VENGEANCE RUNS A RED ROAD
It helped much that Hal Crawford had hunted with Mohawks and had worked
his way during these frozen months across an unknown wilderness. Now,
heading into the northwest, he had need of all his woods lore, all his
hard iron strength, all his sheer fighting frenzy.
Of this last he had no lack; indeed, his mood was little short of
actual madness, and the more he thought about that note from Art
Bocagh, the more infuriated he became. He cared much less about himself
than about the men who trusted him. The murder of Phelim Burke had
formed his resolution to torture Maclish to the uttermost; but the
treacherous slaughter of his men smashed this resolution, wakened in
him a furious resolve to kill the burly Scot at the first chance, and
in default of him, those who followed him.
During two days and nights he pressed through unbroken woods, throwing
caution to the winds, driven by the insurgence of cold fury which had
become his reckless master. With the third morning, all the sky was
black with magnificent storm-clouds massing up from the south--huge
silver-edged billows, pile upon pile and turret upon turret, ranked
before and behind as though spelling the immensity of the heavens
and spanning that awful depth into the infinity beyond. Stillness
abode in the air that morning, a dreadful and expectant stillness of
nature, though now and again the cedars shook to the distant mutter of
crepitant thunder.
Midway of the morning, Crawford struck into the trail of the
Assiniboine war-party and followed it furiously. Toward noon, lightning
began to streak across the dark heavens, and rain threatened at every
moment. Just as the first breath of the rain-bearing wind was felt, a
tremendous thunderbolt crashed into the trees a half-mile distant. Hard
upon that pealing reverberation, Crawford loped into a small opening
and ran slap upon two Stone Men standing above a dead deer; the roar of
the thunderbolt had drowned the sound of the shot.
They saw Crawford ere he sighted them. One of the two flung up musket
and let fire, the second hurriedly reloading empty gun. Crawford had no
time to prime and fire. Dropping his own gun as the slugs whistled over
his head, he whipped out knife and tomahawk, and the keen little axe
whirled in air like a streak of vivid light. This was a new weapon-play
to the Stone Men, and the Mohawk cast split scalplock and skull of the
first. The second warrior was ready with his knife, but Crawford smote
him terribly; and two men lay under the singing pines with a reeking
five-point star slit in each brown forehead.
The pines were singing now, sure enough; the storm hurtled down with
a howl of wind to shake the high trees, torrents of rain blurring the
horizon, thunder volleying and rumbling over the black sky. The back
of winter had broken in storm, and now was come a second and greater
upheaval of nature to complete the work. Through the thick of it drove
Crawford, on his trail, disregarding all precaution, until in the midst
of the afternoon he was brought to swift sanity. Somewhere wood smoke
fought against rain and wind, and catching the pleasant reek of it, he
regained his lost caution.
He sniffed the fragrance of birch and cedar, paused to get direction,
found the richer scent of fresh meat abroil, and scouted the nostriled
warning until he came upon the camp of the Stone Men, lying below
him on a long hillside. There were the sodden warriors huddled about
fires, others bringing in game, muskets piled near by with powder-horns
protected against the wet by blankets. Over all lifted the roaring
blast of the storm, the thundering pæan of destruction that swept
earth and sky, and between the bursts of rain and wind broke livid and
ghastly leven-flashes.
Men paused cowering in this stour, and Crawford might have circled the
camp and gone on his way had he not caught sight of Maclish stalking
about. Sight of the man brought up Crawford’s gun, but he found that
by some carelessness his powder-horn had come unstopped and was empty.
With an oath he flung it away, hurled the musket after it, and settled
down to wait.
The storm raged on more fiercely, then gradually lessened as evening
approached. When twilight fell the rain had become a steady downpour,
the thunder had crept across the horizon, and Crawford was stealing
down toward the glimmering fires, the noise of his approach drowned by
the streaming swish of the rain. All too well was it drowned, in fact.
Crawford was not a rod from the fires and the piled muskets, when an
Assiniboine coming in with a load of wood went stumbling over him, and
let out one startled howl ere the tomahawk took his life.
Upon this, Crawford leaped down the hillside, a wild and dripping
figure streaking down the slope in great bounds. The redskins raised
frightened yells and broke in mad panic. In this confusion of shouts
and rain-blurred figures, Crawford lost all sight of Maclish. Fury
spurring him, he gained the nearest fire, scattered it, and sent the
brands whirling in among the powder-horns--brand after brand, whirling
and smoking and bursting into flame again with the fall. Next instant
Crawford was away, heading blindly into the darkness, while the bellow
of Maclish was drowned in the bursting explosion of the black sands of
death. Then, as Crawford darted into the gloom, he lifted his head and
sent up the fearful blood-yell which even to these far redskins was
known in all its dread implication--the Mohawk war whoop.
“_Sassakouay!_” he shrilled it, and again. “_Kouay! Sassakouay!_”
Leaving that token to chill their blood, he struck out across the wet
night. No man could follow this unseen trail with any speed; dripping
branches slapped him as he ran, trees were thick, the darkness was
impenetrable; yet Crawford kept going after a fashion. He had failed to
smite Maclish, but in the destruction of their powder he had dealt the
enemy a shrewd enough blow.
Hour after hour he kept going forward, until toward dawn he halted and
burrowed for shelter. He wakened with sun in his eyes and found the day
clear as crystal, windless, incredibly warm; spring was at hand in the
north, and the snows nearly cleared from the ground.
Now Crawford made good progress, unarmed save for knife and axe, intent
upon keeping ahead of the Stone Men, speeding toward the northwest.
With afternoon, however, he made a frightful discovery. A musket-shot
crashed out somewhere to his left, and two minutes later a wounded deer
broke cover almost beside him, swerved in hot panic, and darted off.
Crawford dropped from sight, in time to see an Assiniboine warrior pass
on the trail of the beast.
Crawford followed, driven now by hunger. When he heard the finishing
shot, he ran in swiftly and caught the warrior with empty rifle. The
axe-throw missed, the redskin sent up a long yell among the trees,
knife clashed on knife; the end of this matter was that the body of
the slain deer tripped his slayer, which was crude justice enough.
Presently Crawford took up his trail again, bearing a load of fresh
meat.
He was now cognizant of his danger--knew that he was between the main
body of the Stone Men and their outflung advance parties. By next
morning, these had picked up his trail. Smokes went up far and near,
while Crawford fled steadily on into the northwest, gaining rougher
and more open country, covering ground rapidly. The signal smokes died
away. During two days he pressed on at top speed, saw no further signs
of the enemy, and began to feel certain that he had flung off all
pursuit.
Then, abruptly, fate tripped him.
Crawford was following a steep hillside and came to a broad scar where
earth and trees had been riven away to form a drop of twenty feet. As
he skirted the verge of this little chasm, a stick flew up between his
legs. Crawford fell forward, the loosened earth gave way, and he was
sent plunging head first with a small avalanche of earth and boulders.
His descent came to crashing stop, and the senses were knocked out of
him.
When he wakened, it was hard upon sunset, and a stunning sense of
unreality oppressed him, for voices were sounding close at hand.
Crawford found himself unable to move, buried nearly to the shoulders
in loose earth and gravel. He looked up, and a species of paralysis
seized on him at what he saw--not ten feet from him were five men, four
of them Assiniboine warriors, and the fifth Maclish!
Crawford stared. He saw that all five were weary and hard-run, and
realized that they had been following his trail. Thus far, they had
not seen him, but discovery was inevitable. Sight of Maclish somewhat
gratified him. Those cropped ears did not show for the long hair that
now covered them, but the starry scar on the forehead was ineradicable.
Phelim Burke was somewhat avenged, for Crawford could clearly read the
changes in the face of Maclish, the things stamped there since his last
sight of the man. Bestiality had come forth, stark animal fury--that
branded star had stung him deeper than any other wound could have done.
Spent as were his four warriors, he still seemed vigorous. He was
striding up and down, as they tore at their food, and shook one red
fist at the encircling forest.
“I’ll have ye yet, ye souple deil!” he muttered. “Mark Maclish, will
ye? I’ll put marks on ye that the fiend himsel’ will look twice at!
I’ll----”
The whitish eyes of Maclish fell upon the head and shoulders of
Crawford protruding from the hillside talus. For one moment the man
stood petrified--then, with a bellow to his men, hurled himself forward.
And thus was Hal Crawford trapped and taken.
Now, Maclish was not a man of wisdom, but of mere animal cunning. Into
the Stone Men he had injected his own dream of capturing the Star Woman
and thus forcing the Dacotah to a humiliating peace. That is, the
younger men were so minded, for the older men of the tribe did not care
to meddle with the Star Woman; but the smashing personality of Maclish
drew all the more reckless warriors after him in torrential enthusiasm.
Had Maclish been wise, he would have sent back for his main force and
awaited their arrival to attend to his prisoner. He could not do this.
He was wildly exultant, striding back and forth, cursing Crawford
furiously, roaring forth orders and raging like a madman in his
triumph. The four Stone Men with him, nothing loath, readily gave up
their rest for a more exciting pastime, and were glad to have the sport
all to themselves. They gathered wood and heaped the fire until it
became that rarest of things in Indian country--a crackling pillar of
light, illumining all things distinctly, the ruddy reflection glinting
against the carpet of the sky until it was visible for miles. Perhaps
Maclish counted that it would bring his outflung scouting parties to
the scene.
Crawford was dragged forward to two saplings standing six feet apart.
He was lashed by each wrist to one of the saplings. The thongs about
his ankles were then cut--and a warrior went staggering with a howl of
agony as Crawford’s foot caught him squarely in the throat.
“So ye had to give a blow, eh?” Maclish came forward, pawing his red
beard, and those glittering eyes of his devoured the captive. “Ye’ll
dance for that! Try a kick on me if ye dare, and I’ll punch out an eye
for ye!”
He bared his knife. Knowing the threat would be made good, Crawford
stood quiet. Maclish came to him, ripped with hand and knife, and
stripped Crawford naked to the waist. Then, with a chuckle, Maclish
grasped the Star of Dreams and snatched it savagely away.
“A bonny toy!” he said softly, gloatingly, and thrust it into a pocket.
Then he looked at Crawford and grinned. “You’ll have more than a pair
o’ cropped ears when I’m done with ye. Put your mark on me, eh? Now, ye
dog, I’ll have payment!”
He turned, bellowed an order at his redskins.
Crawford stood in silence. He had felt the thongs give slightly about
his right wrist, guessed that he had been lashed with frayed snowshoe
lacings, and took heart. After all, he might yet go down fighting!
Phelim Burke’s words came back to him, and the warning of Frontin,
“Keep the Star safe!” The Star was lost now, and it seemed that this
loss spelled his ruin. Hopelessness surged in upon him--then he cast
off the feeling and became again himself. What was the Star, after all,
but a thing of metal and stone?
The Stone Men were gathering more wood, and gleefully laying it in
a circle about the captive and the saplings--a wide circle, not too
close, as Maclish directed them. Crawford worked at those right-hand
thongs, unobserved, and presently felt them snap. His wrist came
free, so that he swiftly gripped the sapling to keep the fact from
being noticed. This small freedom gave him no advantage, for he was
weaponless and could not release his other hand, stretched high to the
left-hand sapling. His heart sank, and hope fled again.
With their circle of brush completed, the Stone Men now brought flaming
brands from the blazing pyre and set them into the brush, which crept
into quick flame. They stood off, and with jeer and taunt began to goad
the captive, using the few English words they knew, while Maclish held
up the Star of Dreams and bellowed imprecations.
The flaming circle grew, and became a torture-ring that surrounded
Crawford with hot radiance. Not waiting for the victim to be roasted,
one of the eager redskins now came leaping in, bearing a longer brand
from the fire, and began to buffet the helpless man with this. The
other three joined in this play, leaping in and out of the fiery
circle. Their brands smote Crawford across breast and back, and
set sparks to his woollen breeches. He clung to the saplings, half
suffocated, his body flinching from the brands, fire sweeping through
his veins; the circle of brush was all clear flame, the heat of it
intolerable.
Then one of the redskins came close--and he had his chance. Loosing
his frenzied grip on the sapling, Crawford sent his free right hand
to the red throat. A howl went up, a chorus of wild yells and oaths;
the others stared at the sight of Crawford gripping their comrade. He
did more than grip, however, for he brought up his knee in a furious
blow, and the red figure went limp. Crawford dropped the body headlong
into the flames, and two others darted in to rescue the senseless man.
Maclish bellowed astounded curses, and Crawford fumbled to get his
left hand clear, but could not. He was helpless to free that hand, and
so stood waiting, arm above head.
The three remaining redskins now abandoned their senseless comrade,
obeyed the roars of Maclish, and brought in more wood. At this instant
there occurred a singular and almost incredible thing. Across the
firelit space glittered a swift flash of steel, gleaming more quickly
than eye could follow. From the sapling which held Crawford’s left
wrist bound, came a slight thud. Crawford, startled, looked up to see a
tomahawk sunk into the sapling--and his wrist was free.
The darkness gave birth to a horrible scream, the Mohegan war whoop.
Already Maclish and the Stone Men were leaping for their weapons. A
musket roared, and one of the warriors pitched down. Across the open
space flitted the painted, half-naked figure of Le Talon, knife in
hand, whoop rising into the night. Then Maclish roared at his men.
“Alone! He’s alone, fools----”
A musket crashed. The two remaining Stone Men hurled themselves at the
old Mohegan. By this time Crawford, well clear of the fire, had been
guided to Maclish by that roaring bellow, and rushed at him barehanded,
hurts and agony forgotten in a lust for blood. The frightful pain of
his cracked and seared body only goaded him into more maddened fury.
Maclish had descried that blackened figure, and whirled to meet it.
He drove in a blow to the burnt body that stopped Crawford with sheer
shock of the pain; then lunged forward to finish it, knife glittering.
In this play Maclish was too slow. Crawford, recovering, struck the
steel aside and launched a staggering blow which crushed lips and
teeth and dyed the red beard a darker scarlet. Then the knife bit
into him; in agonized frenzy of pain, he struck again and again, went
staggering down with Maclish beneath him, and found his enemy limp and
unresisting. Somehow, he had driven a blow home.
Crawford, impelled by a mad urge, tore at the man’s clothes and next
instant had the Star of Dreams in his hand. Now he groped for the
fallen knife, seized it, and came to one knee for the blow. He paused,
glancing around. One of the two Stone Men was motionless, Le Talon
was locked with the other in grunting combat. So the old Mohegan was
actually alone! A laugh shaking on his lips, Crawford lifted the knife
to drive it home into Maclish--no silly thought of mercy now!
In the motion, darkness came upon him, and he pitched sideways. For an
instant, as his hurt body rolled on the earth, his brain wakened to the
sharp pain; then it was dulled again.
Five minutes afterward, he came to himself. His head was in the lap of
Le Talon; the chief, still panting, was pouring water over his face.
Crawford sat up, groaned sharply, then fought off the overmastering
weakness and struggled to his feet.
“Maclish--where is he?”
“The Red Bull is gone. Careful! My brother is hurt and badly wounded.”
The Mohegan rose, put out an arm, caught Crawford as the latter reeled.
“Gone!” Fury roused Crawford anew. He still held the Star of Dreams,
but the body of the Scot had disappeared. “After him, quickly! He can’t
go far--after him, Mohegan! He must be destroyed at all costs----”
Calmly, Le Talon showed his right thigh, where a great knife-gash had
ripped across the muscles in a hideous wound.
“The chief of the Loup nation is alone,” he said. His grave and
impressive manner steadied Crawford at once, gave him immediate poise.
“He cannot run through the woods after the Red Bull. His friends the
Dacotah are not close; we must hurry to reach their camp before the
Stone Men come upon us.”
Crawford swayed, then sank down weakly; Maclish had escaped him this
time, and with good reason. He felt the chief running deft hands over
his body, rubbing bear-grease from a little pouch into the burned skin,
binding up a knife-slash across his ribs whose flow of blood had ebbed
out his strength and robbed him of his prey. Presently Crawford rallied
and returned these services, bandaging that frightful slash across the
chief’s thigh and learning how Le Talon had come to intervene at so
opportune a moment.
The Mohegan had come with one party of Dacotah, while Frontin led
another, sent by the Star Woman to meet Perrot and Crawford. Sighting
the glow of Maclish’s fire on the sky, the Mohegan had left his
party to investigate. There had been no time to return and get the
Dacotah--therefore he had acted after his own fashion. Now, rising, the
chief collected the trophies which were his. One Stone Man had fallen
to his musket, two to his knife. When he came to the groaning warrior
whom Crawford had gripped, he calmly added the fourth scalp to his
belt. Then he limped back.
“Ready! My brother’s medicine is very strong. Where is Metaminens?”
Crawford rose, steadied himself under the giddy swirl of pain.
“I left him with Black Kettle and came on--they are behind the
Assiniboines. He is well, but too weak to travel.”
Crawford broke off in curses at thought of how Maclish had escaped him.
Hopeless abandon came upon him, and with every movement sending fresh
torture through his body, he made a brief gesture to the redskin.
“Leave me. Go on by yourself. No use trying to get away.”
Le Talon, in one fierce glance, comprehended the situation. He smiled
grimly.
“Very well, my brother shall see that a chief of the Loup nation does
not fear to die with him.”
“Plague take you!” Crawford laughed suddenly. “Lead the way, Sagamore,
and I’ll follow. You’re right; I’ll not whine like a sick dog because
my hide is sore. After all, I have the Star of Dreams again!”
The chief picked up a musket, used it as a staff, and set out into the
darkness.
The words of the Mohegan had summoned up all Crawford’s iron will,
and he drove himself onward. His upper body was a mass of sears and
blisters, his skin cracked and blackened, his flesh scorched; the least
movement sent quivers of agony through every complaining muscle and the
knife-wound across his ribs had let out much of his strength. He set
will to conquer flesh, and succeeded, though every slash of whipping
tree-limbs and bushes in the darkness brought new pain. Old Le Talon
was scarce in better shape. That one knife-slash had nearly hamstrung
his leg and each step was dragging torture, yet the grim chief forged
ahead in silence, feeling his way by instinct toward the distant camp
he had left.
For an hour the two men stumbled on, staggering, limping, slowly
reaching the limit of mortal endurance. Then it was the Indian, whose
fountain of strength was more severely drained, who gave way. Le Talon
leaned on his musket and uttered a low groan.
“The eyes of Le Talon are dim,” he said faintly.
“Send up a yell,” gasped Crawford.
The chief lifted his head, drew a deep breath, sent a cry quavering
toward the starry splendours above. Crawford, leaning weakly against a
tree, suddenly started erect; to that cry came an answer, a response in
a voice that he knew. A hoarse shout broke from him.
“Frontin! _Au secours!_”
“Ay, cap’n,” came the faint reply.
Thus heartened, the Mohegan got out his firebag, got a spark in his
tinder, got a tiny blaze running into the heart of a dead birch. In
five minutes the fire was being hastily stamped out again, and Frontin
was rushing up to them in the darkness, with him a dozen eager young
Dacotah warriors--comprising both his own party and that of Le Talon.
Frontin was bursting with news, and poured it out hurriedly in the
darkness.
“We found the Star Woman, cap’n!” he exclaimed. “That’s Le Talon with
you, eh? We ran onto his camp and were waiting to get his report on
the fire-glow in the sky. That rogue Maclish has a cursed big force of
men--we caught one of the Assiniboines and made him talk. Eighty or
ninety warriors all told. We can’t break through to reach Perrot.”
“He’s safe enough behind them,” said Crawford.
“Death of my life! What’s the matter with your voice, cap’n? You croak
like an old raven. And there’s a most devilish queer odour around here,
like burned meat----”
Crawford broke into a laugh.
“Burned meat! For once you spoke a true word----”
Frontin caught him as he fell, still laughing, and passed into
unconsciousness.