The man shrieked and tore
at the shaft with his hands. His companions scattered right and
left. But Ta-wan-ne-ars gave them no respite. His shafts filled the
air. The green arrows drove into the packs, quivered in tree-trunks,
pierced another unfortunate.
"Are ye crazy?" shouted Bolling at the strangely hostile sumac clump.
"Don't ye see----"
"It's dem ---- False Faces," cried Tom, dancing with rage. "Dey got
some hocus-pocus up. Fire at 'em."
Thus adjured, the Cahnuagas let off a ragged volley which whistled
over our heads. Ta-wan-ne-ars discharged the last of his arrows and
reached for his musket. At the same moment Peter fired, and I tailed
him. We saw two of the Indians collapse. Peter caught up his second
musket and he and Ta-wan-ne-ars shot again. 'Twas impossible to
miss. Besides Bolling and Tom, only two of the enemy were left.
"Knife and hatchet for the rest," said Ta-wan-ne-ars grimly. "Are my
brothers ready?"
Peter answered him with the Iroquois war-whoop, and we sprang from
the sumac clump, dodging right and left through the tree-trunks.
"Here they come," yelled Bolling in warning.
He fired his musket, and I felt the wind of its bullet on my cheek.
Tom shot with no better results. The two surviving Cahnuagas threw
away their guns and fled.
"I will take care of them, brothers," shouted Ta-wan-ne-ars, casting
aside his own musket. "One Seneca against two Cahnuagas--that should
be fair odds."
He put on speed as he spoke, waved his hand and was gone, running
like a greyhound after the two frightened savages, who were scurrying
around the swamp.
The field was left to Peter and me and the two ruffians whom the
frontier called Red Death and Black Death. They seemed nothing loath
to meet us.
"Ho, ho, ho," roared Bolling. "D'ye see who it is, Tom?"
The negro's apelike face was distorted by a grin which showed his
yellow tusks. His wicked little eyes gleamed ferociously.
"Massa Murray done goin' to gib us a heap o' presents fo' this," he
answered. "Ah reckon mebbe we get all der rum we wants to drink."
"Waall, I will," chuckled Bolling, "but you won't."
Tom slobbered like an animal regretting its inability to eat
sufficiently.
"Ah'm aimin' to try," he said.
"There ain't enough," returned Bolling. "Waall, young feller"--this
to me--"was you intendin' to amuse me some!"
"I'm intending to let a little clean air into your dirty skin," I
answered.
He threw back his head as if much amused.
"Ho, ho, ho! Now ain't you got the smart way o' puttin' things!
Young feller, I'll tell yer what: you're too good for the frontier.
You----"
As quick as lightning, and without an indication in advance to warn
me, he flung his tomahawk at my head. I saw it coming, and
instinctively did the only thing possible to save myself--raised my
own ax to guard. Bolling's hatchet struck mine and knocked it from
my hand, leaving my arm sore and tingling.
"You wasn't expectin' that, was you?" he gibed. "Waall, young
feller, there's a heap o' other things you ain't expectin', but
they're a-goin' to happen. Yes, right now. You watch."
He poised himself on the balls of his feet, and pranced around me,
his big, double-edged scalping-knife held ready in his right hand.
"I'm aimin' to carve you, my lad," he warned me. "You ain't got the
chance a squirrel has ag'in an eagle. There ain't a knife-fighter in
these parts can stand up to me. D'ye know what they call me?"
"The Red Death," I said. "And I am going to redden more than your
hair."
"Ho, ho, ho! The cockerel can crow! Boy, I'm 'most ready to be
sorry for ye. I feel that bloody-minded I ain't got no mercy left at
all.
"It ain't just that I'm a-goin' to kill ye, ye understand. That
wouldn't be so bad. But no, I'm goin' to take my time about it and
carve ye up first--bit by bit. I'll take a little off en your arm
first. Like that!"
He made a sudden leap, but I had been watching his eye, as the
fencing-masters taught us to watch an opponent with the
small-swords--and knife-fighting is much like sword-play in this
respect--and I was prepared for him. I jumped backward, and his
knife-point jabbed the sod underfoot. He was on his feet again in a
second.
"Thought ye was smart, eh?" he snarled, his ugly face a blaze of
ferocity. "Waall, for that, I'll torment ye the longer. Take this
now!"
He attacked me with a peculiar sweeping blow that was aimed at my
shoulder, but fell at the level of the waist. Had it passed my
guard, 'twould have disemboweled me. I parried his blade with mine,
and struck back for the first time with such venom that he leaped
away in alarm.
The suspension in his attack gave me opportunity to glance over my
shoulder toward the edge of the swamp, where Peter and the negro were
circling each other warily, tomahawks poised for throwing.
The sight put an idea in my mind. I remembered my duel with the
Cahnuaga in the glade by the Great Trail and the discovery that he
was at a disadvantage when I used the knife as I had learned to use
the sword. I promptly shifted my grip on the knife-hilt and held it
straight before me as if it were a rapier. At the same time I
inclined my other arm behind me to balance it. Bolling viewed this
manoeuvre with derision.
"Ye pore babby," he sneered. "Think ye can meet a knife-fighter like
me with one arm? Or fight me off with the point? I'll show ye."
He charged upon me like a battering-ram, his knife a whirling point
of steel, its broad blade slashing in both directions. I retired
slowly, anxious to increase his self-confidence.
"Stand up to me!" he yelled finally. "Be ye feared?"
I laughed at this, and it made him furious. He stamped around me,
slashing and stabbing, and it was several minutes before he
discovered that however viciously he struck I was always able to
parry him with an economy of effort. I kept my point in the
restricted circle which the experts of fence decree to be the most
potent guard.
Breathing heavily, he retreated several paces and stood, glaring at
me, his knife upraised.
"You don't understand, Bolling, do you?" I mocked him.
"Understand what, ye ---- swine?" he ripped.
"Fighting the way gentlemen fight."
"Ye call that a gentleman's way!" he laughed harshly. "I call it a
coward's way! Why don't ye take the edge?"
"I will if you'll take the point," I retorted.
"Come on," he proffered, and he crept forward like a huge cat, feet
spread wide, shoulders crouched, knife a menacing flame.
Somewhat to his surprize I did not give ground to him this time, but
met him squarely as he advanced. My arm was extended, full-length,
tipped with a good ten inches of steel. He struck, and I parried his
blow. He slashed, and I put it aside. He struck again, and I almost
succeeded in twisting his blade from his hand by an old trick of the
_salle des armes_. But my knife was not long enough to get the
necessary purchase with it.
"Why don't ye fight fair?" he growled, wringing his arm.
"Why don't you?" I returned.
He charged with wonderful celerity, dropped to his knee and slashed
upward so effectively that his point cut the skirt of my leather
shirt.
"I'll get ye yet," he howled with glee.
But I refuse to be intimidated. Indeed, I was no longer doubtful of
the issue. I knew that I could outfight him or any fighter of his
caliber by my adaptation of sword-play to knife-fighting.
I leaped upon him by way of answer, and pressed the fighting. He
yielded ground to me, seeking to retreat into the woods by the trail;
but I rounded him up and herded him steadily toward the edge of the
swamp.
Out of the corner of my eye I saw Peter fling his tomahawk at Tom and
Tom hurl his knife in reply. Then my opponent shifted ground once
more, and I was occupied in driving him back in the direction I meant
him to go. We hovered nearer and nearer to the swamp edge, and
Bolling's breath began to come in labored gasps.
I shortened our fighting-range, and gave him the point, drawing blood
occasionally. He kept his head down, and parried desperately, trying
to escape to one side, but I was on him so swiftly that he was afraid
of a blow from the rear, and must needs stand to defend himself. At
last he stood on the very brink of the morass, with no avenue of
escape open.