One evening, several days previous to the capture of the brothers, a
solitary hunter stopped before a deserted log cabin which stood on
the bank of a stream fifty miles or more inland from the Ohio River.
It was rapidly growing dark; a fine, drizzling rain had set in, and
a rising wind gave promise of a stormy night.
Although the hunter seemed familiar with his surroundings, he moved
cautiously, and hesitated as if debating whether he should seek the
protection of this lonely hut, or remain all night under dripping
trees. Feeling of his hunting frock, he found that it was damp and
slippery. This fact evidently decided him in favor of the cabin, for
he stooped his tall figure and went in. It was pitch dark inside;
but having been there before, the absence of a light did not trouble
him. He readily found the ladder leading to the loft, ascended it,
and lay down to sleep.
During the night a noise awakened him. For a moment he heard nothing
except the fall of the rain. Then came the hum of voices, followed
by the soft tread of moccasined feet. He knew there was an Indian
town ten miles across the country, and believed some warriors,
belated on a hunting trip, had sought the cabin for shelter.
The hunter lay perfectly quiet, awaiting developments. If the
Indians had flint and steel, and struck a light, he was almost
certain to be discovered. He listened to their low conversation, and
understood from the language that they were Delawares.
A moment later he heard the rustling of leaves and twigs,
accompanied by the metallic click of steel against some hard
substance. The noise was repeated, and then followed by a hissing
sound, which he knew to be the burning of a powder on a piece of dry
wood, after which rays of light filtered through cracks of the
unstable floor of the loft.
The man placed his eye to one of these crevices, and counted eleven
Indians, all young braves, with the exception of the chief. The
Indians had been hunting; they had haunches of deer and buffalo
tongues, together with several packs of hides. Some of them busied
themselves drying their weapons; others sat down listlessly, plainly
showing their weariness, and two worked over the smouldering fire.
The damp leaves and twigs burned faintly, yet there was enough to
cause the hunter fear that he might be discovered. He believed he
had not much to worry about from the young braves, but the hawk-eyed
chief was dangerous.
And he was right. Presently the stalwart chief heard, or saw, a drop
of water fall from the loft. It came from the hunter's wet coat.
Almost any one save an Indian scout would have fancied this came
from the roof. As the chief's gaze roamed everywhere over the
interior of the cabin his expression was plainly distrustful. His
eye searched the wet clay floor, but hardly could have discovered
anything there, because the hunter's moccasined tracks had been
obliterated by the footprints of the Indians. The chief's suspicions
seemed to be allayed.
But in truth this chief, with the wonderful sagacity natural to
Indians, had observed matters which totally escaped the young
braves, and, like a wily old fox, he waited to see which cub would
prove the keenest. Not one of them, however, noted anything unusual.
They sat around the fire, ate their meat and parched corn, and
chatted volubly.
The chief arose and, walking to the ladder, ran his hand along one
of the rungs.
"Ugh!" he exclaimed.
Instantly he was surrounded by ten eager, bright-eyed braves. He
extended his open palm; it was smeared with wet clay like that under
his feet. Simultaneously with their muttered exclamations the braves
grasped their weapons. They knew there was a foe above them. It was
a paleface, for an Indian would have revealed himself.
The hunter, seeing he was discovered, acted with the unerring
judgment and lightning-like rapidity of one long accustomed to
perilous situations. Drawing his tomahawk and noiselessly stepping
to the hole in the loft, he leaped into the midst of the astounded
Indians.
Rising from the floor like the rebound of a rubber ball, his long
arm with the glittering hatchet made a wide sweep, and the young
braves scattered like frightened sheep.
He made a dash for the door and, incredible as it may seem, his
movements were so quick he would have escaped from their very midst
without a scratch but for one unforeseen circumstance. The clay
floor was wet and slippery; his feet were hardly in motion before
they slipped from under him and he fell headlong.
With loud yells of triumph the band jumped upon him. There was a
convulsive, heaving motion of the struggling mass, one frightful cry
of agony, and then hoarse commands. Three of the braves ran to their
packs, from which they took cords of buckskin. So exceedingly
powerful was the hunter that six Indians were required to hold him
while the others tied his hands and feet. Then, with grunts and
chuckles of satisfaction, they threw him into a corner of the cabin.
Two of the braves had been hurt in the brief struggle, one having a
badly wrenched shoulder and the other a broken arm. So much for the
hunter's power in that single moment of action.
The loft was searched, and found to be empty. Then the excitement
died away, and the braves settled themselves down for the night. The
injured ones bore their hurts with characteristic stoicism; if they
did not sleep, both remained quiet and not a sigh escaped them.
The wind changed during the night, the storm abated, and when
daylight came the sky was cloudless. The first rays of the sun shone
in the open door, lighting up the interior of the cabin.
A sleepy Indian who had acted as guard stretched his limbs and
yawned. He looked for the prisoner, and saw him sitting up in the
corner. One arm was free, and the other nearly so. He had almost
untied the thongs which bound him; a few moments more and he would
have been free.
"Ugh!" exclaimed the young brave, awakening his chief and pointing
to the hunter.
The chief glanced at his prisoner; then looked more closely, and
with one spring was on his feet, a drawn tomahawk in his hand. A
short, shrill yell issued from his lips. Roused by that clarion
call, the young braves jumped up, trembling in eager excitement. The
chief's summons had been the sharp war-cry of the Delawares.
He manifested as intense emotion as could possibly have been
betrayed by a matured, experienced chieftain, and pointing to the
hunter, he spoke a single word.
* * *
At noonday the Indians entered the fields of corn which marked the
outskirts of the Delaware encampment.
"Kol-loo--kol-loo--kol-loo."
The long signal, heralding the return of the party with important
news, pealed throughout the quiet valley; and scarcely had the
echoes died away when from the village came answering shouts.
Once beyond the aisles of waving corn the hunter saw over the
shoulders of his captors the home of the redmen. A grassy plain,
sloping gradually from the woody hill to a winding stream, was
brightly beautiful with chestnut trees and long, well-formed lines
of lodges. Many-hued blankets hung fluttering in the sun, and rising
lazily were curling columns of blue smoke. The scene was picturesque
and reposeful; the vivid hues suggesting the Indians love of color
and ornament; the absence of life and stir, his languorous habit of
sleeping away the hot noonday hours.
The loud whoops, however, changed the quiet encampment into a scene
of animation. Children ran from the wigwams, maidens and braves
dashed here and there, squaws awakened from their slumber, and many
a doughty warrior rose from his rest in the shade. French fur
traders came curiously from their lodges, and renegades hurriedly
left their blankets, roused to instant action by the well-known
summons.
The hunter, led down the lane toward the approaching crowd,
presented a calm and fearless demeanor. When the Indians surrounded
him one prolonged, furious yell rent the air, and then followed an
extraordinary demonstration of fierce delight. The young brave's
staccato yell, the maiden's scream, the old squaw's screech, and the
deep war-cry of the warriors intermingled in a fearful discordance.
Often had this hunter heard the name which the Indian called him; he
had been there before, a prisoner; he had run the gauntlet down the
lane; he had been bound to a stake in front of the lodge where his
captors were now leading him. He knew the chief, Wingenund, sachem
of the Delawares. Since that time, now five years ago, when
Wingenund had tortured him, they had been bitterest foes.
If the hunter heard the hoarse cries, or the words hissed into his
ears; if he saw the fiery glances of hatred, and sudden giving way
to ungovernable rage, unusual to the Indian nature; if he felt in
their fierce exultation the hopelessness of succor or mercy, he gave
not the slightest sign.
"Atelang! Atelang! Atelang!" rang out the strange Indian name.
The French traders, like real savages, ran along with the
procession, their feathers waving, their paint shining, their faces
expressive of as much excitement as the Indians' as they cried aloud
in their native tongue:
"Le Vent de la Mort! Le Vent de la Mort! La Vent de la Mort!"
The hunter, while yet some paces distant, saw the lofty figure of
the chieftain standing in front of his principal men. Well he knew
them all. There were the crafty Pipe, and his savage comrade, the
Half King; there was Shingiss, who wore on his forehead a scar--the
mark of the hunter's bullet; there were Kotoxen, the Lynx, and
Misseppa, the Source, and Winstonah, the War-cloud, chiefs of
sagacity and renown. Three renegades completed the circle; and these
three traitors represented a power which had for ten years left an
awful, bloody trail over the country. Simon Girty, the so-called
White Indian, with his keen, authoritative face turned expectantly;
Elliott, the Tory deserter, from Fort Pitt, a wiry, spider-like
little man; and last, the gaunt and gaudily arrayed form of the
demon of the frontier--Jim Girty.
The procession halted before this group, and two brawny braves
pushed the hunter forward. Simon Girty's face betrayed satisfaction;
Elliott's shifty eyes snapped, and the dark, repulsive face of the
other Girty exhibited an exultant joy. These desperadoes had feared
this hunter.
Wingenund, with a majestic wave of his arm, silenced the yelling
horde of frenzied savages and stepped before the captive.
The deadly foes were once again face to face. The chieftain's lofty
figure and dark, sleek head, now bare of plumes, towered over the
other Indians, but he was not obliged to lower his gaze in order to
look straight into the hunter's eyes.
Verily this hunter merited the respect which shone in the great
chieftain's glance. Like a mountain-ash he stood, straight and
strong, his magnificent frame tapering wedge-like from his broad
shoulders. The bulging line of his thick neck, the deep chest, the
knotty contour of his bared forearm, and the full curves of his
legs--all denoted a wonderful muscular development.
The power expressed in this man's body seemed intensified in his
features. His face was white and cold, his jaw square and set; his
coal-black eyes glittered with almost a superhuman fire. And his
hair, darker than the wing of a crow, fell far below his shoulders;
matted and tangled as it was, still it hung to his waist, and had it
been combed out, must have reached his knees.
One long moment Wingenund stood facing his foe, and then over the
multitude and through the valley rolled his sonorous voice:
"Deathwind dies at dawn!"
The hunter was tied to a tree and left in view of the Indian
populace. The children ran fearfully by; the braves gazed long at
the great foe of their race; the warriors passed in gloomy silence.
The savages' tricks of torture, all their diabolical ingenuity of
inflicting pain was suppressed, awaiting the hour of sunrise when
this hated Long Knife was to die.
Only one person offered an insult to the prisoner; he was a man of
his own color. Jim Girty stopped before him, his yellowish eyes
lighted by a tigerish glare, his lips curled in a snarl, and from
between them issuing the odor of the fir traders' vile rum.
"You'll soon be feed fer the buzzards," he croaked, in his hoarse
voice. He had so often strewed the plains with human flesh for the
carrion birds that the thought had a deep fascination for him. "D'ye
hear, scalp-hunter? Feed for buzzards!" He deliberately spat in the
hunter's face. "D'ye hear?" he repeated.
There was no answer save that which glittered in the hunter's eye.
But the renegade could not read it because he did not meet that
flaming glance. Wild horses could not have dragged him to face this
man had he been free. Even now a chill crept over Girty. For a
moment he was enthralled by a mysterious fear, half paralyzed by a
foreshadowing of what would be this hunter's vengeance. Then he
shook off his craven fear. He was free; the hunter's doom was sure.
His sharp face was again wreathed in a savage leer, and he spat once
more on the prisoner.
His fierce impetuosity took him a step too far. The hunter's arms
and waist were fastened, but his feet were free. His powerful leg
was raised suddenly; his foot struck Girty in the pit of the
stomach. The renegade dropped limp and gasping. The braves carried
him away, his gaudy feathers trailing, his long arms hanging
inertly, and his face distorted with agony.
The maidens of the tribe, however, showed for the prisoner an
interest that had in it something of veiled sympathy. Indian girls
were always fascinated by white men. Many records of Indian maidens'
kindness, of love, of heroism for white prisoners brighten the dark
pages of frontier history. These girls walked past the hunter,
averting their eyes when within his range of vision, but stealing
many a sidelong glance at his impressive face and noble proportions.
One of them, particularly, attracted the hunter's eye.
This was because, as she came by with her companions, while they all
turned away, she looked at him with her soft, dark eyes. She was a
young girl, whose delicate beauty bloomed fresh and sweet as that of
a wild rose. Her costume, fringed, beaded, and exquisitely wrought
with fanciful design, betrayed her rank, she was Wingenund's
daughter. The hunter had seen her when she was a child, and he
recognized her now. He knew that the beauty of Aola, of Whispering
Winds Among the Leaves, had been sung from the Ohio to the Great
Lakes.
Often she passed him that afternoon. At sunset, as the braves untied
him and led him away, he once more caught the full, intense gaze of
her lovely eyes.
That night as he lay securely bound in the corner of a lodge, and
the long hours wore slowly away, he strained at his stout bonds, and
in his mind revolved different plans of escape. It was not in this
man's nature to despair; while he had life he would fight. From time
to time he expanded his muscles, striving to loosen the wet buckskin
thongs.
The dark hours slowly passed, no sound coming to him save the
distant bark of a dog and the monotonous tread of his guard; a dim
grayness pervaded the lodge. Dawn was close at hand--his hour was
nearly come.
Suddenly his hearing, trained to a most acute sensibility, caught a
faint sound, almost inaudible. It came from without on the other
side of the lodge. There it was again, a slight tearing sound, such
as is caused by a knife when it cuts through soft material.
Some one was slitting the wall of the lodge.
The hunter rolled noiselessly over and over until he lay against the
skins. In the dim grayness he saw a bright blade moving carefully
upward through the deer-hide. Then a long knife was pushed into the
opening; a small, brown hand grasped the hilt. Another little hand
followed and felt of the wall and floor, reaching out with groping
fingers.
The hunter rolled again so that his back was against the wall and
his wrists in front of the opening. He felt the little hand on his
arm; then it slipped down to his wrists. The contact of cold steel
set a tremor of joy through his heart. The pressure of his bonds
relaxed, ceased; his arms were free. He turned to find the
long-bladed knife on the ground. The little hands were gone.
In a tinkling he rose unbound, armed, desperate. In another second
an Indian warrior lay upon the ground in his death-throes, while a
fleeing form vanished in the gray morning mist.