THE BRITISH MAJOR’S PLOT.
A short time after gaining the bottom of the cliffs with his captives,
Wacomet the Ottawa paused before what seemed to be a dense net-work of
creepers attached to the gray rocks. It was near midnight now, and an
ominous silence brooded everywhere. When first the traitor left the
cave, he heard Leather-lips and Speckled Snake signaling the other
braves; but now the signals were no longer heard, and, fearing that the
two wings had come together, the Ottawa hurried his prisoners over the
stones faster than ever, taking good care to keep in the shade of the
cliffs, for the moon was scaling the eastern horizon, and would soon
make objects in the deep ravine easily distinguishable.
The two captives drew long breaths of relief when at last the Indian
halted, and Effie found herself wondering if his home was not near,
for she was much fatigued, and her feet were sore. She was about to
question Wacomet regarding the location of the hidden spot, when he
suddenly strode forward toward the tangled vines, and his captives were
surprised to see him part the long hangers with his right hand, and
display an opening leading straight into the rock.
“The hidden spot,” ejaculated Effie St. Pierre, looking up into the
major’s face. “The sharpest spy in the world would pass and repass this
place a thousand times and never discover it.”
The sharp ear of Wacomet caught the girl’s words, uttered scarce above
a whisper, and he said, as he pushed his captives into the gloom,
springing after them himself:
“Yes, the serpent has crawled by Wacomet’s hole in the ground, and
never entered, for his sharp eyes saw it not. Wacomet tracked the
she-grizzly here once, entered boldly, slew her with his knife, and
brought thither his red mistress.”
The corridor leading to the main cave proved a tortuous way; but at
last the party reached the termination. A light burned in the center
of the apartment, and before it, arranging gaudy feathers in her long
black hair, sat Wacomet’s red queen. She arose to greet her master, but
when her dark, lustrous eyes fell upon the beauteous Effie St. Pierre,
her hands clenched involuntarily, and her lips quivered with passion.
“Who does Wacomet bring to his cave home?” she demanded, a flush of
anger mounting to her temples.
“The spies of the accursed Black Snake hunt for the pale flower; they
have pierced the fair one’s lover with their balls, but Wacomet saved
her and the Briton and they are here till the coming of another night.”
“And they shall go, then?”
“Yes, Wacomet swears it; when the stars sleep and shine again, they
shall go.”
Then the outlaw drew Ewana aside, and for a few moments they conversed
in low tones.
“Guard the prisoners well until I return,” said Wacomet, in a tone loud
enough to reach the captives’ ears, at length, “and at the first show
of attempts at escape, shoot them down, like dogs.”
Then, satisfied that he had dissipated Ewana’s jealousies, and that all
would go on swimmingly at the cave until his return, the Ottawa glided
off to join his comrades in their search for the young She-wolf.
Ewana proceeded to bind the captives’ feet with deer-thongs, and made
them separate couches between which she sat, and again resumed the
arranging of her hair.
In the silence which followed, Effie St. Pierre, tired and sore, fell
back on the pillow of mink-skins, stuffed with the small soft feathers
of the river snipe, and soon was fast asleep. Her last thoughts were
that the Girl Avenger and Kenowatha would read her writing on the wall
when they returned, and would give no rest to their feet until she was
snatched from Wacomet’s hands.
The thoughts and condition of Major Runnion were far different from
those of the hopeful girl.
Contrary to her, he did not close his eyes, nor did he lie down upon
the skinny couch. For many minutes he occupied a half-reclining
position, studying Ewana as she arranged her hair. When he had arrived
at a certain conclusion, he gently whispered the Shawnee girl’s pretty
cognomen.
She turned and moved nearer him.
“Nearer, Ewana,” he said, when she had paused; “the pale flower must
not hear what I have to say.”
This drew the red girl to the edge of the couch, where she paused and
looked inquiringly down into the Briton’s face.
“What would the scarlet soldier of the king have with Ewana?” she
asked, while the major, for a moment thrown from his plots by her
radiant, voluptuous loveliness, was contemplating her face, the fairest
one save that which he coveted he had ever met in the forest.
“I want to tell Ewana that Wacomet’s tongue has traveled from the trail
of truth.”
She shot him a look of indignation, and he saw the flood of jealousy
rise in her dark orbs, as she glanced at the pale-faced sleeper.
“It can not be,” she murmured; “Wacomet has lived with Ewana for many
moons, yet has his tongue never wandered from the truthful trail.”
“There are times when the best red-skins are false,” continued Runnion,
“and this is one of Wacomet’s false times. Now I will tell you the
truth, Ewana.”
The narration that followed need not be written here, though the
substance might not prove uninteresting. The major dwelt at length,
though bespoke rapidly, on Wacomet’s passion for Effie St. Pierre, how
he had been driven from the trading-post at the muzzle of old Mitre’s
rifle--how he had sworn to make the white girl his bride to the total
exclusion of his red mistress, whom he no doubt intended to assassinate
when the proper time should arrive. All this Rudolph Runnion poured
into the ears of the red girl, whose jealous passions were so aroused
that she drew a tiny knife from her bosom, and hissed into the Briton’s
ear:
“The Pale Flower shall not nestle on Wacomet’s cheek when he returns;
he shall find her withered, beautiful no longer, as cold as the white
flowers that grow by the frozen rivers.”
The soldier noted the mad girl’s vengeance-ladened glance at Effie St.
Pierre, and his hand closed on the arm that held the knife aloft.
“No, no,” he said, rising himself despite the irritation it caused his
wounds, and placing his mustached lips at Ewana’s ear. “The Manitou by
other means than the knife will rid the red girl of her pale rival. I
have become an outlaw; my people offer a price for my head, and Wacomet
has said that he would lead me to them, or them to me. Cut these bonds;
then, the bonds of the girl, too, and I will bear the girl away. Over
in Canada, the lands of my king, I have strong people, and they will
protect me from the white and red man-hunters. Let me carry the white
girl from Wacomet’s cave, for if I don’t he will make her his bride.”
For a moment the red girl was undecided how to act; above all things
she wished to get rid of her white rival, yet she did not want to incur
Wacomet’s hatred. She believed all the soldier had poured into her ears
regarding her master’s love, yet she loved him as she had ever done
since the days of childhood.
“Haste!” cried Runnion, taking advantage of the girl’s indecision;
“Wacomet may return, and then what becomes of poor Ewana! Shall she
live to see a white snake steal Wacomet’s smiles from her? I thought
Ewana was a Shawnee.”
The glistening knife descended, and the bonds that bound the major’s
feet fell apart!
Casting a thankful look into the girl’s face he sprung to his feet. No
time was to be lost, for it was now near dawn, and Wacomet was liable
to return at any moment. He stepped to Effie’s couch, and touched
her arm. She opened her eyes with a start, and for a moment did not
comprehend her situation.
“Girl, it is I,” he said. “We must leave at once. Ewana believes that
Wacomet loves you--that he intends to murder her and make you his
bride. See! she whets her already keen knife upon a stone. I have
succeeded in freeing myself, and, girl, we must fly at once. Better
in the forest, though it swarm with dangers, than in the power of a
jealous squaw. Come!”
Mechanically the young girl yielded; while, obedient to the
instructions of the soldier, Ewana did not notice their movements. The
soldier supplied himself with hunting accouterments, a quantity of
ammunition; then they glided into the gloomy corridor, and out into the
recesses of the forest.
“Whither are we going?” asked Effie.
The Briton turned suddenly upon her, and a faint smile played with his
sensual lips as he answered:
“I might as well tell you first as last,” he said. “We’re bound for
Canada.”
Effie could not repress the light cry that welled to her lips, and the
word that followed was hissed forth with all the bitterness she could
summon:
“Villain!”