WHAT HAPPENED IN A RAVINE.
When Rudolph Runnion struck the military trail, leading around the
western shore of Lake Erie to the Canadas, he quickened his gait, for
it was his desire to get beyond the Maumee valley as soon as possible.
He knew that the commander at Fort Miami had set a price upon his
head, that a number of his comrades had doffed their scarlet for the
Indians’ paint, that they might be the better able to crown their hunt
for him with success. All this, and much more, had he learned from
Wacomet, and, therefore, must avoid even his old comrades if he would
escape the assassin’s doom--for an assassin he was, having killed
Firman Campbell in cold blood, with little or no just provocation.
After the discovery of his treachery, Effie relapsed into silence,
though now and then she shot him a look of scorn which caused him to
avert his eyes.
At length, while the first beams of day were penetrating the wood, they
reached a spot where the trail entered a ravine, through which it ran a
short distance, and then emerged again in the forest, striking boldly
toward the north. The major entered the ravine with no small degree of
apprehension, for he was now upon especially dangerous ground.
The banks of the ravine were not high, but were covered with a thick
growth of underbrush, which now and then revealed a fissure large
enough to contain several men. Before entering this place, and he could
not avoid it, the Briton looked carefully to the priming of rifle and
pistols, and loosened his knife and Wacomet’s tomahawk in his girdle.
One-half of the journey through the ravine was accomplished before
either uttered a word, when a cry suddenly broke from Effie’s lips:
“Indians!”
As the Briton turned his gaze to the point indicated, the clicking
of rifles smote his ears, and he caught a glimpse of a plumed head
before it was withdrawn, beyond the orifice of one of the fissures.
Instinctively he looked about for a point of defense, and fortunately
found himself at the mouth of one of the fissures, almost concealed by
the surrounding underbrush.
“Girl, spring into that hole; I’ll follow,” he said, without looking
at Effie. “Once within that, we can whip all the Indians in the Maumee
valley. I’m somewhat acquainted with the fissures in these rocks; each
one is but the opening to an impregnable natural fort. Go, girl!”
Almost before the last command had left his lips, Effie had darted
through the brush, and an instant later the officer followed her. As he
executed his movement, several rifles broke the silence; but the leaden
pellets missed the form for which they were evidently intended, and
flattened themselves against the brush-covered rocks.
“Now for the battle, girl,” said the major, with gritted teeth, as he
turned and beheld a plumed head in the fisure from which the shots had
come.
The Indian was rash in thus exposing his cranium to a concealed foe,
and dearly he paid for that exhibition of rashness, for a ball from
Runnion’s rifle brought him from his concealment, and he rolled with a
death-groan to the dry bed of the ravine.
“They won’t molest us now, for a spell,” he said, as he reloaded his
rifle. “they’ll put their heads together and hatch out some kind of
deviltry. They’ll change their tactics and try and take me alive. I
doubt if they tried to kill me when they shot, for, you see, I’m worth
a good deal now--more than any other one man in the valley.”
This he said with a ghastly smile, and added, as he primed his weapon:
“But, if it comes to the worst, girl, the red thieves will find
themselves in possession of one of the deadest men in the world. D’ye
suppose that I’m going to surrender and be hung like a dog by a lot of
my own countrymen? Not much, girl! _I_ am not that kind of a man. So
long as I have a bullet to spare, the red hounds shall have it and
then comes the knife and death.”
A terrible determination lurked about the criminal’s white lips, and
again his eye rested upon the fissure that held his foes.
The silence of death reigned around the place, and that silence boded
ill for the besieged. The red-skins were plotting mischief, which soon
manifested itself.
Presently the Briton, who had taken advantage of the Indian’s council
and examined the place into which he and the trader’s _protege_ had
been thrown, glided to the girl’s side with an expression akin to
despair visible upon his countenance.
“This is a sorry cave for defense, girl,” he said, looking into Effie’s
face. “It runs but a short distance back, and does not connect with
other caves, as I thought it would. But, so long as they don’t attempt
to smoke us out, we can defend ourselves; but if they attempt _that_,
we have nothing to do but to perish.”
An hour passed away in silence, and then a huge fiery ball, accompanied
by a volume of smoke, fell past the mouth of the fissure, and a moment
later the undergrowth was in flames.
“My God!” cried the Briton, when his eyes divined the purpose of his
foes. “They must have known that this fissure was a poor place for
defense, and--look, girl, they are coming down upon us!”
A yell, and the quick flitting of a number of red forms from the hole
on the opposite side of the ravine, told the major that his enemies
were certain of victory, and were approaching to aid the smoke in its
work of securing the felon.
The last savage paused a moment to draw the cock of his gun over a
jagged rock in the mouth of the fissure, when the Englishman’s rifle
cracked, and he fell a copse at the feet of his more successful
comrades.
With his coat, the Briton now stood near the mouth of the fissure,
driving back the smoke that the wind drove in upon them, and causing
them to gasp for breath. Every now and then a voice in French--a voice
which the culprit readily recognized--summoned him to surrender; but he
would reply with an oath, daring the enemy to advance within reach of
his pistols.
The command was uttered by Mitre St. Pierre, who seemed to be the
leader of the attacking party, among which might be some of the major’s
comrades, disguised as braves. At last, unable to remain near the mouth
of the fissure any longer Effie shrunk around an angle, and there
gasped for breath, with the spasms of a dying person. Once she called
to the major to surrender and trust to the future for escape; but his
reply was so blasphemous, so full of wicked threats, that the girl
closed her ears against them, and sunk, utterly exhausted, upon the
natural floor.
The Briton fought the smoke bravely; but, while he drove much out, the
wind hurled a thousand dark volumes in, and he felt his already greatly
impaired strength deserting him. Now and then a contrary current of
wind would drive the smoke away and enable him to see his exulting
enemies; but this was only for a moment, and before he could drop one
with his pistols, he would be forced to resume the coat and fight the
smoke again. The heat was as intolerable as its black accompaniment.
The undergrowth fringed the very edge of the fissure, and when it
took fire great blisters appeared on the felon’s skin, and the flames
scorched his coat.
There seemed but one result to the startling drama. The foes in the
ravine watched their work with self-congratulations of triumph, for
they already felt the daring culprit in their grasp, and in fancy saw
him paying the penalty of his crime between heaven and earth in Fort
Miami.
A short distance from the main body of painted braves, stood a man
easily recognizable as Mitre St. Pierre. Though not clad in the nudity
that characterized his followers, he wore a head-dress that proclaimed
him a chief among the Ottawas. True to his word, given to Mark
Morgan, in the heat of passion, he had joined the Indians against the
Americans, found himself elevated to the dignity of a chief at once,
and entered into the work of blood, with the avidity of the jungle
hyena. Upon the morning when he and his band discovered the major
and his captive on the Canada trail, he was hunting for one of Mad
Anthony’s spies, who had ridden through the Ottawa village in the broad
light of day, and who was supposed to be in the neighborhood of the
ravine.
“Girl, where are you?” called out Rudolph Runnion, somewhat alarmed
at the silence that succeeded his harsh reply to her suggestion of
surrender. “Speak, and let me know if you’re living yet. The end is
near at hand, and a bloody ending it’s going to be.”
No answer greeted his listening ears, and determined to ascertain the
situation and condition of the woman for whom he had risked so much, he
left his station and darted back into the smoky gloom. He turned the
angle when his foot struck the object he sought, and his hand touched
Effie’s face. The lips were cold, the white hand in the same condition;
but he had no time to investigate further, for a series of yell told
him that the bloodthirsty band was at the mouth of the little cave.
With the cry of “dead!” he dropped Effie’s lifeless hand, and turned to
sell his life with the price demanded by the tigress when brought to
bay.
He found no smoke in the main part of the cave, for a gust had blown it
from the fissure, which was now filled with a mass of dark forms.
In an instant his pistol spoke and a light gleamed beyond the opening
thus made, at the cost of two lives. But the ranks were soon closed,
and again the remaining barrels of the weapon sent down two more
braves. Then the desperate Briton, with his keen knife between his
clenched teeth, threw himself forward, and he disputed the entrance
with the strength and courage of the lion.
“You will not get me alive, though I know you will gain the day in the
end,” he hissed into the teeth of the foe, whom he now drove back and
who in turn now forced him from the entrance, bleeding as he was, from
many a desperate wound. “The girl is dead. Oh, if I had her body, I’d
drive you to hell with it!”
At this juncture several rifles from beyond the cave lent their voices
to the roar of the conflict, in which one struggled against twenty,
and three Indians staggered from the fissure, and fell headlong to the
bottom of the ravine.
This unexpected attack in the rear caused the band to turn, and as they
did so another rifle caused a fourth to join his silent companions.
Mitre St. Pierre glanced in the direction of the fatal shots, and
beheld four figures reloading rifles with a dispatch that astonished
him. They stood on the top of the bank at a densely wooded spot,
diagonally opposite the attacked cave, and three of his new foes he
recognized as Mark Morgan, Kenowatha and the Girl Avenger! The fourth
was no doubt another of Wayne’s spies, perhaps the very one in quest of
whom he had reached the present spot!
“Curse the white dogs!” grated the Frenchman as he surveyed his new
enemies. “Had they not come we should have caught the red-coated hound;
but now we must fly. Oh, I want to meet them when white meets white and
red! Braves, fly! fly! they load!” he cried to his braves, who needed
no such command, for while he spoke they were flying down the ravine,
and darting into fissures from which they knew that the ingenuity of no
pale-face could dislodge them.
Before the quartette on the bank could prime their deadly weapons the
fiendish trader followed the example of his band, and just as he darted
into a cavernous opening the Girl Avenger’s rifle cracked, and his arm
fell at his side!
Then the four left the trees and entered the ravine. Before the cave
they counted twelve dead bodies which attested the desperate nature of
the man against whom they had fought. Perhaps a man never battled as
Rudolph Runnion had done, for his neck was near the hangman’s noose,
and if a man will not fight to escape such disgraceful doom he must be
a coward indeed.
But now the Briton had struck his last blow; the avengers had arrived
too late to complete the work of death, for not a sound came from the
cave as they advanced. The smoke, what remained of it, was being driven
down the ravine by a strong west wind, which filled the cave with a
rejuvenating atmosphere.
They had crossed the pebbly bed of the dry stream-course, and had
reached the bank leading to the cave, when a husky voice, that spoke
every syllable with the distinctness of determination, startled every
ear.
“Back! my rifle is aimed at one of your hearts. I will not surrender,
nor will I be taken alive. I have five loads left, four for you, the
last for myself. The girl is here, but cold as ice.”
The last words drew a cry of horror from Mark Morgan’s lips, and
nothing short of the united strength of his friends prevented him from
rushing to certain destruction beneath the Briton’s rifle.