At last the fugitives breathed free under the gold and red cover of
the woods. Never speaking, never looking back, the guide hurried
eastward with long strides. His followers were almost forced to run
in order to keep him in sight. He had waited at the edge of the
clearing for them, and, relieving Jim of the heavy pack, which he
swung slightly over his shoulder, he set a pace that was most
difficult to maintain. The young missionary half led, half carried
Nell over the stones and rough places. Mr. Wells labored in the
rear.
"Oh! Jim! Look back! Look back! See if we are pursued!" cried Nell
frequently, with many a fearful glance into the dense thickets.
The Indian took a straight course through the woods. He leaped the
brooks, climbed the rough ridges, and swiftly trod the glades that
were free of windfalls. His hurry and utter disregard for the plain
trail left behind, proved his belief in the necessity of placing
many miles between the fugitives and the Village of Peace. Evidently
they would be followed, and it would be a waste of valuable time to
try to conceal their trail. Gradually the ground began to rise, the
way become more difficult, but Wingenund never slackened his pace.
Nell was strong, supple, and light of foot. She held her own with
Jim, but time and time again they were obliged to wait for her
uncle. Once he was far behind. Wingenund halted for them at the
height of a ridge where the forest was open.
"Ugh!" exclaimed the chieftain, as they finished the ascent. He
stretched a long arm toward the sun; his falcon eye gleamed.
Far in the west a great black and yellow cloud of smoke rolled
heavenward. It seemed to rise from out the forest, and to hang low
over the trees; then it soared aloft and grew thinner until it lost
its distinct line far in the clouds. The setting sun stood yet an
hour high over a distant hill, and burned dark red through the great
pall of smoke.
"Is it a forest fire?" asked Nell, fearfully.
"Fire, of course, but---" Jim did not voice his fear; he looked
closely at Wingenund.
The chieftain stood silent a moment as was his wont when addressed.
The dull glow of the sun was reflected in the dark eyes that gazed
far away over forest and field.
"Fire," said Wingenund, and it seemed that as he spoke a sterner
shadow flitted across his bronzed face. "The sun sets to-night over
the ashes of the Village of Peace."
He resumed his rapid march eastward. With never a backward glance
the saddened party followed. Nell kept close beside Jim, and the old
man tramped after them with bowed head. The sun set, but Wingenund
never slackened his stride. Twilight deepened, yet he kept on.
"Indian, we can go no further to-night, we must rest," cried Jim, as
Nell stumbled against him, and Mr. Wells panted wearily in the rear.
"Rest soon," replied the chief, and kept on.
Darkness had settled down when Wingenund at last halted. The
fugitives could see little in the gloom, but they heard the music of
running water, and felt soft moss beneath their feet.
They sank wearily down upon a projecting stone. The moss was restful
to their tired limbs. Opening the pack they found food with which to
satisfy the demands of hunger. Then, close under the stone, the
fugitives sank into slumber while the watchful Indian stood silent
and motionless.
Jim thought he had but just closed his eyes when he felt a gentle
pressure on his arm.
"Day is here," said the Indian.
Jim opened his eyes to see the bright red sun crimsoning the eastern
hills, and streaming gloriously over the colored forests. He raised
himself on his elbow to look around. Nell was still asleep. The
blanket was tucked close to her chin. Her chestnut hair was tumbled
like a schoolgirl's; she looked as fresh and sweet as the morning.
"Nell, Nell, wake up," said Jim, thinking the while how he would
love to kiss those white eyelids.
Nell's eyes opened wide; a smile lay deep in their hazel shadows.
"Where am I? Oh, I remember," she cried, sitting up. "Oh, Jim, I had
such a sweet dream. I was at home with mother and Kate. Oh, to wake
and find it all a dream! I am fleeing for life. But, Jim, we are
safe, are we not?"
"Another day, and we'll be safe."
"Let us fly," she cried, leaping up and shaking out her crumpled
skirt. "Uncle, come!"
Mr. Wells lay quietly with his mild blue eyes smiling up at her. He
neither moved nor spoke.
"Eat, drink," said the chief, opening the pack.
"What a beautiful place," exclaimed Nell, taking the bread and meat
handed to her. "This is a lovely little glade. Look at those golden
flowers, the red and purple leaves, the brown shining moss, and
those lichen-covered stones. Why! Some one has camped here. See the
little cave, the screens of plaited ferns, and the stone fireplace."
"It seems to me this dark spring and those gracefully spreading
branches are familiar," said Jim.
"Beautiful Spring," interposed Wingenund.
"Yes, I know this place," cried Nell excitedly. "I remember this
glade though it was moonlight when I saw it. Here Wetzel rescued me
from Girty."
"Nell, you're right," replied Jim. "How strange we should run across
this place again."
Strange fate, indeed, which had brought them again to Beautiful
Spring! It was destined that the great scenes of their lives were to
be enacted in this mossy glade.
"Come, uncle, you are lazy," cried Nell, a touch of her old
roguishness making playful her voice.
Mr. Wells lay still, and smiled up at them.
"You are not ill?" cried Nell, seeing for the first time how pallid
was his face.
"Dear Nellie, I am not ill. I do not suffer, but I am dying," he
answered, again with that strange, sweet smile.
"Oh-h-h!" breathed Nell, falling on her knees.
"No, no, Mr. Wells, you are only weak; you will be all right again
soon," cried Jim.
"Jim, Nellie, I have known all night. I have lain here wakeful. My
heart never was strong. It gave out yesterday, and now it is slowly
growing weaker. Put your hand on my breast. Feel. Ah! you see! My
life is flickering. God's will be done. I am content. My work is
finished. My only regret is that I brought you out to this terrible
borderland. But I did not know. If only I could see you safe from
the peril of this wilderness, at home, happy, married."
Nell bent over him blinded by her tears, unable to see or speak,
crushed by this last overwhelming blow. Jim sat on the other side of
the old missionary, holding his hand. For many moments neither
spoke. They glanced at the pale face, watching with eager, wistful
eyes for a smile, or listening for a word.
"Come," said the Indian.
Nell silently pointed toward her uncle.
"He is dying," whispered Jim to the Indian.
"Go, leave me," murmured Mr. Wells. "You are still in danger."
"We'll not leave you," cried Jim.
"No, no, no," sobbed Nell, bending over to kiss him.
"Nellie, may I marry you to Jim?" whispered Mr. Wells into her ear.
"He has told me how it is with him. He loves you, Nellie. I'd die
happier knowing I'd left you with him."
Even at that moment, with her heart almost breaking, Nell's fair
face flushed.
"Nell, will you marry me?" asked Jim, softly. Low though it was, he
had heard Mr. Wells' whisper.
Nell stretched a little trembling hand over her uncle to Jim, who
inclosed it in his own. Her eyes met his. Through her tears shone
faintly a light, which, but for the agony that made it dim, would
have beamed radiant.
"Find the place," said Mr. Wells, handing Jim a Bible. It was the
one he always carried in his pocket.
With trembling hand Jim turned the leaves. At last he found the
lines, and handed the book back to the old man.
Simple, sweet and sad was that marriage service. Nell and Jim knelt
with hands clasped over Mr. Wells. The old missionary's voice was
faint; Nell's responses were low, and Jim answered with deep and
tender feeling. Beside them stood Wingenund, a dark, magnificent
figure.
"There! May God bless you!" murmured Mr. Wells, with a happy smile,
closing the Bible.
"Nell, my wife!" whispered Jim, kissing her hand.
"Come!" broke in Wingenund's voice, deep, strong, like that of a
bell.
Not one of them had observed the chief as he stood erect,
motionless, poised like a stag scenting the air. His dark eyes
seemed to pierce the purple-golden forest, his keen ear seemed to
drink in the singing of the birds and the gentle rustling of leaves.
Native to these haunts as were the wild creatures, they were no
quicker than the Indian to feel the approach of foes. The breeze had
borne faint, suspicious sounds.
"Keep--the--Bible," said Mr. Wells, "remember--its--word." His hand
closely clasped Nell's, and then suddenly loosened. His pallid face
was lighted by a meaning, tender smile which slowly faded--faded,
and was gone. The venerable head fell back. The old missionary was
dead.
Nell kissed the pale, cold brow, and then rose, half dazed and
shuddering. Jim was vainly trying to close the dead man's eyes. She
could no longer look. On rising she found herself near the Indian
chief. He took her fingers in his great hand, and held them with a
strong, warm pressure. Strangely thrilled, she looked up at
Wingenund. His somber eyes, fixed piercingly on the forest, and his
dark stern face, were, as always, inscrutable. No compassion shone
there; no emotion unbefitting a chieftain would ever find expression
in that cold face, but Nell felt a certain tenderness in this
Indian, a response in his great heart. Felt it so surely, so
powerfully that she leaned her head against him. She knew he was her
friend.
"Come," said the chief once more. He gently put Nell aside before
Jim arose from his sad task.
"We can not leave him unburied," expostulated Jim.
Wingenund dragged aside a large stone which formed one wall of the
cavern. Then he grasped a log which was half covered by dirt, and,
exerting his great strength, pulled it from its place. There was a
crash, a rumble, the jar of a heavy weight striking the earth, then
the rattling of gravel, and, before Nell and Jim realized what had
happened, the great rock forming the roof of the cavern slipped down
the bank followed by a small avalanche. The cavern was completely
covered. Mr. Wells was buried. A mossy stone marked the old
missionary's grave.
Nell and Jim were lost in wonder and awe.
"Ugh!" cried the chief, looking toward the opening in the glade.
Fearfully Nell and Jim turned, to be appalled by four naked, painted
savages standing with leveled rifles. Behind them stood Deering and
Jim Girty.
"Oh, God! We are lost! Lost! Lost!" exclaimed Jim, unable to command
himself. Hope died in his heart.
No cry issued from Nell's white lips. She was dazed by this final
blow. Having endured so much, this last misfortune, apparently the
ruin of her life, brought no added suffering, only a strange, numb
feeling.
"Ah-huh! Thought you'd give me the slip, eh?" croaked Girty,
striding forward, and as he looked at Wingenund his little, yellow
eyes flared like flint. "Does a wolf befriend Girty's captives?
Chief you hev led me a hard chase."
Wingenund deigned no reply. He stood as he did so often, still and
silent, with folded arms, and a look that was haughty, unresponsive.
The Indians came forward into the glade, and one of them quickly
bound Jim's hands behind his back. The savages wore a wild, brutish
look. A feverish ferocity, very near akin to insanity, possessed
them. They were not quiet a moment, but ran here and there, for no
apparent reason, except, possibly, to keep in action with the raging
fire in their hearts. The cleanliness which characterized the normal
Indian was absent in them; their scant buckskin dress was bedraggled
and stained. They were still drunk with rum and the lust for blood.
Murder gleamed from the glance of their eyes.
"Jake, come over here," said Girty to his renegade friend. "Ain't
she a prize?"
Girty and Deering stood before the poor, stricken girl, and gloated
over her fair beauty. She stood as when first transfixed by the
horror from which she had been fleeing. Her pale face was lowered,
her hands clenched tightly in the folds of her skirt.
Never before had two such coarse, cruel fiends as Deering and Girty
encumbered the earth. Even on the border, where the best men were
bad, they were the worst. Deering was yet drunk, but Girty had
recovered somewhat from the effects of the rum he had absorbed. The
former rolled his big eyes and nodded his shaggy head. He was
passing judgment, from his point of view, on the fine points of the
girl.
"She cer'aintly is," he declared with a grin. "She's a little
beauty. Beats any I ever seen!"
Jim Girty stroked his sharp chin with dirty fingers. His yellow
eyes, his burnt saffron skin, his hooked nose, his thin lips--all
his evil face seemed to shine with an evil triumph. To look at him
was painful. To have him gaze at her was enough to drive any woman
mad.
Dark stains spotted the bright frills of his gaudy dress, his
buckskin coat and leggins, and dotted his white eagle plumes. Dark
stains, horribly suggestive, covered him from head to foot. Blood
stains! The innocent blood of Christians crimsoned his renegade's
body, and every dark red blotch cried murder.
"Girl, I burned the Village of Peace to git you," growled Girty.
"Come here!"
With a rude grasp that tore open her dress, exposing her beautiful
white shoulder and bosom, the ruffian pulled her toward him. His
face was transfixed with a fierce joy, a brutal passion.
Deering looked on with a drunken grin, while his renegade friend
hugged the almost dying girl. The Indians paced the glade with short
strides like leashed tigers. The young missionary lay on the moss
with closed eyes. He could not endure the sight of Nell in Girty's
arms.
No one noticed Wingenund. He stood back a little, half screened by
drooping branches. Once again the chief's dark eyes gleamed, his
head turned a trifle aside, and, standing in the statuesque position
habitual with him when resting, he listened, as one who hears
mysterious sounds. Suddenly his keen glance was riveted on the ferns
above the low cliff. He had seen their graceful heads quivering.
Then two blinding sheets of flame burst from the ferns.
Spang! Spang!
The two rifle reports thundered through the glade. Two Indians
staggered and fell in their tracks--dead without a cry.
A huge yellow body, spread out like a panther in his spring,
descended with a crash upon Deering and Girty. The girl fell away
from the renegade as he went down with a shrill screech, dragging
Deering with him. Instantly began a terrific, whirling, wrestling
struggle.
A few feet farther down the cliff another yellow body came crashing
down to alight with a thud, to bound erect, to rush forward swift as
a leaping deer. The two remaining Indians had only time to draw
their weapons before this lithe, threatening form whirled upon them.
Shrill cries, hoarse yells, the clash of steel and dull blows
mingled together. One savage went down, twisted over, writhed and
lay still. The other staggered, warded off lightninglike blows until
one passed under his guard, and crashed dully on his head. Then he
reeled, rose again, but only to have his skull cloven by a bloody
tomahawk.
The victor darted toward the whirling mass.
"Lew, shake him loose! Let him go!" yelled Jonathan Zane, swinging
his bloody weapon.
High above Zane's cry, Deering's shouts and curses, Girty's shrieks
of fear and fury, above the noise of wrestling bodies and dull
blows, rose a deep booming roar.
It was Wetzel's awful cry of vengeance.
"Shake him loose," yelled Jonathan.
Baffled, he ran wildly around the wrestlers. Time and time again his
gory tomahawk was raised only to be lowered. He found no opportunity
to strike. Girty's ghastly countenance gleamed at him from the whirl
of legs, and arms and bodies. Then Wetzel's dark face, lighted by
merciless eyes, took its place, and that gave way to Deering's broad
features. The men being clad alike in buckskin, and their motions so
rapid, prevented Zane from lending a helping hand.
Suddenly Deering was propelled from the mass as if by a catapult.
His body straightened as it came down with a heavy thud. Zane
pounced upon it with catlike quickness. Once more he swung aloft the
bloody hatchet; then once more he lowered it, for there was no need
to strike. The renegade's side was torn open from shoulder to hip. A
deluge of blood poured out upon the moss. Deering choked, a bloody
froth formed on his lips. His fingers clutched at nothing. His eyes
rolled violently and then were fixed in an awful stare.
The girl lying so quiet in the woods near the old hut was avenged!
Jonathan turned again to Wetzel and Girty, not with any intention to
aid the hunter, but simply to witness the end of the struggle.
Without the help of the powerful Deering, how pitifully weak was the
Deathshead of the frontier in the hands of the Avenger!
Jim Girty's tomahawk was thrown in one direction and his knife in
another. He struggled vainly in the iron grip that held him.
Wetzel rose to his feet clutching the renegade. With his left arm,
which had been bared in the fight, he held Girty by the front of his
buckskin shirt, and dragged him to that tree which stood alone in
the glade. He pushed him against it, and held him there.
The white dog leaped and snarled around the prisoner.
Girty's hands pulled and tore at the powerful arm which forced him
hard against the beech. It was a brown arm, and huge with its
bulging, knotted, rigid muscles. A mighty arm, strong as the justice
which ruled it.
"Girty, thy race is run!" Wetzel's voice cut the silence like a
steel whip.
The terrible, ruthless smile, the glittering eyes of doom seemed
literally to petrify the renegade.
The hunter's right arm rose slowly. The knife in his hand quivered
as if with eagerness. The long blade, dripping with Deering's blood,
pointed toward the hilltop.
"Look thar! See 'em! Thar's yer friends!" cried Wetzel.
On the dead branches of trees standing far above the hilltop, were
many great, dark birds. They sat motionless as if waiting.
"Buzzards! Buzzards!" hissed Wetzel.
Girty's ghastly face became an awful thing to look upon. No living
countenance ever before expressed such fear, such horror, such
agony. He foamed at the mouth, he struggled, he writhed. With a
terrible fascination he watched that quivering, dripping blade, now
poised high.
Wetzel's arm swung with the speed of a shooting star. He drove the
blade into Girty's groin, through flesh and bone, hard and fast into
the tree. He nailed the renegade to the beech, there to await his
lingering doom.
"Ah-h! Ah-h! Ah-h!" shrieked Girty, in cries of agony. He fumbled
and pulled at the haft of the knife, but could not loosen it. He
beat his breast, he tore his hair. His screams were echoed from the
hilltop as if in mockery.
The white dog stood near, his hair bristling, his teeth snapping.
The dark birds sat on the dead branches above the hilltop, as if
waiting for their feast.