THE DEATH LEAGUE AT WORK.
A trio of phantom figures gliding cautiously up iron-gray rocks,
wearing a ghastly hue in the dim light of the stars. Now and then they
pause in the shade of a crag, and listen with upturned faces. But, not
a sound comes to their ears; the night overhead is as silent as that
which sleeps upon the bosom of the stream a hundred feet below.
At last, when within perhaps thirty feet of the top of the cliff, they
halt at the mouth of a cave which seems to nestle far within the rocks,
and whose gloomy aspect, now relieved by the song of a nightingale
perched over the aperture, is as foreboding as such a spot can well be.
Now the trio place their heads together, and this is what their lips
say:
“Who shall lead the way?”
The question is quickly answered.
“Wacomet.”
“It is well,” was the whispered answer. “Let Wacomet lead the way into
the She-wolf’s den, and Leather-lips and the Speckled Snake will crawl
at his heels.”
“Wacomet is sure that we have found the She-wolf’s lair, and our
brothers will do nothing but frighten lizards, owls and bats from their
holes. The red-man’s Terror, dreaming not of a foe, sleeps beside the
White Fox, and they will wake in the Ottawa’s arms.”
Again, but with Wacomet in the van, the trio move forward. The Death
League was at work.
Below the trio whom we have seen enter the Girl Avenger’s home, the
remainder of the band, headed by Joe Girty and Turkey-foot, were
exploring other cavernous openings, leading inward from the cliff,
for, to a certainty, Nanette’s cave was not known to her enemies. Time
and again she had been pursued by the Indians, but she had in the end
eluded them by darting down the precipice, and disappearing in one of
the openings I have described.
The place of Stomah had been filled by the bloodthirsty Speckled Snake,
one of the braves who accompanied Wacomet, and a savage who had lost
three brothers by the delicate hand of the girl demon. He entered the
League with a zest born of the grossest revenge, and took the terrible
oath with a vindictiveness that sent a shudder to his co-swearers’
hearts.
The low stone roof of the passage in which the trio found themselves
compelled them to crawl forward, slowly groping their way like the
blind. Every now and then Wacomet would halt, and the three would
listen intently for several minutes, and, hearing nothing, glide
forward again.
Not a word was uttered by the trio, for the worn surface of the ground
over which they crawled told them that the cave at the termination of
the labyrinthine corridor was or had been inhabited.
All at once, as Wacomet groped his way around a gigantic rock, which
lay in the passage, the murmur of voices brought the Ottawa to a sudden
halt.
He had recognized a tone which had sent a thrill to his heart. Wacomet
knew all regarding the tragedy beneath the cottonwood--he had listened
to the narrative from the lips of Mitre St. Pierre, scarce six hours
before, and he had wished, from the depths of his heart, that he might
get possession of the girl his passions yearned to possess. Then, and
the Ottawa’s heart throbbed exultingly at the thought, the trader would
see her no more, until she had become his pale-faced squaw--his slave.
Ah! he knew a spot along the very stream that sung its way to the Miami
of the Lake, far below them, which no feet save but one other’s than
his had ever pressed--a spot as difficult to find as the Holy Grail or
the heart of Byron. Yes, he rejoiced in the knowledge of such a spot
as this, and thither, yet that night, he would convey the owner of the
dulcet tones he had first and was still listening to, while he crouched
beside the loose rock.
When Leather-lips and Speckled Snake reached Wacomet’s side, and before
they could hear the murmurs far ahead, the young Ottawa turned suddenly
upon them, and in low tones commanded them to retrace their reptatory
movements.
Wondering, yet not daring to seek by questions the cause the strange
command, they obeyed, and when they had reached an acute angle, lately
passed, Wacomet, full of plots and artifices, spoke:
“Not far ahead,” he said, in the lowest of whispers, while the trio’s
heads touched in the almost palpable gloom, “is the She-wolf’s den; but
other animals surround her.”
A grunt of surprise escaped the listeners’ lips.
“While Leather-lips and Speckled Snake tarried behind, Wacomet heard
the voice of a pale-face for whose scalp Blue-Jacket would give his
own--Wells, the Black Snake’s big spy. And not only does he sit at the
She-wolf’s fire, but with him sit the two spies for whom our braves now
hunt.”
The two red auditors uttered ejaculations of astonishment that told how
welcome the intelligence was to them.
“Then let us glide forward and spring upon the white snakes,” said
Leather-lips, to whom fear was a stranger. “They watch not for the
red-man to-night, and when the Black Snake crawls down the Maumee,
we’ll throw their scalps into his teeth.”
These words found favor in the eyes of Speckled Snake, and when the
sorcerer finished, the twain drew their knives and made a motion to
resume their work; but Wacomet’s hand gently checked their progress.
“We are not strong enough,” he said. “Think! the She-wolf, Kenowatha,
and the three pale snakes. There are but three of us--Leather-lips,
Speckled Snake and Wacomet. They will fight--fight to the door of
Manitou’s lodge. They possess the little guns (_i. e._, pistols);
we the long shooting-irons and our knives. Brothers, there must be
more of us--the other members of our dread band must be with us, and
then--then, we keep the words we have given to the Great Spirit. Go and
seek them--our brothers. Wacomet will squat here like the toad until
you return, with other tomahawks that glitter in girdles not our own.
Go, hasten, before the darkness flies. Our brothers will not be hard to
find.”
While the two chiefs would fain have signalized themselves by a
conflict with the hated spies whom they believed to be in the
cave, they concluded to obey Wacomet, a chief superior to them in
appointment; so they glided away, and the Ottawa was left alone in the
darkness.
By adroit lying he had gained his ends, and prepared to carry his plans
into execution. The wily Ottawa knew that the three spies were not in
the cave, which also he knew to be tenanted by but two persons--Effie
St. Pierre and a man whose voice he could not recognize, though he felt
certain that he had heard it before. He knew, too, that his brother
chiefs would experience trouble in beating up the other members of the
Death League, and prided himself that ere they could return to the cave
with the help sent for, he would be far on his journey to the “secret
spot,” with the young white girl.
Again the Ottawa crept forward, and at length the turning of an angle
brought him in full view of the inmates of the cave.
In the center of the underground apartment a bright fire leaped
ceilingward, and bathed the entire chamber in a ruddy light. Upon a
couch of skins lay the form of a man, whose face the Ottawa at once
recognized, and an ejaculation of surprise and triumph, entirely
unexpected, bubbled to his lips.
“Not only will Wacomet take the girl,” muttered the Indian, as he
shrunk from the glare of the fire, “but he will take the skins, rifles
and gold-pieces, that the great red-coat at the fort offers for the
pale-face, who struck his young soldier. Ha! how came the pale soldier
here? for the trader shot him, and he fell into the stream.”
Then the lips grew still, and for several minutes the Ottawa watched
the inmates of the cave, himself as motionless as a statue. Frequent
companionship with the whites had made Wacomet, to a great extent, a
master of the English language, and every word that fell from the lips
of those whom he watched was intelligible to him. Effie St. Pierre sat
on the floor of the cave, near the British major’s couch, braiding the
wealth of hair which she had drawn over her shoulders. With upturned
face, Rudolph Runnion was breathing into her ears the story of his
twice-told passion, to which the girl was listening calmly and in
silence. Still there lurked around her lips a sneer, for the tale to
which she was listening; no doubt her mind flitted back to the scene
beneath the cottonwood, and her narrow escape from the brutal lusts of
the minion of an imbecile king who spoke.
By and by Wacomet ceased to listen to the conversation which had
informed him that Major Runnion’s wound was healing rapidly, and turned
his dark orbs upon the beautiful girl.
Yes, yes, she should be his; of her three lovers--two white, the third
red--he should be successful, and unable to restrain himself longer, he
crept forward.
Unsuspicious of the red serpent and wolf combined that approached them,
the twain remained motionless until--when Wacomet was very near the
mouth of the corridor--Effie suddenly darted to her feet, and faced
the intruder. Cursing in his bitter tongue, the alarm which his foot
had sprung, the Ottawa darted forward with a tiger-like spring, and a
moment later the cave was filled with smoke and a deafening report.
A cry, half-shriek, half-groan, burst from Wacomet’s lips, and he
staggered like a drunken man, then sunk upon his knees.
Still clutching the smoking double-barreled pistol, Effie St. Pierre
waited for the smoke to clear away that she might witness the result
of her shot. She knew that it had not been without effect, for she had
seen the savage sink to the stones; but yet he might not be dead--only
wounded, and, like the bear, a greater terror when wounded than before.
Despite his wounds the pistol-shot had forced Rudolph Runnion from his
couch, and now he looked around for something with which to defend
himself, for he believed that other braves had followed the stricken
chief into the cave. And for him to be taken prisoner by the red-men
now, was death, not at their hands, but by those of his countrymen--his
comrades in arms.
The smoke had not begun to clear away when a form, bleeding from a
frightful wound in the cheek, rushed through the thick volumes, and
knocked the pistol from Effie’s hand, before she could bring it to bear
upon him, so unexpected was the wounded Indian’s recovery.
A shriek escaped her when she found herself in the grasp of the devil,
who dashed the Briton to earth with a blow with his tomahawk, as he
advanced, for his own as well as the girl’s safety.
“Wacomet’s squaw at last!” hissed the savage, a brutal expression of
long-sought triumph lighting up his swarthy face. “The White Star is
Wacomet’s now! He thought to find She-wolf and White Fox here, but ah!
he has discovered better prizes than they. Where they gone?”
Effie returned no answer which might furnish the savages with a clue to
the whereabouts of her young friends, and cause them to fall into the
hands of the red avengers.
The Ottawa did not press the question, but quickly bound the girl’s
hands, the while gloating over his triumph, and taunting her with the
poor result of her shot.
“When next I shoot I will take better aim,” said Effie, looking into
the Indian’s eyes, “and Wacomet must watch the white girl close that
she gets not another shot.”
“When she is Wacomet’s squaw she will not think of using the little
gun,” said the red victor, turning to bind Runnion’s hands. “Yes,
in the hidden hole, when the White Star sings songs to Wacomet’s
pappooses, she will forget how to use the little guns, and build the
Ottawa’s fire when the sun comes over the hill.”
In a short space of time Rudolph Runnion’s arms were pinioned at his
side, and a blow drew him to his feet. His face wore the ghastly pallor
that belongs to the dead, for while securing him, the Indian had told
him that a price was set upon his head, and that he intended to deliver
him up to the insatiate hounds of justice. For late investigation had
proved to the British at Fort Miami that St. Pierre’s shot had not
immediately proved fatal, if at all, and it was generally believed that
the slayer of Firman Campbell yet lived.
While Wacomet bound the Briton, Effie St. Pierre had obtained a piece
of keil, and, as well as her pinioned hands would permit, traced these
words upon the gray limestone wall of the cave:
“_We are the prisoners of Wacomet the Ottawa, destined for
a hidden place somewhere._
Effie.”
The chief did not notice the “handwriting on the wall,” when he turned
to the girl, and pointed to the corridor with his tomahawk.
“We go to Wacomet’s home under the ground,” he said. “Come!”
The prisoners had stepped forward, when the Ottawa glanced overhead and
espied the long string of scalps taken from his red brethren by the
hands of the Terror of the Maumee. Beside them hung rifles, tomahawks,
and richly ornamented wampums--the trophies of the Girl Avenger’s
battles. A cry of indignation burst from his lips, when his eye fell
upon all these, and a minute later they composed a confused heap at his
feet. He caught up the wampums, and threw them on the fire, the scalps
quickly followed, and the rifles and other weapons of Indian warfare
crowned the crackling heap.
“Won’t the She-wolf howl when she returns to her den!” he cried, with
fiendish anticipation, as he gazed upon the work of his revengeful
hands.
Effie St. Pierre and Rudolph Runnion looked upon the Indian’s revenge
with different thoughts. They knew that the red tribes would suffer
terribly for that night’s work--that the Girl Avenger would not rest
until every dried scalp was replaced by a fresh one.
Suddenly Wacomet turned toward the corridor again, and presently he
was conducting his prisoners down the gloomy passage. He forced them
near his half-naked body by a rope of sinews attached to their wrists,
and secured to his girdle, and accompanied his commands for silence by
threats of a death too horrible to be mentioned here.
At length the cool night-air fanned the faces of the trio, and looking
over Wacomet’s broad shoulders Effie saw the scintillating celestial
worlds. But a moment later the current of air was interrupted, and
Wacomet forced his prisoners into a natural niche before which he
had paused. In the deeper gloom of the niche the trio remained
as motionless as rocks, and presently they felt six figures,
undistinguishable in the blackness, move past, like giant animals.
No noise accompanied the new-comers to indicate their identity, but
Wacomet knew each one as he passed. They were the members of the Death
League, and Joe Girty crept at their head.
When the sounds died away in the gloomy distance, Wacomet drew a
breath of relief and again glided toward the opening. Soon the three
stood upon the flat rock just beyond the corridor, and faster than was
requisite for safety the red chief hurried the two whites down the
rocks.
In safety, however, the base of the cliff was reached, and along
the bank, toward the head of the little stream, the Indian bounded,
compelling his captives to keep pace with him.
He would seek the hidden place with his captives, and then return to
the Death League with a mouth full of lies.
Already he had planned a deceptive story, and his wounded cheek would
lend confirmation to his words.
Wacomet was a wily dog.