Joe awoke as from a fearsome nightmare. Returning consciousness
brought a vague idea that he had been dreaming of clashing weapons,
of yelling savages, of a conflict in which he had been clutched by
sinewy fingers. An acute pain pulsed through his temples; a bloody
mist glazed his eyes; a sore pressure cramped his arms and legs.
Surely he dreamed this distress, as well as the fight. The red film
cleared from his eyes. His wandering gaze showed the stern reality.
The bright sun, making the dewdrops glisten on the leaves, lighted
up a tragedy. Near him lay an Indian whose vacant, sightless eyes
were fixed in death. Beyond lay four more savages, the peculiar,
inert position of whose limbs, the formlessness, as it were, as if
they had been thrown from a great height and never moved again,
attested that here, too, life had been extinguished. Joe took in
only one detail--the cloven skull of the nearest--when he turned
away sickened. He remembered it all now. The advance, the rush, the
fight--all returned. He saw again Wetzel's shadowy form darting like
a demon into the whirl of conflict; he heard again that hoarse,
booming roar with which the Avenger accompanied his blows. Joe's
gaze swept the glade, but found no trace of the hunter.
He saw Silvertip and another Indian bathing a wound on Girty's head.
The renegade groaned and writhed in pain. Near him lay Kate, with
white face and closed eyes. She was unconscious, or dead. Jim sat
crouched under a tree to which he was tied.
"Joe, are you badly hurt?" asked the latter, in deep solicitude.
"No, I guess not; I don't know," answered Joe. "Is poor Kate dead?"
"No, she has fainted."
"Where's Nell?"
"Gone," replied Jim, lowering his voice, and glancing at the
Indians. They were too busy trying to bandage Girty's head to pay
any attention to their prisoners. "That whirlwind was Wetzel, wasn't
it?"
"Yes; how'd you know?"
"I was awake last night. I had an oppressive feeling, perhaps a
presentiment. Anyway, I couldn't sleep. I heard that wind blow
through the forest, and thought my blood would freeze. The moan is
the same as the night wind, the same soft sigh, only louder and
somehow pregnant with superhuman power. To speak of it in broad
daylight one seems superstitious, but to hear it in the darkness of
this lonely forest, it is fearful! I hope I am not a coward; I
certainly know I was deathly frightened. No wonder I was scared!
Look at these dead Indians, all killed in a moment. I heard the
moan; I saw Silvertip disappear, and the other two savages rise.
Then something huge dropped from the rock; a bright object seemed to
circle round the savages; they uttered one short yell, and sank to
rise no more. Somehow at once I suspected that this shadowy form,
with its lightninglike movements, its glittering hatchet, was
Wetzel. When he plunged into the midst of the other savages I
distinctly recognized him, and saw that he had a bundle, possibly
his coat, wrapped round his left arm, and his right hand held the
glittering tomahawk. I saw him strike that big Indian there, the one
lying with split skull. His wonderful daring and quickness seemed to
make the savages turn at random. He broke through the circle, swung
Nell under his arm, slashed at my bonds as he passed by, and then
was gone as he had come. Not until after you were struck, and
Silvertip came up to me, was I aware my bonds were cut. Wetzel's
hatchet had severed them; it even cut my side, which was bleeding. I
was free to help, to fight, and I did not know it. Fool that I am!"
"I made an awful mess of my part of the rescue," groaned Joe. "I
wonder if the savages know it was Wetzel."
"Do they? Well, I rather think so. Did you not hear them scream that
French name? As far as I am able to judge, only two Indians were
killed instantly. The others died during the night. I had to sit
here, tied and helpless, listening as they groaned and called the
name of their slayer, even in their death-throes. Deathwind! They
have named him well."
"I guess he nearly killed Girty."
"Evidently, but surely the evil one protects the renegade."
"Jim Girty's doomed," whispered Joe, earnestly. "He's as good as
dead already. I've lived with Wetzel, and know him. He told me Girty
had murdered a settler, a feeble old man, who lived near Fort Henry
with his son. The hunter has sworn to kill the renegade; but, mind
you, he did not tell me that. I saw it in his eyes. It wouldn't
surprise me to see him jump out of these bushes at any moment. I'm
looking for it. If he knows there are only three left, he'll be
after them like a hound on a trail. Girty must hurry. Where's he
taking you?"
"To the Delaware town."
"I don't suppose the chiefs will let any harm befall you; but Kate
and I would be better off dead. If we can only delay the march,
Wetzel will surely return."
"Hush! Girty's up."
The renegade staggered to an upright position, and leaned on the
Shawnee's arm. Evidently he had not been seriously injured, only
stunned. Covered with blood from a swollen, gashed lump on his
temple, he certainly presented a savage appearance.
"Where's the yellow-haired lass?" he demanded, pushing away
Silvertip's friendly arm. He glared around the glade. The Shawnee
addressed him briefly, whereupon he raged to and fro under the tree,
cursing with foam-flecked lips, and actually howling with baffled
rage. His fury was so great that he became suddenly weak, and was
compelled to sit down.
"She's safe, you villainous renegade!" cried Joe.
"Hush, Joe! Do not anger him. It can do no good," interposed Jim.
"Why not? We couldn't be worse off," answered Joe.
"I'll git her, I'll git her agin," panted Girty. "I'll keep her, an'
she'll love me."
The spectacle of this perverted wretch speaking as if he had been
cheated out of love was so remarkable, so pitiful, so monstrous,
that for a moment Joe was dumbfounded.
"Bah! You white-livered murderer!" Joe hissed. He well knew it was
not wise to give way to his passion; but he could not help it. This
beast in human guise, whining for love, maddened him. "Any white
woman on earth would die a thousand deaths and burn for a million
years afterward rather than love you!"
"I'll see you killed at the stake, beggin' fer mercy, an' be feed
fer buzzards," croaked the renegade.
"Then kill me now, or you may slip up on one of your cherished
buzzard-feasts," cried Joe, with glinting eye and taunting voice.
"Then go sneaking back to your hole like a hyena, and stay there.
Wetzel is on your trail! He missed you last night; but it was
because of the girl. He's after you, Girty; he'll get you one of
these days, and when he does--My God!---"
Nothing could be more revolting than that swarthy, evil face turned
pale with fear. Girty's visage was a ghastly, livid white. So
earnest, so intense was Joe's voice, that it seemed to all as if
Wetzel was about to dart into the glade, with his avenging tomahawk
uplifted to wreak an awful vengeance on the abductor. The renegade's
white, craven heart contained no such thing as courage. If he ever
fought it was like a wolf, backed by numbers. The resemblance ceased
here, for even a cornered wolf will show his teeth, and Girty,
driven to bay, would have cringed and cowered. Even now at the
mention of Wetzel's enmity he trembled.
"I'll shet yer wind," he cried, catching up his tomahawk and making
for Joe.
Silvertip intervened, and prevented the assault. He led Girty back
to his seat and spoke low, evidently trying to soothe the renegade's
feelings.
"Silvertip, give me a tomahawk, and let me fight him," implored Joe.
"Paleface brave--like Injun chief. Paleface Shawnee's prisoner--no
speak more," answered Silvertip, with respect in his voice.
"Oh, where's Nellie?"
A grief-stricken whisper caught Jim's ear. He turned to see Kate's
wide, questioning eyes fixed upon him.
"Nell was rescued."
"Thank God!" murmured the girl.
"Come along," shouted Girty, in his harsh voice, as, grasping Kate's
arm, he pulled the girl violently to her feet. Then, picking up his
rifle, he led her into the forest. Silvertip followed with Joe,
while the remaining Indian guarded Jim.
* * *
The great council-lodge of the Delawares rang with savage and fiery
eloquence. Wingenund paced slowly before the orators. Wise as he
was, he wanted advice before deciding what was to be done with the
missionary. The brothers had been taken to the chief, who
immediately called a council. The Indians sat in a half circle
around the lodge. The prisoners, with hands bound, guarded by two
brawny braves, stood in one corner gazing with curiosity and
apprehension at this formidable array. Jim knew some of the braves,
but the majority of those who spoke bitterly against the palefaces
had never frequented the Village of Peace. Nearly all were of the
Wolf tribe of Delawares. Jim whispered to Joe, interpreting that
part of the speeches bearing upon the disposal to be made of them.
Two white men, dressed in Indian garb, held prominent positions
before Wingenund. The boys saw a resemblance between one of these
men and Jim Girty, and accordingly concluded he was the famous
renegade, or so-called white Indian, Simon Girty. The other man was
probably Elliott, the Tory, with whom Girty had deserted from Fort
Pitt. Jim Girty was not present. Upon nearing the encampment he had
taken his captive and disappeared in a ravine.
Shingiss, seldom in favor of drastic measures with prisoners,
eloquently urged initiating the brothers into the tribe. Several
other chiefs were favorably inclined, though not so positive as
Shingiss. Kotoxen was for the death penalty; the implacable Pipe for
nothing less than burning at the stake. Not one was for returning
the missionary to his Christian Indians. Girty and Elliott, though
requested to speak, maintained an ominous silence.
Wingenund strode with thoughtful mien before his council. He had
heard all his wise chiefs and his fiery warriors. Supreme was his
power. Freedom or death for the captives awaited the wave of his
hand. His impassive face gave not the slightest inkling of what to
expect. Therefore the prisoners were forced to stand there with
throbbing hearts while the chieftain waited the customary dignified
interval before addressing the council.
"Wingenund has heard the Delaware wise men and warriors. The white
Indian opens not his lips; his silence broods evil for the
palefaces. Pipe wants the blood of the white men; the Shawnee chief
demands the stake. Wingenund says free the white father who harms no
Indian. Wingenund hears no evil in the music of his voice. The white
father's brother should die. Kill the companion of Deathwind!"
A plaintive murmur, remarkable when coming from an assembly of
stern-browed chiefs, ran round the circle at the mention of the
dread appellation.
"The white father is free," continued Wingenund. "Let one of my
runners conduct him to the Village of Peace."
A brave entered and touched Jim on the shoulder.
Jim shook his head and pointed to Joe. The runner touched Joe.
"No, no. I am not the missionary," cried Joe, staring aghast at his
brother. "Jim, have you lost your senses?"
Jim sadly shook his head, and turning to Wingenund made known in a
broken Indian dialect that his brother was the missionary, and would
sacrifice himself, taking this opportunity to practice the
Christianity he had taught.
"The white father is brave, but he is known," broke in Wingenund's
deep voice, while he pointed to the door of the lodge. "Let him go
back to his Christian Indians."
The Indian runner cut Joe's bonds, and once more attempted to lead
him from the lodge. Rage and misery shown in the lad's face. He
pushed the runner aside. He exhausted himself trying to explain, to
think of Indian words enough to show he was not the missionary. He
even implored Girty to speak for him. When the renegade sat there
stolidly silent Joe's rage burst out.
"Curse you all for a lot of ignorant redskins. I am not a
missionary. I am Deathwind's friend. I killed a Delaware. I was the
companion of Le Vent de la Mort!"
Joe's passionate vehemence, and the truth that spoke from his
flashing eyes compelled the respect, if not the absolute belief of
the Indians. The savages slowly shook their heads. They beheld the
spectacle of two brothers, one a friend, the other an enemy of all
Indians, each willing to go to the stake, to suffer an awful agony,
for love of the other. Chivalrous deeds always stir an Indian's
heart. It was like a redman to die for his brother. The
indifference, the contempt for death, won their admiration.
"Let the white father stand forth," sternly called Wingenund.
A hundred somber eyes turned on the prisoners. Except that one wore
a buckskin coat, the other a linsey one, there was no difference.
The strong figures were the same, the white faces alike, the stern
resolve in the gray eyes identical--they were twin brothers.
Wingenund once more paced before his silent chiefs. To deal rightly
with this situation perplexed him. To kill both palefaces did not
suit him. Suddenly he thought of a way to decide.
"Let Wingenund's daughter come," he ordered.
A slight, girlish figure entered. It was Whispering Winds. Her
beautiful face glowed while she listened to her father.
"Wingenund's daughter has her mother's eyes, that were beautiful as
a doe's, keen as a hawk's, far-seeing as an eagle's. Let the
Delaware maiden show her blood. Let her point out the white father."
Shyly but unhesitatingly Whispering Winds laid her hand Jim's arm.
"Missionary, begone!" came the chieftain's command. "Thank
Wingenund's daughter for your life, not the God of your Christians!"
He waved his hand to the runner. The brave grasped Jim's arm.
"Good-by, Joe," brokenly said Jim.
"Old fellow, good-by," came the answer.
They took one last, long look into each others' eyes. Jim's glance
betrayed his fear--he would never see his brother again. The light
in Joe's eyes was the old steely flash, the indomitable
spirit--while there was life there was hope.
"Let the Shawnee chief paint his prisoner black," commanded
Wingenund.
When the missionary left the lodge with the runner, Whispering Winds
had smiled, for she had saved him whom she loved to hear speak; but
the dread command that followed paled her cheek. Black paint meant
hideous death. She saw this man so like the white father. Her
piteous gaze tried to turn from that white face; but the cold,
steely eyes fascinated her.
She had saved one only to be the other's doom!
She had always been drawn toward white men. Many prisoners had she
rescued. She had even befriended her nation's bitter foe, Deathwind.
She had listened to the young missionary with rapture; she had been
his savior. And now when she looked into the eyes of this young
giant, whose fate had rested on her all unwitting words, she
resolved to save him.
She had been a shy, shrinking creature, fearing to lift her eyes to
a paleface's, but now they were raised clear and steadfast.
As she stepped toward the captive and took his hand, her whole
person radiated with conscious pride in her power. It was the
knowledge that she could save. When she kissed his hand, and knelt
before him, she expressed a tender humility.
She had claimed questionable right of an Indian maiden; she asked
what no Indian dared refuse a chief's daughter; she took the
paleface for her husband.
Her action was followed by an impressive silence. She remained
kneeling. Wingenund resumed his slow march to and fro. Silvertip
retired to his corner with gloomy face. The others bowed their heads
as if the maiden's decree was irrevocable.
Once more the chieftain's sonorous command rang out. An old Indian,
wrinkled and worn, weird of aspect, fanciful of attire, entered the
lodge and waved his wampum wand. He mumbled strange words, and
departed chanting a long song.
Whispering Winds arose, a soft, radiant smile playing over her face,
and, still holding Joe's hand, she led him out of the lodge, through
long rows of silent Indians, down a land bordered by teepees, he
following like one in a dream.
He expected to awaken at any minute to see the stars shining through
the leaves. Yet he felt the warm, soft pressure of a little hand.
Surely this slender, graceful figure was real.
She bade him enter a lodge of imposing proportions. Still silent, in
amazement and gratitude, he obeyed.
The maiden turned to Joe. Though traces of pride still lingered, all
her fire had vanished. Her bosom rose with each quick-panting
breath; her lips quivered, she trembled like a trapped doe.
But at last the fluttering lashes rose. Joe saw two velvety eyes
dark with timid fear, yet veiling in their lustrous depths an
unuttered hope and love.
"Whispering Winds--save--paleface," she said, in a voice low and
tremulous. "Fear--father. Fear--tell--Wingenund--she--Christian."
* * *
Indian summer, that enchanted time, unfolded its golden, dreamy haze
over the Delaware village. The forests blazed with autumn fire, the
meadows boomed in rich luxuriance. All day low down in the valleys
hung a purple smoke which changed, as the cool evening shades crept
out of the woodland, into a cloud of white mist. All day the asters
along the brooks lifted golden-brown faces to the sun as if to catch
the warning warmth of his smile. All day the plains and forests lay
in melancholy repose. The sad swish of the west wind over the tall
grass told that he was slowly dying away before his enemy, the north
wind. The sound of dropping nuts was heard under the motionless
trees.
For Joe the days were days of enchantment. His wild heart had found
its mate. A willing captive he was now. All his fancy for other
women, all his memories faded into love for his Indian bride.
Whispering Winds charmed the eye, mind, and heart. Every day her
beauty seemed renewed. She was as apt to learn as she was quick to
turn her black-crowned head, but her supreme beauty was her loving,
innocent soul. Untainted as the clearest spring, it mirrored the
purity and simplicity of her life. Indian she might be, one of a
race whose morals and manners were alien to the man she loved, yet
she would have added honor to the proudest name.
When Whispering Winds raised her dark eyes they showed radiant as a
lone star; when she spoke low her voice made music.
"Beloved," she whispered one day to him, "teach the Indian maiden
more love for you, and truth, and God. Whispering Winds yearns to go
to the Christians, but she fears her stern father. Wingenund would
burn the Village of Peace. The Indian tribes tremble before the
thunder of his wrath. Be patient, my chief. Time changes the leaves,
so it will the anger of the warriors. Whispering Winds will set you
free, and be free herself to go far with you toward the rising sun,
where dwell your people. She will love, and be constant, as the
northern star. Her love will be an eternal spring where blossoms
bloom ever anew, and fresh, and sweet. She will love your people,
and raise Christian children, and sit ever in the door of your home
praying for the west wind to blow. Or, if my chief wills, we shall
live the Indian life, free as two eagles on their lonely crag."
Although Joe gave himself up completely to his love for his bride,
he did not forget that Kate was in the power of the renegade, and
that he must rescue her. Knowing Girty had the unfortunate girls
somewhere near the Delaware encampment, he resolved to find the
place. Plans of all kinds he resolved in his mind. The best one he
believed lay through Whispering Winds. First to find the whereabouts
of Girty; kill him if possible, or at least free Kate, and then get
away with her and his Indian bride. Sanguine as he invariably was,
he could not but realize the peril of this undertaking. If
Whispering Winds betrayed her people, it meant death to her as well
as to him. He would far rather spend the remaining days of his life
in the Indian village, than doom the maiden whose love had saved
him. Yet he thought he might succeed in getting away with her, and
planned to that end. His natural spirit, daring, reckless, had
gained while he was associated with Wetzel.
Meanwhile he mingled freely with the Indians, and here, as
elsewhere, his winning personality, combined with his athletic
prowess, soon made him well liked. He was even on friendly terms
with Pipe. The swarthy war chief liked Joe because, despite the
animosity he had aroused in some former lovers of Whispering Winds,
he actually played jokes on them. In fact, Joe's pranks raised many
a storm; but the young braves who had been suitors for Wingenund's
lovely daughter, feared the muscular paleface, and the tribe's
ridicule more; so he continued his trickery unmolested. Joe's idea
was to lead the savages to believe he was thoroughly happy in his
new life, and so he was, but it suited him better to be free. He
succeeded in misleading the savages. At first he was closely
watched, the vigilance relaxed, and finally ceased.
This last circumstance was owing, no doubt, to a ferment of
excitement that had suddenly possessed the Delawares. Council after
council was held in the big lodge. The encampment was visited by
runner after runner. Some important crisis was pending.
Joe could not learn what it all meant, and the fact that Whispering
Winds suddenly lost her gladsome spirit and became sad caused him
further anxiety. When he asked her the reason for her unhappiness,
she was silent. Moreover, he was surprised to learn, when he
questioned her upon the subject of their fleeing together, that she
was eager to go immediately. While all this mystery puzzled Joe, it
did not make any difference to him or in his plans. It rather
favored the latter. He understood that the presence of Simon Girty
and Elliott, with several other renegades unknown to him, was
significant of unrest among the Indians. These presagers of evil
were accustomed to go from village to village, exciting the savages
to acts of war. Peace meant the downfall and death of these men.
They were busy all day and far into the night. Often Joe heard
Girty's hoarse voice lifted in the council lodge. Pipe thundered
incessantly for war. But Joe could not learn against whom. Elliott's
suave, oily oratory exhorted the Indians to vengeance. But Joe could
not guess upon whom. He was, however, destined to learn.
The third day of the councils a horseman stopped before Whispering
Winds' lodge, and called out. Stepping to the door, Joe saw a white
man, whose dark, keen, handsome face seemed familiar. Yet Joe knew
he had never seen this stalwart man.
"A word with you," said the stranger. His tone was curt,
authoritative, as that of a man used to power.
"As many as you like. Who are you?"
"I am Isaac Zane. Are you Wetzel's companion, or the renegade
Deering?"
"I am not a renegade any more than you are. I was rescued by the
Indian girl, who took me as her husband," said Joe coldly. He was
surprised, and did not know what to make of Zane's manner.
"Good! I'm glad to meet you," instantly replied Zane, his tone and
expression changing. He extended his hand to Joe. "I wanted to be
sure. I never saw the renegade Deering. He is here now. I am on my
way to the Wyandot town. I have been to Fort Henry, where my brother
told me of you and the missionaries. When I arrived here I heard
your story from Simon Girty. If you can, you must get away from
here. If I dared I'd take you to the Huron village, but it's
impossible. Go, while you have a chance."
"Zane, I thank you. I've suspected something was wrong. What is it?"
"Couldn't be worse," whispered Zane, glancing round to see if they
were overheard. "Girty and Elliott, backed by this Deering, are
growing jealous of the influence of Christianity on the Indians.
They are plotting against the Village of Peace. Tarhe, the Huron
chief, has been approached, and asked to join in a concerted
movement against religion. Seemingly it is not so much the
missionaries as the converted Indians, that the renegades are fuming
over. They know if the Christian savages are killed, the strength of
the missionaries' hold will be forever broken. Pipe is wild for
blood. These renegades are slowly poisoning the minds of the few
chiefs who are favorably disposed. The outlook is bad! bad!"
"What can I do?"
"Cut out for yourself. Get away, if you can, with a gun. Take the
creek below, follow the current down to the Ohio, and then make east
for Fort Henry.
"But I want to rescue the white girl Jim Girty has concealed here
somewhere."
"Impossible! Don't attempt it unless you want to throw your life
away. Buzzard Jim, as we call Girty, is a butcher; he has probably
murdered the girl."
"I won't leave without trying. And there's my wife, the Indian girl
who saved me. Zane, she's a Christian. She wants to go with me. I
can't leave her."
"I am warning you, that's all. If I were you I'd never leave without
a try to find the white girl, and I'd never forsake my Indian bride.
I've been through the same thing. You must be a good woodsman, or
Wetzel wouldn't have let you stay with him. Pick out a favorable
time and make the attempt. I suggest you make your Indian girl show
you where Girty is. She knows, but is afraid to tell you, for she
fears Girty. Get your dog and horse from the Shawnee. That's a fine
horse. He can carry you both to safety. Take him away from
Silvertip."
"How?"
"Go right up and demand your horse and dog. Most of these Delawares
are honest, for all their blood-shedding and cruelty. With them
might is right. The Delawares won't try to get your horse for you;
but they'll stick to you when you assert your rights. They don't
like the Shawnee, anyhow. If Silvertip refuses to give you the
horse, grab him before he can draw a weapon, and beat him good.
You're big enough to do it. The Delawares will be tickled to see you
pound him. He's thick with Girty; that's why he lays round here.
Take my word, it's the best way. Do it openly, and no one will
interfere."
"By Heavens, Zane, I'll give him a drubbing. I owe him one, and am
itching to get hold of him."
"I must go now. I shall send a Wyandot runner to your brother at the
village. They shall be warned. Good-by. Good luck. May we meet
again."
Joe watched Zane ride swiftly down the land and disappear in the
shrubbery. Whispering Winds came to the door of the lodge. She
looked anxiously at him. He went within, drawing her along with him,
and quickly informed her that he had learned the cause of the
council, that he had resolved to get away, and she must find out
Girty's hiding place. Whispering Winds threw herself into his arms,
declaring with an energy and passion unusual to her, that she would
risk anything for him. She informed Joe that she knew the direction
from which Girty always returned to the village. No doubt she could
find his retreat. With a cunning that showed her Indian nature, she
suggested a plan which Joe at once saw was excellent. After Joe got
his horse, she would ride around the village, then off into the
woods, where she could leave the horse and return to say he had run
away from her. As was their custom during afternoons, they would
walk leisurely along the brook, and, trusting to the excitement
created by the councils, get away unobserved. Find the horse, if
possible rescue the prisoner, and then travel east with all speed.
Joe left the lodge at once to begin the working out of the plan.
Luck favored him at the outset, for he met Silvertip before the
council lodge. The Shawnee was leading Lance, and the dog followed
at his heels. The spirit of Mose had been broken. Poor dog, Joe
thought, he had been beaten until he was afraid to wag his tail at
his old master. Joe's resentment blazed into fury, but he kept cool
outwardly.
Right before a crowd of Indians waiting for the council to begin,
Joe planted himself in front of the Shawnee, barring his way.
"Silvertip has the paleface's horse and dog," said Joe, in a loud
voice.
The chief stared haughtily while the other Indians sauntered nearer.
They all knew how the Shawnee had got the animals, and now awaited
the outcome of the white man's challenge.
"Paleface--heap--liar," growled the Indian. His dark eyes glowed
craftily, while his hand dropped, apparently in careless habit, to
the haft of his tomahawk.
Joe swung his long arm; his big fist caught the Shawnee on the jaw,
sending him to the ground. Uttering a frightful yell, Silvertip drew
his weapon and attempted to rise, but the moment's delay in seizing
the hatchet, was fatal to his design. Joe was upon him with
tigerlike suddenness. One kick sent the tomahawk spinning, another
landed the Shawnee again on the ground. Blind with rage, Silvertip
leaped up, and without a weapon rushed at his antagonist; but the
Indian was not a boxer, and he failed to get his hands on Joe.
Shifty and elusive, the lad dodged around the struggling savage.
One, two, three hard blows staggered Silvertip, and a fourth,
delivered with the force of Joe's powerful arm, caught the Indian
when he was off his balance, and felled him, battered and bloody, on
the grass. The surrounding Indians looked down at the vanquished
Shawnee, expressing their approval in characteristic grunts.
With Lance prancing proudly, and Mose leaping lovingly beside him,
Joe walked back to his lodge. Whispering Winds sprang to meet him
with joyful face. She had feared the outcome of trouble with the
Shawnee, but no queen ever bestowed upon returning victorious lord a
loftier look of pride, a sweeter glance of love, than the Indian
maiden bent upon her lover.
Whispering Winds informed Joe that an important council was to be
held that afternoon. It would be wise for them to make the attempt
to get away immediately after the convening of the chiefs.
Accordingly she got upon Lance and rode him up and down the village
lane, much to the pleasure of the watching Indians. She scattered
the idle crowds on the grass plots, she dashed through the side
streets, and let every one in the encampment see her clinging to the
black stallion. Then she rode him out along the creek. Accustomed to
her imperious will, the Indians thought nothing unusual. When she
returned an hour later, with flying hair and disheveled costume, no
one paid particular attention to her.
That afternoon Joe and his bride were the favored of fortune. With
Mose running before them, they got clear of the encampment and into
the woods. Once in the forest Whispering Winds rapidly led the way
east. When they climbed to the top of a rocky ridge she pointed down
into a thicket before her, saying that somewhere in this dense
hollow was Girty's hut. Joe hesitated about taking Mose. He wanted
the dog, but in case he had to run it was necessary Whispering Winds
should find his trail, and for this he left the dog with her.
He started down the ridge, and had not gone a hundred paces when
over some gray boulders he saw the thatched roof of a hut. So wild
and secluded was the spot, that he would never have discovered the
cabin from any other point than this, which he had been so fortunate
as to find.
His study and practice under Wetzel now stood him in good stead. He
picked out the best path over the rough stones and through the
brambles, always keeping under cover. He stepped as carefully as if
the hunter was behind him. Soon he reached level ground. A dense
laurel thicket hid the cabin, but he knew the direction in which it
lay. Throwing himself flat on the ground, he wormed his way through
the thicket, carefully, yet swiftly, because he knew there was no
time to lose. Finally the rear of the cabin stood in front of him.
It was made of logs, rudely hewn, and as rudely thrown together. In
several places clay had fallen from chinks between the timbers,
leaving small holes. Like a snake Joe slipped close to the hut.
Raising his head he looked through one of the cracks.
Instantly he shrank back into the grass, shivering with horror. He
almost choked in his attempt to prevent an outcry.