When the waning moon rose high enough to shed a pale light over
forest and field, two dark figures, moving silently from the shade
of the trees, crossed the moonlit patches of ground, out to the open
plain where low on the grass hung silver mists.
A timber wolf, gray and gaunt, came loping along with lowered nose.
A new scent brought the animal to a standstill. His nose went up,
his fiery eyes scanned the plain. Two men had invaded his domain,
and, with a short, dismal bark, he dashed away.
Like spectres, gliding swiftly with noiseless tread, the two
vanished. The long grass had swallowed them.
Deserted once again seemed the plain. It became unutterably lonely.
No stir, no sound, no life; nothing but a wide expanse bathed in
sad, gray light.
The moon shone steadily; the silver radiance mellowed; the stars
paled before this brighter glory.
Slowly the night hours wore away.
On the other side of the plain, near where the adjoining forest
loomed darkling, the tall grass parted to disclose a black form. Was
it only a deceiving shade cast by a leafy branch--only a shadow?
Slowly it sank, and was lost. Once more the gray, unwavering line of
silver-crested grass tufts was unbroken.
Only the night breeze, wandering caressingly over the grass, might
have told of two dark forms gliding, gliding, gliding so softly, so
surely, so surely toward the forest. Only the moon and the pale
stars had eyes to see these creeping figures.
Like avengers they moved, on a mission to slay and to save!
On over the dark line where plain merged into forest they crawled.
No whispering, no hesitating; but a silent, slow, certain progress
showed their purpose. In single file they slipped over the moss, the
leader clearing the path. Inch by inch they advanced. Tedious was
this slow movement, difficult and painful this journey which must
end in lightninglike speed. They rustled no leaf, nor snapped a
twig, nor shook a fern, but passed onward slowly, like the approach
of Death. The seconds passed as minutes; minutes as hours; an entire
hour was spent in advancing twenty feet!
At last the top of the knoll was reached. The Avenger placed his
hand on his follower's shoulder. The strong pressure was meant to
remind, to warn, to reassure. Then, like a huge snake, the first
glided away.
He who was left behind raised his head to look into the open place
called the glade of the Beautiful Spring. An oval space lay before
him, exceedingly lovely in the moonlight; a spring, as if a pearl,
gemmed the center. An Indian guard stood statuelike against a stone.
Other savages lay in a row, their polished heads shining. One
slumbering form was bedecked with feathers and frills. Near him lay
an Indian blanket, from the border of which peered two faces,
gleaming white and sad in the pitying moonlight.
The watcher quivered at the sight of those pale faces; but he must
wait while long moments passed. He must wait for the Avenger to
creep up, silently kill the guard, and release the prisoners without
awakening the savages. If that plan failed, he was to rush into the
glade, and in the excitement make off with one of the captives.
He lay there waiting, listening, wrought up to the intensest pitch
of fierce passion. Every nerve was alert, every tendon strung, and
every muscle strained ready for the leap.
Only the faint rustling of leaves, the low swish of swaying
branches, the soft murmur of falling water, and over all the sigh of
the night wind, proved to him that this picture was not an evil
dream. His gaze sought the quiet figures, lingered hopefully on the
captives, menacingly on the sleeping savages, and glowered over the
gaudily arrayed form. His glance sought the upright guard, as he
stood a dark blot against the gray stone. He saw the Indian's plume,
a single feather waving silver-white. Then it became riveted on the
bubbling, refulgent spring. The pool was round, perhaps five feet
across, and shone like a burnished shield. It mirrored the moon, the
twinkling stars, the spectre trees.
An unaccountable horror suddenly swept over the watching man. His
hair stood straight up; a sensation as of cold stole chillingly over
him. Whether it was the climax of this long night's excitement, or
anticipation of the bloody struggle soon to come, he knew not. Did
this boiling spring, shimmering in the silver moon-rays, hold in its
murky depths a secret? Did these lonesome, shadowing trees, with
their sad drooping branches, harbor a mystery? If a future tragedy
was to be enacted here in this quiet glade, could the murmuring
water or leaves whisper its portent? No; they were only silent, only
unintelligible with nature's mystery.
The waiting man cursed himself for a craven coward; he fought back
the benumbing sense; he steeled his heart. Was this his vaunted
willingness to share the Avenger's danger? His strong spirit rose up
in arms; once more he was brave and fierce.
He fastened a piercing gaze on the plumed guard. The Indian's
lounging posture against the rock was the same as it had been
before, yet now it seemed to have a kind of strained attention. The
savage's head was poised, like that of a listening deer. The wary
Indian scented danger.
A faint moan breathed low above the sound of gently splashing water
somewhere beyond the glade.
"Woo-o-oo."
The guard's figure stiffened, and became rigidly erect; his blanket
slowly slid to his feet.
"Ah-oo-o," sighed the soft breeze in the tree tops.
Louder then, with a deep wail, a moan arose out of the dark gray
shadows, swelled thrilling on the still air, and died away
mournfully.
"Um-m-mmwoo-o-o-o!"
The sentinel's form melted into the shade. He was gone like a
phantom.
Another Indian rose quickly, and glanced furtively around the glade.
He bent over a comrade and shook him. Instantly the second Indian
was on his feet. Scarcely had he gained a standing posture when an
object, bounding like a dark ball, shot out of the thicket and
hurled both warriors to the earth. A moonbeam glinted upon something
bright. It flashed again on a swift, sweeping circle. A short,
choking yell aroused the other savages. Up they sprang, alarmed,
confused.
The shadow-form darted among them. It moved with inconceivable
rapidity; it became a monster. Terrible was the convulsive conflict.
Dull blows, the click of steel, angry shouts, agonized yells, and
thrashing, wrestling sounds mingled together and half drowned by an
awful roar like that of a mad bull. The strife ceased as suddenly as
it had begun. Warriors lay still on the grass; others writhed in
agony. For an instant a fleeting shadow crossed the open lane
leading out of the glade; then it vanished.
Three savages had sprung toward their rifles. A blinding flash, a
loud report burst from the thicket overhead. The foremost savage
sank lifelessly. The others were intercepted by a giant shadow with
brandished rifle. The watcher on the knoll had entered the glade. He
stood before the stacked rifles and swung his heavy gun. Crash! An
Indian went down before that sweep, but rose again. The savages
backed away from this threatening figure, and circled around it.
The noise of the other conflict ceased. More savages joined the
three who glided to and fro before their desperate foe. They closed
in upon him, only to be beaten back. One savage threw a glittering
knife, another hurled a stone, a third flung his tomahawk, which
struck fire from the swinging rifle.
He held them at bay. While they had no firearms he was master of the
situation. With every sweep of his arms he brought the long rifle
down and knocked a flint from the firelock of an enemy's weapon.
Soon the Indians' guns were useless. Slowly then he began to edge
away from the stone, toward the opening where he had seen the
fleeting form vanish.
His intention was to make a dash for life, for he had heard a noise
behind the rock, and remembered the guard. He saw the savages glance
behind him, and anticipated danger from that direction, but he must
not turn. A second there might be fatal. He backed defiantly along
the rock until he gained its outer edge. But too late! The Indians
glided before him, now behind him; he was surrounded. He turned
around and around, with the ever-circling rifle whirling in the
faces of the baffled foe.
Once opposite the lane leading from the glade he changed his
tactics, and plunged with fierce impetuosity into the midst of the
painted throng. Then began a fearful conflict. The Indians fell
before the sweep of his powerful arms; but grappled with him from
the ground. He literally plowed his way through the struggling mass,
warding off an hundred vicious blows. Savage after savage he flung
off, until at last he had a clear path before him. Freedom lay
beyond that shiny path. Into it he bounded.
As he left the glade the plumed guard stepped from behind a tree
near the entrance of the path, and cast his tomahawk.
A white, glittering flash, it flew after the fleeing runner; its aim
was true.
Suddenly the moonlight path darkened in the runner's sight; he saw a
million flashing stars; a terrible pain assailed him; he sank
slowly, slowly down; then all was darkness.