Zane turned and cut the young missionary's bonds. Jim ran to where
Nell was lying on the ground, and tenderly raised her head, calling
to her that they were saved. Zane bathed the girl's pale face.
Presently she sighed and opened her eyes.
Then Zane looked from the statuelike form of Wingenund to the
motionless figure of Wetzel. The chief stood erect with his eyes on
the distant hills. Wetzel remained with folded arms, his cold eyes
fixed upon the writhing, moaning renegade.
"Lew, look here," said Zane, unhesitatingly, and pointed toward the
chief.
Wetzel quivered as if sharply stung; the cold glitter in his eyes
changed to lurid fire. With upraised tomahawk he bounded across the
brook.
"Lew, wait a minute!" yelled Zane.
"Wetzel! wait, wait!" cried Jim, grasping the hunter's arm; but the
latter flung him off, as the wind tosses a straw.
"Wetzel, wait, for God's sake, wait!" screamed Nell. She had risen
at Zane's call, and now saw the deadly resolve in the hunter's eyes.
Fearlessly she flung herself in front of him; bravely she risked her
life before his mad rush; frantically she threw her arms around him
and clung to his hands desperately.
Wetzel halted; frenzied as he was at the sight of his foe, he could
not hurt a woman.
"Girl, let go!" he panted, and his broad breast heaved.
"No, no, no! Listen, Wetzel, you must not kill the chief. He is a
friend."
"He is my great foe!"
"Listen, oh! please listen!" pleaded Nell. "He warned me to flee
from Girty; he offered to guide us to Fort Henry. He has saved my
life. For my sake, Wetzel, do not kill him! Don't let me be the
cause of his murder! Wetzel, Wetzel, lower your arm, drop your
hatchet. For pity's sake do not spill more blood. Wingenund is a
Christian!"
Wetzel stepped back breathing heavily. His white face resembled
chiseled marble. With those little hands at his breast he hesitated
in front of the chief he had hunted for so many long years.
"Would you kill a Christian?" pleaded Nell, her voice sweet and
earnest.
"I reckon not, but this Injun ain't one," replied Wetzel slowly.
"Put away your hatchet. Let me have it. Listen, and I will tell you,
after thanking you for this rescue. Do you know of my marriage?
Come, please listen! Forget for a moment your enmity. Oh! you must
be merciful! Brave men are always merciful!"
"Injun, are you a Christian?" hissed Wetzel.
"Oh! I know he is! I know he is!" cried Nell, still standing between
Wetzel and the chief.
Wingenund spoke no word. He did not move. His falcon eyes gazed
tranquilly at his white foe. Christian or pagan, he would not speak
one word to save his life.
"Oh! tell him you are a Christian," cried Nell, running to the
chief.
"Yellow-hair, the Delaware is true to his race."
As he spoke gently to Nell a noble dignity shone upon his dark face.
"Injun, my back bears the scars of your braves' whips," hissed
Wetzel, once more advancing.
"Deathwind, your scars are deep, but the Delaware's are deeper,"
came the calm reply. "Wingenund's heart bears two scars. His son
lies under the moss and ferns; Deathwind killed him; Deathwind alone
knows his grave. Wingenund's daughter, the delight of his waning
years, freed the Delaware's great foe, and betrayed her father. Can
the Christian God tell Wingenund of his child?"
Wetzel shook like a tree in a storm. Justice cried out in the
Indian's deep voice. Wetzel fought for mastery of himself.
"Delaware, your daughter lays there, with her lover," said Wetzel
firmly, and pointed into the spring.
"Ugh!" exclaimed the Indian, bending over the dark pool. He looked
long into its murky depths. Then he thrust his arm down into the
brown water.
"Deathwind tells no lie," said the chief, calmly, and pointed toward
Girty. The renegade had ceased struggling, his head was bowed upon
his breast. "The white serpent has stung the Delaware."
"What does it mean?" cried Jim.
"Your brother Joe and Whispering Winds lie in the spring," answered
Jonathan Zane. "Girty murdered them, and Wetzel buried the two
there."
"Oh, is it true?" cried Nell.
"True, lass," whispered Jim, brokenly, holding out his arms to her.
Indeed, he needed her strength as much as she needed his. The girl
gave one shuddering glance at the spring, and then hid her face on
her husband's shoulder.
"Delaware, we are sworn foes," cried Wetzel.
"Wingenund asks no mercy."
"Are you a Christian?"
"Wingenund is true to his race."
"Delaware, begone! Take these weapons an' go. When your shadow falls
shortest on the ground, Deathwind starts on your trail."
"Deathwind is the great white chief; he is the great Indian foe; he
is as sure as the panther in his leap; as swift as the wild goose in
his northern flight. Wingenund never felt fear." The chieftain's
sonorous reply rolled through the quiet glade. "If Deathwind thirsts
for Wingenund's blood, let him spill it now, for when the Delaware
goes into the forest his trail will fade."
"Begone!" roared Wetzel. The fever for blood was once more rising
within him.
The chief picked up some weapons of the dead Indians, and with
haughty stride stalked from the glade.
"Oh, Wetzel, thank you, I knew---" Nell's voice broke as she faced
the hunter. She recoiled from this changed man.
"Come, we'll go," said Jonathan Zane. "I'll guide you to Fort
Henry." He lifted the pack, and led Nell and Jim out of the glade.
They looked back once to picture forever in their minds the lovely
spot with its ghastly quiet bodies, the dark, haunting spring, the
renegade nailed to the tree, and the tall figure of Wetzel as he
watched his shadow on the ground.
* * *
When Wetzel also had gone, only two living creatures remained in the
glade--the doomed renegade, and the white dog. The gaunt beast
watched the man with hungry, mad eyes.
A long moan wailed through the forest. It swelled mournfully on the
air, and died away. The doomed man heard it. He raised his ghastly
face; his dulled senses seemed to revive. He gazed at the stiffening
bodies of the Indians, at the gory corpse of Deering, at the savage
eyes of the dog.
Suddenly life seemed to surge strong within him.
"Hell's fire! I'm not done fer yet," he gasped. "This damned knife
can't kill me; I'll pull it out."
He worked at the heavy knife hilt. Awful curses passed his lips, but
the blade did not move. Retribution had spoken his doom.
Suddenly he saw a dark shadow moving along the sunlit ground. It
swept past him. He looked up to see a great bird with wide wings
sailing far above. He saw another still higher, and then a third. He
looked at the hilltop. The quiet, black birds had taken wing. They
were floating slowly, majestically upward. He watched their graceful
flight. How easily they swooped in wide circles. He remembered that
they had fascinated him when a boy, long, long ago, when he had a
home. Where was that home? He had one once. Ah! the long, cruel
years have rolled back. A youth blotted out by evil returned. He saw
a little cottage, he saw the old Virginia homestead, he saw his
brothers and his mother.
"Ah-h!" A cruel agony tore his heart. He leaned hard against the
knife. With the pain the present returned, but the past remained.
All his youth, all his manhood flashed before him. The long, bloody,
merciless years faced him, and his crimes crushed upon him with
awful might.
Suddenly a rushing sound startled him. He saw a great bird swoop
down and graze the tree tops. Another followed, and another, and
then a flock of them. He saw their gray, spotted breasts and hooked
beaks.
"Buzzards," he muttered, darkly eyeing the dead savages. The carrion
birds were swooping to their feast.
"By God! He's nailed me fast for buzzards!" he screamed in sudden,
awful frenzy. "Nailed fast! Ah-h! Ah-h! Ah-h! Eaten alive by
buzzards! Ah-h! Ah-h! Ah-h!"
He shrieked until his voice failed, and then he gasped.
Again the buzzards swooped overhead, this time brushing the leaves.
One, a great grizzled bird, settled upon a limb of the giant oak,
and stretched its long neck. Another alighted beside him. Others
sailed round and round the dead tree top.
The leader arched his wings, and with a dive swooped into the glade.
He alighted near Deering's dead body. He was a dark, uncanny bird,
with long, scraggy, bare neck, a wreath of white, grizzled feathers,
a cruel, hooked beak, and cold eyes.
The carrion bird looked around the glade, and put a great claw on
the dead man's breast.
"Ah-h! Ah-h!" shrieked Girty. His agonized yell of terror and horror
echoed mockingly from the wooded bluff.
The huge buzzard flapped his wings and flew away, but soon returned
to his gruesome feast. His followers, made bold by their leader,
floated down into the glade. Their black feathers shone in the sun.
They hopped over the moss; they stretched their grizzled necks, and
turned their heads sideways.
Girty was sweating blood. It trickled from his ghastly face. All the
suffering and horror he had caused in all his long career was as
nothing to that which then rended him. He, the renegade, the white
Indian, the Deathshead of the frontier, panted and prayed for a
merciful breath. He was exquisitely alive. He was human.
Presently the huge buzzard, the leader, raised his hoary head. He
saw the man nailed to the tree. The bird bent his head wisely to one
side, and then lightly lifted himself into the air. He sailed round
the glade, over the fighting buzzards, over the spring, and over the
doomed renegade. He flew out of the glade, and in again. He swooped
close to Girty. His broad wings scarcely moved as he sailed along.
Girty tried to strike the buzzard as he sailed close by, but his arm
fell useless. He tried to scream, but his voice failed.
Slowly the buzzard king sailed by and returned. Every time he
swooped a little nearer, and bent his long, scraggy neck.
Suddenly he swooped down, light and swift as a hawk; his wide wings
fanned the air; he poised under the tree, and then fastened sharp
talons in the doomed man's breast.