OFF FOR THE RESCUE.
The shot fired at Mark Morgan by the Girl Avenger did not prove fatal,
as the reader has just seen by witnessing the scout’s capture by Joe
Girty in the Ottawa village.
In his admirable disguise, the spy counterfeited the Indian to
perfectness, and under the circumstances it is not at all surprising
that the dreaded enemy of the whole red race should try to send him to
“the valley of the shadow.” But a few moments before the boat and its
occupant appeared in the almost fatal vicinity, Kenowatha and the young
She-wolf emerged from the latter’s home among the rocks, and stood upon
the limestone crags many feet above the stream.
Kenowatha was the first to see the boat, and when Nanette’s eyes fell
upon it--when they encountered the spy whom she believed to be one of
her sworn enemies, a whirlwind of passion shook her frame, and she
snatched the White Fox’s rifle from his hands--hers having been left in
the cave.
Before she sped the leaden bullet on its errand, Nanette recognized
Effie St. Pierre and Major Runnion, both of whom she had seen beneath
the very cottonwood where the reader has seen a startling drama enacted.
Almost instantly she arrived at these conclusions: that Mark Morgan
was Wacomet the Ottawa, who, she knew, entertained a burning passion
for the trader’s daughter or _protege_, as she really was, for in
his disguise the young spy certainly bore a striking resemblance,
especially from the girl’s standpoint of observation, to the
red-skinned lover; that, intent upon possessing the girl, who had
gently yet firmly repelled his advances, Wacomet had journeyed to the
trading-post, and had surprised Effie and her British lover under the
cottonwood; that he had captured both, and was conveying them to some
point up the stream, where he might hide them from their friends and
his.
If such were the case, it had been policy for the young She-wolf to
follow Wacomet, and by strategy wrest his prisoners from his red
hands, and hideously adorn his brow with her crimson mark.
But Nanette Froisart could not repel the passion that took possession
of her, and the rifle cracked.
When Effie St. Pierre shouted to her as she and Kenowatha descended the
rocks, that her bleeding victim was no Indian--that she had dyed her
hands in the blood of a friend, Nanette was horror-stricken, plunged
into the stream, and arrested the crazy motions of the rudderless boat.
“What! not an Indian?” cried Nanette, looking up into Effie’s pale face.
“His skin is as fair as yours. He is Mark Morgan, one of Wayne’s spies.”
“Impossible!” parted the avenger’s lips.
“I speak the truth,” returned Effie. “See!” and she displayed white
skin by washing the blood from her lover’s cheek.
A cry of astonishment simultaneously parted the two mute spectators’
lips.
“He is not dead!” suddenly cried Kenowatha, who had noted a twitching
of the scout’s pale lips. “See! girl, your ball did not enter his head;
it merely grazed it.”
The speaker caught up some water in his hand, and soon displayed the
truth of his assertion.
A cry of joy welled from Effie’s heart, and she knelt over her lover,
taking his hands.
Additional water sufficed to unclose Mark Morgan’s eyes, and presently
he sat up in the boat.
“It was a close shave, girl,” he said, looking at the avenger, whom he
now encountered for the first time. “I owe the preservation of my life
to the fact that you fired downward; had I been on a level with you
there were no need of my talking now.”
“No,” answered the She-wolf. “I would have sworn that you were an
Indian--Wacomet.”
“You are not the first person who has recognized Wacomet in me within
the last twenty-four hours, and I had better counterfeit another red
gentleman than he. But, girl, we must seek shelter; there may be sharp
eyes nearing us, and then here’s one who needs rest, to live.”
As he finished, the spy glanced at the Briton, and a minute later the
boat was moored to the bank.
It was no child’s play for the quartette, though Effie could lend but
little assistance, to bear the helpless major up the loose and ragged
rocks to Nanette’s cave home. But the Herculean task was bravely
undertaken and accomplished, and the wounded man found himself almost
buried in a pile of soft skins, that seemed to him a bed of down.
Then his wounds were more carefully examined, and found to be of a
less serious nature than was at first supposed; but still he was far
from safety. The irritation caused by the journey up the rocks might
speedily prove fatal, and terminate a life not without guilt.
The day passed quickly to the inmates of the cave, and when night came
again, Mark Morgan announced his intention of carrying out the wishes
of his commander before dawn--viz: to enter the Indian village and
ascertain the numbers, etc., of the red-men and their white allies who
were to meet Wayne on the banks of the Maumee. He knew almost to a
certainty that the conflict would take place near Nanette’s cave, and
he resolved to leave Effie under the protection of the young avenger,
until he returned from the American forces. She would be safer there
than while being conducted through forests, swarming with red and white
foes.
The young spy now doffed the dress peculiar to Wacomet, which he had
worn, and adopted that of an Ottawa sub-chief, in which he would be
more likely to carry out his plans satisfactorily, both to himself and
Mad Anthony.
Nanette resolved to accompany the scout to the suburbs of the “town,”
and there await his return, leaving Effie and the Briton under the
watchful eye of Kenowatha.
While the boy--for boy Kenowatha may well be called--inwardly chafed
at being left to play an inactive part in the red drama that was being
enacted, he submitted with good grace when Nanette told him that soon
he should tread with her the path of vengeance, from dawn till dawn.
Disguised as an Indian girl, yet bearing her rifle, the young
She-wolf--as the Girl Avenger had been styled by the savages--left the
cave with the scout, and, after a rapid walk of two hours, parted
with him on the suburbs of the Ottawa village, he promising to return
against midnight.
The girl had chosen a position a short distance from the river, and
within thirty feet of Turkey-foot’s lodge, the entrance of which she
faced.
The curtains of skins that formed the door were raised, thus exposing
the well-lighted interior of the spacious wigwam to the girl. Presently
six dark figures, gliding as noiseless as serpents over the meadow,
passed Nanette and entered the lodge.
After awhile a solitary figure, which she recognized as Joe Girty,
approached and walked among the warriors. Then followed the drawing of
the totems, and when the face of Stomah, the red artist, was revealed
to the avenger, her rifle flew to her shoulder, and, before the gust
of revenge left the girl, Stomah was ebbing out his life-blood, as
the reader has seen, over the totems. Stomah had paid the penalty he
had incurred upon a certain stormy November night, years prior to the
inauguration of our romance.
After the fatal shot, the avenger crept nearer the bank of the stream
and noiselessly reloaded her rifle. Then gliding back she listened to
the oath of the Death League, and saw its members leave the Ottawa’s
lodge.
She knew that she would not be followed that night, for Turkey-foot had
said as much, and suddenly, while she waited for the spy’s return, Joe
Girty’s whoop, indicating an important capture, rent the air.
The cry seemed to have alarmed the entire village, for the lodges near
her poured forth their human contents, that hurried toward the center
of the “town.” With almost throbless heart, and rifle at half-cock, the
disguised avenger darted forward with natural caution, and presently
her worst fears were confirmed.
A multitude of torches illuminated a large space, that might be termed
a well-defined square, and around one man, secure in the grip of the
renegade, howled fully four hundred mad representatives of six red
nations.
Eager to witness what would follow, and confident of the
trustworthiness of her disguise, the Indian’s enemy placed her gun
against a wigwam and boldly joined the assembly.
In a few words Girty described the spy’s capture, and calmly Mark
Morgan awaited his doom.
“To the stake at once!” cried the loud voice of Wacomet, who saw in the
young scout the accepted lover of the girl he admired. “At once to the
tree! and we’ll send the white dog’s ashes to his master.”
This was greeted with shouts of approval, which still echoed down the
Maumee, when a pale-face sprung from the crowd and paused before the
prisoner.
It was Mitre St. Pierre!
“Mark Morgan,” he shrieked, with flashing eyes, as his bony fingers
closed on the spy’s throat, “where’s my gal? Tell me where she is this
minute, or, by the God that created us I’ll scatter your brains over
these braves.”
“Ye’ve axed the chap a question which he can’t answer while you
continner to choke his wind off,” said Girty, clutching the exasperated
trader’s arm. “Take yer fingers away, an’ we’ll see what he sez to yer
question.”
Sullenly the Frenchman complied, for he saw Girty’s hand touch the
ornamented hilt of a huge Spanish dirk that glistened in his girdle.
“Now answer my question, white dog!” he cried, stepping a pace from the
prisoner, who eyed him with something of a look of triumph mingled with
defiance. “Where’s Effie--my gal!”
“Where I left her, Mitre St. Pierre!”
The scout’s answer drove a yell of rage from the trader’s throat; he
shot forward, and before Joe Girty could interpose his hand, again
griped Mark’s throat, and a pistol-barrel glittered in the starlight.
There was murder in St. Pierre’s eyes.
To prevent the deed, several braves and Simon Girty darted forward; but
their assistance was not needed for the White Ottawa had knocked the
weapon from the Frenchman’s hand, and hurled its frenzied owner to the
earth. And when he rose again, looks told him that his personal safety
depended on quietude.
“Now what shall we do with the spy?” demanded Joe Girty.
A majority of the Indians cried aloud for immediate execution by
the terrible ordeal of fire; but the whites, exclusive of Joe Girty,
overruled them.
“Wait until the braves return with May and M’Lellan,” said Captain
McKee, addressing the savages. “Our men are sure to catch the two spies
who were prowling around Fort Miami, and when they return we’ll burn
all together.”
This speech was seconded by Simon Girty, Elliott and others, and
Nanette saw the spy dragged to a strong log cabin in the center of the
village, there to await the capture of May and M’Lellan, two brother
scouts, upon whose trail a band of savages had been for several days,
and whose capture, by the sanguine enemies of Wayne, was regarded
certain.
The crowd that accompanied Mark Morgan to the prison was immense,
and the cries that soared starward proclaimed the true wishes of the
Indians.
“I’ll wring her whereabouts from you yet,” Nanette heard Mitre St.
Pierre howl, “and if you give me any more such answers as you did
awhile ago I’ll tear your heart out and cram it into your mouth.”
The spy said nothing, but smiled faintly at the Frenchman, which
exasperated him the more.
All at once Nanette began to force herself through the crowd toward the
scout, and at last she found herself at his side.
“To-morrow night!” she whispered in his ears, while the crowd greeted
an outburst of anger from St. Pierre with hideous cries. “We’ll come
for you then--Kenowatha and I. They won’t catch May and M’Lellan.”
He did not betray the avenger’s presence, and when the door closed on
him, and a triple guard was thrown around the cabin, the young She-wolf
hurried toward her home in the rocks, which she reached an hour or more
before dawn.
After telling Effie that her lover was on his journey to Wayne--for
she did not wish to inform the girl of the scout’s peril, she drew
Kenowatha aside and communicated the true state of affairs.
“I told him that we would come to-morrow night,” she said.
“We will come!” cried Kenowatha, eager for action. “We will enter the
village, and if any red-men cross our paths we’ll mark them to the
terror of their brothers. Kai Ja Manitou shall look down upon a new
mark--soon to be as terrible as the bloody half-moon. I have chosen my
mark, Nanette--a cross!”
“Oh, may the cross become as terrible as the crescent!” said Nanette.
“It shall! it shall!” and Kenowatha’s hand stole to Nanette’s, and then
they returned to the fire.
When another day had faded, the two avengers glided from the cavern, by
an entrance seldom used, and started toward the Ottawa village--intent
upon the rescue of Wayne’s intrepid spy.
Effie St. Pierre, than whom woman never possessed a braver heart, was
content to remain with the wounded major until their return.
The two avengers fell confident of crowning their extremely hazardous
enterprise with success; but could they have foreseen the events which
transpired in the cave before dawn, it is doubtful whether they would
have went forth.