THROUGH THE WOODS.
The race between Wharton Edwards and the famous Shawanoe runner, Blazing
Arrow, was to come off at last, but under far different circumstances
than either had ever anticipated.
The wretch, while under the influence of liquor, had attempted the life
of the youth, and now, when his own natural self, he was determined to
run him down, and to his death. He hated the whole race with a consuming
hatred, and his wrath against this lad was more intense than against any
human being. It was he that had the audacity to think himself worthy of
running a race with him, who had defeated the most renowned runners of
the Wyandots, Pottawatomies, and the adjoining tribes, to say nothing of
his own people.
The action of the Shawanoes, when young Edwards made his leap of the
chasm, can be understood. The youth's life was spared, where no other
person would have been permitted to live after placing himself in their
power. Blazing Arrow, as well as several of his associates, recognized
the youth the instant they saw his face, and a hurried consultation took
place as to what should be done.
But for the presence of their champion they would not have permitted him
his slight advantage; but their faith in Blazing Arrow was as complete
as his own, besides which he was one of their leaders. He ordered them
to remain quiet, or rather to devote themselves to bringing down what
whites were near, while he made a little dash and brought back the
fugitive.
This was how it came about that Wharton Edwards, instead of being
pursued by a score of Shawanoes, started off with but a single warrior
trailing after him.
But it is noticeable, further, that the same pursuer carried his rifle,
or rather that of the youth; for, with the characteristic refinement of
cruelty, he meant to add this little triumph to his capture of the lad
when he should run him down and smite him to the earth.
Wharton had no weapon other than his hunting-knife, while his foe took
good care to see that a weapon was at his own command. He was the one
who, if any accident befell himself, would feel pleasure in shooting
down the lad that had never harmed him.
The sight of Blazing Arrow gave Wharton a knowledge of the situation,
and during the few minutes that he was dodging through the trees he
tried to decide upon the right course to follow.
They were but a short way from the main trail. This was clearly marked,
although it was travelled so little that in many places the overhanging
limbs interfered with one's passage. He believed he could dash along
this faster than his pursuer, and but for his anxiety about Larry Murphy
he probably would have attempted to do so, but the report of a rifle
which reached his ears a few minutes later deepened his fears and
increased his anxiety.
If he should put forth all the speed of which he was capable, it was not
likely to surpass that of the Shawanoe, who was accustomed to dodging
among tree trunks. There was little to be gained by speculating at this
stage of the contest, but he concluded to go ahead until the opportunity
was more favorable for turning his own amazing fleetness to account.
Besides, it should be stated that Wharton was not yet certain that he
could beat Blazing Arrow in a contest of speed. The Indian was a
wonderful runner, and the youth was not certain by any means that the
red man would not overhaul him when the test should take place.
"At any rate he has got to do the hardest work of his life before he
captures my scalp," muttered the lad, compressing his lips and ducking
under a limb which would have caught under his chin if he had neglected
the precaution.
He headed for the trail, darting a look behind him now and then to note
their relative speed. As nearly as he could judge, it was about the
same, but as he could not know whether Blazing Arrow was putting forth
his best efforts or not, the knowledge was of little benefit. At the
moment of striking the path, Wharton recalled a fact that had slipped
his mind until then. Less than an eighth of a mile in advance the trail
crossed a natural clearing where, for fully a fourth of a mile, not a
tree or shrub obtruded. Then the two could do their best, and the
question of supremacy would be decided, providing the red man indulged
in no treachery. Blazing Arrow dropped into the path at a point about a
hundred yards behind the fugitive, which was a little more than the
space separating them at the moment of starting.
It was necessary to keep the advantage he possessed, and to gain all he
could before the plain was reached. If Wharton should prove himself
superior to the Shawanoe, the latter would resort to his rifle, and
either kill him or wound him so that he could not run. If the fugitive
was the inferior, he must fall into the hands of his enemy; so that, no
matter how it eventuated, the situation of the youth was full of peril.
"I guess I may as well let myself out while I have the chance," the
latter muttered, a moment after striking the trail.
And Wharton proceeded to "let himself out," while Blazing Arrow, the
Shawanoe, lost no time in doing likewise.
Wharton's aim was to increase the distance between himself and Blazing
Arrow as much as he possibly could before reaching the clearing, half a
mile wide, where the way was open and the test of speed would be
decisive.
Within the same moment that he recalled the existence of the clearing he
was dashing along the trail like a terrified deer. This work proved
harder than he anticipated. The obtruding branches swished his face with
smarting violence, and more than one twig cut his forehead and nose like
the lash of a whip. He thrust out his hands to ward these aside, and
they hurt his hands.
He kept it up, however, for he was now running for life, and what is to
be compared to such a stake? But these obstructions, despite all he
could do, retarded his progress. The alarming truth quickly became
manifest that instead of gaining ground, as he had hoped, he was losing
it.
"Suppose he can beat me?" was the terrifying thought that almost
paralyzed him for the moment; "but," he added, "he hasn't done it yet!"
The Shawanoe did not utter any cry, and he was so far to the rear that
Wharton did not hear him as he came along the trail with the grim
certainty of fate. He was a marvellous runner, and he did not mean to
allow the detested youth, whose beard was not yet grown, to get away
from him.
More than once, while speeding in this fashion, young Edwards asked
himself whether he could elude his enemy by leaping aside or hiding
among the trees. Possibly he might have done it could he have drawn
beyond sight of him for a few minutes only, so that his divergence would
not be seen. But just there lay the difficulty, and he dared not make
the attempt.
It was a sight that would have tried the nerves of the bravest man when
he looked back and caught a glimpse of the Indian warrior, partly
hidden by the brushing limbs and vegetation, as he sped forward like a
furious animal, and knew it was a mortal enemy that was after him,
impelled by a hatred which nothing but death could quench.
The fugitive determined that for the time he would not look behind him.
Almost unconsciously to himself, when he did so, he lost a little
ground.
The straining vision which was now cast forward saw the light made by
the clearing or opening in front. A few more bounds and he struck the
margin of the space, which for half a mile was as free from trees as a
stretch of Western prairie. Here was the place for the supreme test, and
the youth, with a muttered prayer, bent all his energies to the task,
fully alive to the stake at issue.
Not a breath of air was stirring on this mild summer afternoon, but the
wind created by his arrowy-speed was like a gale as it rushed by his
face and lifted the short auburn hair about his neck until it floated
straight out. The arms were bent at the elbows, the chest thrown
forward, while the shapely limbs worked with the swiftness and grace of
a piece of perfect machinery. The feet doubled in and over each other
with bewildering quickness, there seeming at times to be half a dozen of
them on the ground, in the air, and to the rear at the same time.
The stride was tremendous. The handsome face of the youth was pale with
an unshakable resolve, and the thin lips were compressed, his breath
coming thick and fast through the nostrils. The hazel eyes gleamed and
the brows were knitted as with a person who means to do or die.
Ah, that was a race worth travelling many a mile to see! Had Simon
Kenton, or Daniel Boone, or Anthony McClelland, or the Wetzel brothers,
been in that open clearing, they would have stood like statues, wrapt in
admiration and wonder, for never could they have beheld before such a
magnificent exhibition of prowess in the way of speed.
Every thrilling element was present, for not far to the rear rushed a
six-foot Shawanoe, who, like the youth in advance, strained every muscle
to the highest tension. And he was a frightful object as he ran, for
his face was that of a race-horse. The long coarse locks streamed behind
him like a whipping pennant in a hurricane; and one of the stained
eagle-feathers in the crown was snatched loose and fluttered backward.
The naturally hideous face was made more so by the red and black patches
daubed in fantastic splashes over it. The sinewy chest was bare, but the
fringes of the parti-colored leggings and moccasins flickered and
twinkled in the sunlight as the Shawanoe thundered across the clearing,
his black eyes fixed on the flying figure in front, and his countenance
distorted by a passion his terrible race is so capable of feeling.
As Blazing Arrow ran, he carried the youth's rifle in his right hand. It
was grasped just in front of the lock, the muzzle pointing ahead, as
though he had but to press the trigger to bring down the fugitive
without a change of aim. The left hand rested on the knife thrust in his
girdle, the position of the two hands suggesting that he was thirsting
to use both weapons upon the lad whom he sought so desperately to run
down.