WOLF’S DEN.
The reader will recollect that Wolf-Cap dismissed his Indian allies,
Silver Hand and Golden Cheek, beneath the palisades of Fort Strong, a
few moments prior to his appearance among the ranks of the besieged.
The red twain sought the camp of the foe, and in time witnessed the
triumph of Royal Funk, as already related. Silver Hand, the shrewder of
the two, saw that Colonel O’Neill would not relinquish the contest for
Huldah Armstrong’s person without another struggle, and so he watched
that red-coated worthy narrowly. He therefore sent his confederate down
the river to intercept the Night-Hawk, and to warn him of the ambush.
Golden Cheek undertook the mission cheerfully, while Silver Hand
hastened to secure the assistance of Wolf-Cap, in order to snatch Huldah
from her outlawed lover’s power, and to put an end to the marauding
band.
Spagano, the Indian, who turned Roy Funk from the ambush, and afterward
stole Huldah from his camp and was shot by O’Neill’s men, as the reader
has already seen, was none other than Golden Cheek. He had mistaken the
British footsteps for those of his friends, and he had thought to steal
the girl on their approach, that they might pour a destructive volley
among the sleepers.
But he failed, and fell in the wood, like many of his ancestors had
fallen before him.
Silver Hand was more successful. He found Wolf-Cap and Mark Harmon after
trailing them some distance, and hastened down the river. They were
surprised when they beheld Zebulon Strong bearing Huldah Armstrong down
the self-same stream, and the pursuit which they inaugurated in bright
anticipations, ended over the captain’s corpse.
“This beats me,” said Wolf-Cap, who dropped on his knees beside the dead
frontiersman. “I can’t see through it all. Here lies the man we’ve been
chasing, an’ thar’s a British bullet in his brain. Now the question is:
who shot ’im? It war no Indian, for the red-skins don’t take to muskets;
they shoot rifles, and I’m sure that Funk isn’t in these parts. He
shoots a rifle with the smallest bore you ever saw. What have you
discovered, chief?”
The Indian addressed was approaching, with the glow of discovery on his
face.
“White man shoot traitor and run off with girl.”
Wolf-Cap rose to his feet.
“A white man, you say, chief?”
“Yes, pale-face.”
“Show me the signs!”
Silver-Hand strode forward, and pointed to a faint trail, leading in a
north-easterly direction. Wolf-Cap examined the “sign” a minute, and
then looked up into his companion’s eyes.
“Well, he’s got the girl ag’in,” he said.
“He—who?” cried Harmon.
“Roy Funk!”
“He would not be alone in these parts and running toward the Huron’s
mouth. Golden Cheek was to have guided him to Beaver River.”
“Don’t I know his foot-track?” queried the trapper. “Haven’t I seen it
too often to be deceived? I ruther guess I have. Come, boys, while
Huldah is in Royal Funk’s power it is a sin to rest. I’ve an idea where
he intends stopping a while; but I hope he will go further on—I do,
indeed.”
The Night-Hawk’s trail told the trio that he was hurrying through the
woods at no insignificant speed, but they did not follow in a gait equal
to his own.
Before leaving Zebulon Strong, Wolf-Cap had covered him with brush, and
all alone the traitor slept the everlasting sleep of the dead. Huldah
Armstrong seemed a fatal prize. She had brought death to the door of
more than one heart. Spagano—brave Golden Cheek—Zebulon Strong, Colonel
O’Neill and the Night-Hawks had already fallen for her, and perhaps
others yet might die for the beautiful prize.
The trio pursued the trail an hour in silence, and Mark Harmon was the
first to speak.
“Wolf-Cap,” he said, in a low tone, glancing at Silver Hand, who was
walking along, with his head on his breast, his dark eyes on the faint
trail, “I’ve been thinking about some words that puzzle me.”
Card Belt slowly lifted his eyes to the youth.
“War it some words that I left drop?” he inquired.
“No.”
“Did Silver Hand shoot ’em out?”
“No; they fell from Armstrong’s lips last night, in the fort.”
“Well, what did old Levi say?”
“I was standing at the third port-hole looking toward the hill, and all
at once I heard a voice at my elbow. It said: ‘If she was mine I could
not love her more. God pity me and let me live to make amends.’ I turned
quickly, for there was a depth of agony in the speaker’s tone, and I
beheld Levi Armstrong moving from the port-hole at my left.”
Wolf-Cap’s face was ghastly in its coloring, when the youth looked into
it again, and a white hand griped his arm.
“Are you sure it was old Levi?” stammered the trapper.
“I am, for I spoke to him a second later,” answered the young man
confidently. “I heard the words plainly, and you know all that he said.”
Wolf-Cap suddenly stopped in his tracks, and drew the whole attention of
his companions upon him.
“I begin to see light now, and I curse myself for being so blind until
this moment,” he said. “Let me tell you.”
“Wolf-Cap speak after while,” said Silver Hand. “We on trail now and
this no time for long talks. Pale Night-Hawk fly to the big water with
snow-bird, and he must be caught before he sees the green waves.”
“Heaven is helping me,” said Belt, impressively. “I feel that the end of
this terrible wood drama is near at hand. I will tell my story here, and
now! Silver Hand, you may lean against that tree, or trail the
Night-Hawk. I care not which you do.”
The impatient Indian bit his lip, and leaned against the designated
tree.
“Twenty years ago,” said Belt, looking at Harmon, “I lived beside the
Mystic, in Connecticut. Not alone did I inhabit the little cabin, where
now the stranger dwells. A wife kissed me then, and a babe was soon to
cheer our childless home with its sunny smiles. How I waited for the new
joy; but alas!” and a cloud leaped to the trapper’s brow, “alas! the
devil came to our home. One night I returned from Saybrook and found an
empty cabin on the Mystic. My wife—my Bessie—was gone!”
Belt paused, and, with face buried in his broad hands, he swayed to and
fro like a storm-cursed tree.
“Mark Harmon,” he cried, suddenly removing his hands, “God alone knows
how I loved her. She never knew herself, for humanity could not fathom
my devotion and love. I sunk to my floor on the fearful discovery, and
in the morning, a neighbor found me, but little less than a madman. Then
my eyes were opened. I found several letters in the old house addressed
to Bessie. They were signed “Ralph” and “Morton.” I put the two words
together and had a name—“Ralph Morton.” For the owner of that name I
hunted for eighteen years, almost; but I found no traces of him nor my
wife. When I ceased to hunt, I had given her up for dead. I love Huldah,
because she looks like Bessie did twenty years ago.
“Now I do see light. I feel that Levi Armstrong is Ralph Morton. God
keep me alive till I can tell him so.”
“What would you do with him?” ventured the young borderman.
“What would you do, young man, with the devil who should snatch heavenly
happiness from your heart?” said the trapper slowly.
“I would hunt him down and kill him!”
“That’s just what I am going to do,” returned Wolf-Cap through closed
lips. “Some men might forgive such a wrong as mine, but I—never! Now for
her, Mark Harmon, chief,” and the trapper started forward. “Oh Heaven!
do not deceive me at this day—oh do not raise my hopes to dash them down
into darkness, for Huldah must be my child, or I die!”
The Wyandot was eager to resume the trail, and led the van with a quick
step. For several miles it remained plain, and then it was lost in the
waters of a narrow creek.
“I am not surprised,” said Wolf-Cap. “He is breaking for the very place
where I don’t want to find ’im.”
“Why does he not continue his flight?”
“Because his captive is tired. In Wolf’s Den he will rest until she
recruits her strength.”
“In Wolf’s Den?” echoed Harmon. “I have heard of this place.”
“I should reckon you had, boy. Everybody in these parts has heard of it,
and I’ve been thar. Why, thar are a thousand caves in one, and dark
halls lead—perhaps to the iron gates of hell. Men have entered the “den”
never to return. Strange winds blow torches out, and there are bats in
the darkness as big as a coon. I have believed the Night-Hawks used it
for their head-quarters, before they descended upon the ‘fire-lands’.”
“Then he is acquainted with its terrors.”
“Probably. But we’ll follow him to the greatest of them all—death.”
The trio waded down the creek whose banks were masses of solid rock,
which ofttimes towered to a hight of a hundred feet above the water. The
gray stone was covered with a loathsome species of the dark green
creeper, and the repulsive head of many a glittering lizard protruded
from the fissures.
“This is Satan’s land,” said Wolf-Cap, looking up at the spectacle just
described, “and presently we’ll enter his cave.”
A few steps brought them to a great fissure, that extended from the top
of the cliff to the water’s edge, and into which a man could edge his
way.
“Well, here we are,” remarked the trapper, stooping to examine the foot
of the crack. “It looks like the cave of death, but,” looking up
suddenly, “it is inhabited.”
“What!” cried Harmon, springing to his side, “has he entered here?”
“Yes, the ground tells me so!”
At last the end of the Night-Hawk’s trail had been reached; but the
final scene was wrapped in fearful obscurity.
“I’ve been here afore, and I’ll lead the way,” continued Wolf-Cap,
stepping forward.
“No, Silver-Hand go ’head,” cried the Wyandot, suddenly, and his right
hand pushed the trapper aside. “Wyandot know more ’bout cave than
pale-faces think.”
The next instant the Indian sprung into the fissure, and darkness, damp
and impenetrable, swooped down upon the adventurers.
It at once became evident to the whites that their guide knew much about
the interior structure of the cave, for he pushed forward in the
darkness, seemingly with a well-known destination in view.
But suddenly something struck the wall above the trios’ heads, and then
fell heavily to the ground.
Silver Hand stooped and ran his hand over the stony floor until it
grasped a warm object, with gigantic wings unspread.
“A winged rat,” he said in a low voice, touching his companions’ hands
with his prize. “It fell from—”
He paused suddenly, for other huge bats were striking the walls and
falling at their feet.
“By heavens! does it rain bats here?” exclaimed Wolf-Cap, as Silver Hand
griped his arm.
“Somebody in the lodges of the winged rats,” he said. “He knock ’em down
here.”
“They must come from the bat-chamber. I’ve heard of it,” said the
trapper, quickly. “He is fighting ’em there; but how can we reach it?”
“Come,” said the Wyandot, with eagerness. “Silver Hand fight the flying
rats there once himself. He find the place soon.”
Then they started forward, just as another quartette of dead bats fell
from the mysterious gloom above.
Somebody was fighting the winged mammals above the three, for, as they
advanced, they could hear his sturdy blows.