Silvertip turned to his braves, and giving a brief command, sprang
from the raft. The warriors closed in around the brothers; two
grasping each by the arms, and the remaining Indian taking care of
the horse. The captives were then led ashore, where Silvertip
awaited them.
When the horse was clear of the raft, which task necessitated
considerable labor on the part of the Indians, the chief seized the
grapevine, that was now plainly in sight, and severed it with one
blow of his tomahawk. The raft dashed forward with a lurch and
drifted downstream.
In the clear water Joe could see the cunning trap which had caused
the death of Bill, and insured the captivity of himself and his
brother. The crafty savages had trimmed a six-inch sapling and
anchored it under the water. They weighted the heavy end, leaving
the other pointing upstream. To this last had been tied the
grapevine. When the drifting raft reached the sapling, the Indians
concealed in the willows pulled hard on the improvised rope; the end
of the sapling stuck up like a hook, and the aft was caught and
held. The killing of the helmsman showed the Indians' foresight;
even had the raft drifted on downstream the brothers would have been
helpless on a craft they could not manage. After all, Joe thought,
he had not been so far wrong when he half fancied that an Indian lay
behind Shawnee Rock, and he marveled at this clever trick which had
so easily effected their capture.
But he had little time to look around at the scene of action. There
was a moment only in which to study the river to learn if the
unfortunate raftsman's body had appeared. It was not to be seen. The
river ran swiftly and hid all evidence of the tragedy under its
smooth surface. When the brave who had gone back to the raft for the
goods joined his companion the two hurried Joe up the bank after the
others.
Once upon level ground Joe saw before him an open forest. On the
border of this the Indians stopped long enough to bind the
prisoners' wrists with thongs of deerhide. While two of the braves
performed this office, Silvertip leaned against a tree and took no
notice of the brothers. When they were thus securely tied one of
their captors addressed the chief, who at once led the way westward
through the forest. The savages followed in single file, with Joe
and Jim in the middle of the line. The last Indian tried to mount
Lance; but the thoroughbred would have none of him, and after
several efforts the savage was compelled to desist. Mose trotted
reluctantly along behind the horse.
Although the chief preserved a dignified mien, his braves were
disposed to be gay. They were in high glee over their feat of
capturing the palefaces, and kept up an incessant jabbering. One
Indian, who walked directly behind Joe, continually prodded him with
the stock of a rifle; and whenever Joe turned, the brawny redskin
grinned as he grunted, "Ugh!" Joe observed that this huge savage had
a broad face of rather a lighter shade of red than his companions.
Perhaps he intended those rifle-prods in friendliness, for although
they certainly amused him, he would allow no one else to touch Joe;
but it would have been more pleasing had he shown his friendship in
a gentle manner. This Indian carried Joe's pack, much to his own
delight, especially as his companions evinced an envious curiosity.
The big fellow would not, however, allow them to touch it.
"He's a cheerful brute," remarked Joe to Jim.
"Ugh!" grunted the big Indian, jamming Joe with his rifle-stock.
Joe took heed to the warning and spoke no more. He gave all his
attention to the course over which he was being taken. Here was his
first opportunity to learn something of Indians and their woodcraft.
It occurred to him that his captors would not have been so gay and
careless had they not believed themselves safe from pursuit, and he
concluded they were leisurely conducting him to one of the Indian
towns. He watched the supple figure before him, wondering at the
quick step, light as the fall of a leaf, and tried to walk as
softly. He found, however, that where the Indian readily avoided the
sticks and brush, he was unable to move without snapping twigs. Now
and then he would look up and study the lay of the land ahead; and
as he came nearer to certain rocks and trees he scrutinized them
closely, in order to remember their shape and general appearance. He
believed he was blazing out in his mind this woodland trail, so that
should fortune favor him and he contrive to escape, he would be able
to find his way back to the river. Also, he was enjoying the wild
scenery.
This forest would have appeared beautiful, even to one indifferent
to such charms, and Joe was far from that. Every moment he felt
steal stronger over him a subtle influence which he could not
define. Half unconsciously he tried to analyze it, but it baffled
him. He could no more explain what fascinated him than he could
understand what caused the melancholy quiet which hung over the
glades and hollows. He had pictured a real forest so differently
from this. Here was a long lane paved with springy moss and fenced
by bright-green sassafras; there a secluded dale, dotted with
pale-blue blossoms, over which the giant cottonwoods leaned their
heads, jealously guarding the delicate flowers from the sun. Beech
trees, growing close in clanny groups, spread their straight limbs
gracefully; the white birches gleamed like silver wherever a stray
sunbeam stole through the foliage, and the oaks, monarchs of the
forest, rose over all, dark, rugged, and kingly.
Joe soon understood why the party traveled through such open forest.
The chief, seeming hardly to deviate from his direct course, kept
clear of broken ground, matted thickets and tangled windfalls. Joe
got a glimpse of dark ravines and heard the music of tumbling
waters; he saw gray cliffs grown over with vines, and full of holes
and crevices; steep ridges, covered with dense patches of briar and
hazel, rising in the way. Yet the Shawnee always found an easy path.
The sun went down behind the foliage in the west, and shadows
appeared low in the glens; then the trees faded into an indistinct
mass; a purple shade settled down over the forest, and night brought
the party to a halt.
The Indians selected a sheltered spot under the lee of a knoll, at
the base of which ran a little brook. Here in this inclosed space
were the remains of a camp-fire. Evidently the Indians had halted
there that same day, for the logs still smouldered. While one brave
fanned the embers, another took from a neighboring branch a haunch
of deer meat. A blaze was soon coaxed from the dull coals, more fuel
was added, and presently a cheerful fire shone on the circle of
dusky forms.
It was a picture which Joe had seen in many a boyish dream; now that
he was a part of it he did not dwell on the hopelessness of the
situation, nor of the hostile chief whose enmity he had incurred.
Almost, it seemed, he was glad of this chance to watch the Indians
and listen to them. He had been kept apart from Jim, and it appeared
to Joe that their captors treated his brother with a contempt which
they did not show him. Silvertip had, no doubt, informed them that
Jim had been on his way to teach the Indians of the white man's God.
Jim sat with drooping head; his face was sad, and evidently he took
the most disheartening view of his capture. When he had eaten the
slice of venison given him he lay down with his back to the fire.
Silvertip, in these surroundings, showed his real character. He had
appeared friendly in the settlement; but now he was the relentless
savage, a son of the wilds, free as an eagle. His dignity as a chief
kept him aloof from his braves. He had taken no notice of the
prisoners since the capture. He remained silent, steadily regarding
the fire with his somber eyes. At length, glancing at the big
Indian, he motioned toward the prisoners and with a single word
stretched himself on the leaves.
Joe noted the same changelessness of expression in the other dark
faces as he had seen in Silvertip's. It struck him forcibly. When
they spoke in their soft, guttural tones, or burst into a low, not
unmusical laughter, or sat gazing stolidly into the fire, their
faces seemed always the same, inscrutable, like the depths of the
forest now hidden in night. One thing Joe felt rather than
saw--these savages were fierce and untamable. He was sorry for Jim,
because, as he believed, it would be as easy to teach the panther
gentleness toward his prey as to instill into one of these wild
creatures a belief in Christ.
The braves manifested keen pleasure in anticipation as to what they
would get out of the pack, which the Indian now opened. Time and
again the big brave placed his broad hand on the shoulder of a
comrade Indian and pushed him backward.
Finally the pack was opened. It contained a few articles of wearing
apparel, a pair of boots, and a pipe and pouch of tobacco. The big
Indian kept the latter articles, grunting with satisfaction, and
threw the boots and clothes to the others. Immediately there was a
scramble. One brave, after a struggle with another, got possession
of both boots. He at once slipped off his moccasins and drew on the
white man's foot-coverings. He strutted around in them a few
moments, but his proud manner soon changed to disgust.
Cowhide had none of the soft, yielding qualities of buckskin, and
hurt the Indian's feet. Sitting down, he pulled one off, not without
difficulty, for the boots were wet; but he could not remove the
other. He hesitated a moment, being aware of the subdued merriment
of his comrades, and then held up his foot to the nearest one. This
chanced to be the big Indian, who evidently had a keen sense of
humor. Taking hold of the boot with both hands, he dragged the
luckless brave entirely around the camp-fire. The fun, however, was
not to be all one-sided. The big Indian gave a more strenuous pull,
and the boot came off suddenly. Unprepared for this, he lost his
balance and fell down the bank almost into the creek. He held on to
the boot, nevertheless, and getting up, threw it into the fire.
The braves quieted down after that, and soon lapsed into slumber,
leaving the big fellow, to whom the chief had addressed his brief
command, acting, as guard. Observing Joe watching him as he puffed
on his new pipe, he grinned, and spoke in broken English that was
intelligible, and much of a surprise to the young man.
"Paleface--tobac'--heap good."
Then, seeing that Joe made no effort to follow his brother's
initiative, for Jim was fast asleep, he pointed to the recumbent
figures and spoke again.
"Ugh! Paleface sleep--Injun wigwams--near setting sun."
On the following morning Joe was awakened by the pain in his legs,
which had been bound all night. He was glad when the bonds were cut
and the party took up its westward march.
The Indians, though somewhat quieter, displayed the same
carelessness: they did not hurry, nor use particular caution, but
selected the most open paths through the forest. They even halted
while one of their number crept up on a herd of browsing deer. About
noon the leader stopped to drink from a spring; his braves followed
suit and permitted the white prisoners to quench their thirst.
When they were about to start again the single note of a bird far
away in the woods sounded clearly on the quiet air. Joe would not
have given heed to it had he been less attentive. He instantly
associated this peculiar bird-note with the sudden stiffening of
Silvertip's body and his attitude of intense listening. Low
exclamations came from the braves as they bent to catch the lightest
sound. Presently, above the murmur of the gentle fall of water over
the stones, rose that musical note once more. It was made by a bird,
Joe thought, and yet, judged by the actions of the Indians, how
potent with meaning beyond that of the simple melody of the woodland
songster! He turned, half expecting to see somewhere in the
tree-tops the bird which had wrought so sudden a change in his
captors. As he did so from close at hand came the same call, now
louder, but identical with the one that had deceived him. It was an
answering signal, and had been given by Silvertip.
It flashed into Joe's mind that other savages were in the forest;
they had run across the Shawnees' trail, and were thus communicating
with them. Soon dark figures could be discerned against the patches
of green thicket; they came nearer and nearer, and now entered the
open glade where Silvertip stood with his warriors.
Joe counted twelve, and noted that they differed from his captors.
He had only time to see that this difference consisted in the
head-dress, and in the color and quantity of paint on their bodies,
when his gaze was attracted and riveted to the foremost figures.
The first was that of a very tall and stately chief, toward whom
Silvertip now advanced with every show of respect. In this Indian's
commanding stature, in his reddish-bronze face, stern and powerful,
there were readable the characteristics of a king. In his deep-set
eyes, gleaming from under a ponderous brow; in his mastiff-like jaw;
in every feature of his haughty face were visible all the high
intelligence, the consciousness of past valor, and the power and
authority that denote a great chieftain.
The second figure was equally striking for the remarkable contrast
it afforded to the chief's. Despite the gaudy garments, the paint,
the fringed and beaded buckskin leggins--all the Indian
accouterments and garments which bedecked this person, he would have
been known anywhere as a white man. His skin was burned to a dark
bronze, but it had not the red tinge which characterizes the Indian.
This white man had, indeed, a strange physiognomy. The forehead was
narrow and sloped backward from the brow, denoting animal instincts.
The eyes were close together, yellowish-brown in color, and had a
peculiar vibrating movement, as though they were hung on a pivot,
like a compass-needle. The nose was long and hooked, and the mouth
set in a thin, cruel line. There was in the man's aspect an
extraordinary combination of ignorance, vanity, cunning and
ferocity.
While the two chiefs held a short consultation, this
savage-appearing white man addressed the brothers.
"Who're you, an' where you goin'?" he asked gruffly, confronting
Jim.
"My name is Downs. I am a preacher, and was on my way to the
Moravian Mission to preach to the Indians. You are a white man; will
you help us?"
If Jim expected the information would please his interrogator, he
was mistaken.
"So you're one of 'em? Yes, I'll do suthin' fer you when I git back
from this hunt. I'll cut your heart out, chop it up, an' feed it to
the buzzards," he said fiercely, concluding his threat by striking
Jim a cruel blow on the head.
Joe paled deathly white at this cowardly action, and his eyes, as
they met the gaze of the ruffian, contracted with their
characteristic steely glow, as if some powerful force within the
depths of his being were at white heat and only this pale flash came
to the surface.
"You ain't a preacher?" questioned the man, meeting something in
Joe's glance that had been absent from Jim's.
Joe made no answer, and regarded questioner steadily.
"Ever see me afore? Ever hear of Jim Girty?" he asked boastfully.
"Before you spoke I knew you were Girty," answered Joe quietly.
"How d'you know? Ain't you afeared?"
"Of what?"
"Me--me?"
Joe laughed in the renegades face.
"How'd you know me?" growled Girty. "I'll see thet you hev cause to
remember me after this."
"I figured there was only one so-called white man in these woods who
is coward enough to strike a man whose hands are tied."
"Boy, ye're too free with your tongue. I'll shet off your wind."
Girty's hand was raised, but it never reached Joe's neck.
The big Indian had an hour or more previous cut Joe's bonds, but he
still retained the thong which was left attached to Joe's left
wrist. This allowed the young man free use of his right arm, which,
badly swollen or not, he brought into quick action.
When the renegade reached toward him Joe knocked up the hand, and,
instead of striking, he grasped the hooked nose with all the
powerful grip of his fingers. Girty uttered a frightful curse; he
writhed with pain, but could not free himself from the vise-like
clutch. He drew his tomahawk and with a scream aimed a vicious blow
at Joe. He missed his aim, however, for Silvertip had intervened and
turned the course of the keen hatchet. But the weapon struck Joe a
glancing blow, inflicting a painful, though not dangerous wound.
The renegade's nose was skinned and bleeding profusely. He was
frantic with fury, and tried to get at Joe; but Silvertip remained
in front of his captive until some of the braves led Girty into the
forest, where the tall chief had already disappeared.
The nose-pulling incident added to the gayety of the Shawnees, who
evidently were pleased with Girty's discomfiture. They jabbered
among themselves and nodded approvingly at Joe, until a few words
spoken by Silvertip produced a sudden change.
What the words were Joe could not understand, but to him they
sounded like French. He smiled at the absurdity of imagining he had
heard a savage speak a foreign language. At any rate, whatever had
been said was trenchant with meaning. The Indians changed from gay
to grave; they picked up their weapons and looked keenly on every
side; the big Indian at once retied Joe, and then all crowded round
the chief.
"Did you hear what Silvertip said, and did you notice the effect it
had?" whispered Jim, taking advantage of the moment.
"It sounded like French, but of course it wasn't," replied Joe.
"It was French. 'Le Vent de la Mort.'"
"By Jove, that's it. What does it mean?" asked Joe, who was not a
scholar.
"The Wind of Death."
"That's English, but I can't apply it here. Can you?"
"No doubt it is some Indian omen."
The hurried consultation over, Silvertip tied Joe's horse and dog to
the trees, and once more led the way; this time he avoided the open
forest and kept on low ground. For a long time he traveled in the
bed of the brook, wading when the water was shallow, and always
stepping where there was the least possibility of leaving a
footprint. Not a word was spoken. If either of the brothers made the
lightest splash in the water, or tumbled a stone into the brook, the
Indian behind rapped him on the head with a tomahawk handle.
At certain places, indicated by the care which Silvertip exercised
in walking, the Indian in front of the captives turned and pointed
where they were to step. They were hiding the trail. Silvertip
hurried them over the stony places; went more slowly through the
water, and picked his way carefully over the soft ground it became
necessary to cross. At times he stopped, remaining motionless many
seconds.
This vigilance continued all the afternoon. The sun sank; twilight
spread its gray mantle, and soon black night enveloped the forest.
The Indians halted, but made no fire; they sat close together on a
stony ridge, silent and watchful.
Joe pondered deeply over this behavior. Did the Shawnees fear
pursuit? What had that Indian chief told Silvertip? To Joe it seemed
that they acted as if believing foes were on all sides. Though they
hid their tracks, it was, apparently, not the fear of pursuit alone
which made them cautious.
Joe reviewed the afternoon's march and dwelt upon the possible
meaning of the cat-like steps, the careful brushing aside of
branches, the roving eyes, suspicious and gloomy, the eager
watchfulness of the advance as well as to the rear, and always the
strained effort to listen, all of which gave him the impression of
some grave, unseen danger.
And now as he lay on the hard ground, nearly exhausted by the long
march and suffering from the throbbing wound, his courage lessened
somewhat, and he shivered with dread. The quiet and gloom of the
forest; these fierce, wild creatures, free in the heart of their own
wilderness yet menaced by a foe, and that strange French phrase
which kept recurring in his mind--all had the effect of conjuring up
giant shadows in Joe's fanciful mind. During all his life, until
this moment, he had never feared anything; now he was afraid of the
darkness. The spectral trees spread long arms overhead, and phantom
forms stalked abroad; somewhere out in that dense gloom stirred this
mysterious foe--the "Wind of Death."
Nevertheless, he finally slept. In the dull-gray light of early
morning the Indians once more took up the line of march toward the
west. They marched all that day, and at dark halted to eat and rest.
Silvertip and another Indian stood watch.
Some time before morning Joe suddenly awoke. The night was dark, yet
it was lighter than when he had fallen asleep. A pale, crescent moon
shown dimly through the murky clouds. There was neither movement of
the air nor the chirp of an insect. Absolute silence prevailed.
Joe saw the Indian guard leaning against a tree, asleep. Silvertip
was gone. The captive raised his head and looked around for the
chief. There were only four Indians left, three on the ground and
one against the tree.
He saw something shining near him. He looked more closely, and made
out the object to be an eagle plume Silvertip had worn, in his
head-dress. It lay on the ground near the tree. Joe made some slight
noise which awakened the guard. The Indian never moved a muscle; but
his eyes roved everywhere. He, too, noticed the absence of the
chief.
At this moment from out of the depths of the woods came a swelling
sigh, like the moan of the night wind. It rose and died away,
leaving the silence apparently all the deeper.
A shudder ran over Joe's frame. Fascinated, he watched the guard.
The Indian uttered a low gasp; his eyes started and glared wildly;
he rose very slowly to his full height and stood waiting, listening.
The dark hand which held the tomahawk trembled so that little glints
of moonlight glanced from the bright steel.
From far back in the forest-deeps came that same low moaning:
"Um-m-mm-woo-o-o-o!"
It rose from a faint murmur and swelled to a deep moan, soft but
clear, and ended in a wail like that of a lost soul.
The break it made in that dead silence was awful. Joe's blood seemed
to have curdled and frozen; a cold sweat oozed from his skin, and it
was as if a clammy hand clutched at his heart. He tried to persuade
himself that the fear displayed by the savage was only superstition,
and that that moan was but the sigh of the night wind.
The Indian sentinel stood as if paralyzed an instant after that
weird cry, and then, swift as a flash, and as noiseless, he was gone
into the gloomy forest. He had fled without awakening his
companions.
Once more the moaning cry arose and swelled mournfully on the still
night air. It was close at hand!
"The Wind of Death," whispered Joe.
He was shaken and unnerved by the events of the past two days, and
dazed from his wound. His strength deserted him, and he lost
consciousness.