THE WOOD KING;
OR,
DANIEL BOONE'S LAST TRAIL
A ROMANCE OF THE OSAGE COUNTRY.
BY JOS. E. BADGER, JR.,
AUTHOR OF THE FOLLOWING POCKET NOVELS:
No. 59. THE TEXAS HAWKS.
No. 63. THE FLORIDA SCOUT.
No. 98. DUSKY DICK.
No. 101. REDLAW.
No. 105. THE INDIAN SPY.
NEW YORK:
BEADLE AND ADAMS, PUBLISHERS,
No. 98 WILLIAM STREET.
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1878, by
BEADLE AND ADAMS
In the office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington.
THE WOOD KING.
CHAPTER I.
LIGHTFOOT AND THE WOOD VETERAN.
Crack--_crack!_
Though faint and far away, there could be no mistaking these sharp,
spiteful reports for other than the voice of rifles. The sound was no
uncommon one for that region, which is even yet noted for its quantity
of game; half a century since "the Osage Country" was truly a hunter's
paradise.
A man was crossing the Osage river, at a ford, and though near the
middle of the stream, the water barely reached his knees. As the twin
reports came echoing across the eastern forest, the hunter abruptly
paused, bending his head, listening intently.
The rifle-shots alone could scarcely have occasioned the surprise
written so plainly upon the man's features, since this was
hunting-ground common to all--red as well as white. He himself had
fired more than once that day.
But closely following the reports came a series of short, peculiar
yells--the cries so strongly resembling the yelping of a cur-dog when
in hot pursuit of a rabbit, that an Indian sends forth when closing
rapidly upon a fleeing foe.
The hunter could not mistake this sound, nor its full significance. For
nearly half a century it had been familiar to his ear. Many a time had
it rung out upon his own trail, as he fled for dear life through the
forests of the "dark and bloody ground."
"Thar's mischief afoot--can it be that the varmints have r'ailly took
to the war-path?" he muttered, glancing keenly around. "They're makin'
this way--it's the only ford for miles--reckon I'd better hunt cover!"
The alarm came from the point toward which the hunter's face had
been turned, and as he listened, the quick, sharp yells grew plainer
and more distinct. Turning, he rapidly retreated to the shore he had
recently left.
As he neared cover, it became evident that the hunter was white; though
his face was deeply bronzed, almost copper-hued, where the stout jean
trowsers had been rolled above his knees, the skin showed clear and
white.
Nearing cover, he turned and listened. All was still; the yells no
longer echoed through the forest. It seemed as though the deed was done.
Bending forward, the hunter was clearly revealed by the bright rays of
the noonday sun. That he was old, the long, snowy locks that fell below
his rude skin cap plainly evidenced. Yet the weight of years seemed to
sit lightly upon his frame. His step was light yet firm, his motions
quick and supple. The rude garb of gray jeans only half-concealed his
great muscular development. Altogether, he was what one might well term
an awkward customer to meet in a hand-to-hand struggle, despite his age.
"No, they hain't got him yet, whoever he is," muttered the veteran.
Upon the crest of a hill, full quarter of a mile beyond the river, his
keen glance detected the form of a human being. Only for a moment; then
the tree-tops hid him from view.
Scarcely had he disappeared, when the hill-top was again occupied, this
time by a full score of men, apparently the pursuers. Again the sharp,
yelping cries came to the veteran's ears.
"It's warm for a footrace, so I'd best take to cover. Lucky the cave's
handy."
Turning, the veteran hunter strode rapidly through the shallow water,
his bare feet leaving no impress upon the gravelly bed. Two score yards
above his position a dark opening appeared in the river-bank, that,
though low at the ford, here rose abruptly into a considerable hill.
Holding rifle and powder-horn above his head, the hunter suddenly sunk
down and swam rapidly into the opening. Just before the cave-mouth the
water was several yards in depth.
Pausing just within the entrance, the hunter turned his face toward the
eastern shore. He had not long to wait.
A man dashed through the undergrowth, sprung down the sandy bank,
and ran rapidly across the level bar, stumbling at the water's-edge,
falling at full length. From his cover, the hunter could see a
knife-blade flash in the sunlight, and then the fugitive cast from him
the severed part of an arrow that had pierced his leg.
Freed from this incumbrance, he arose and dashed through the shallow
water toward the western shore. But several precious moments had been
lost, and, with yells of vindictive exultation, nearly a score of
savages sprung out upon the river-bank.
The fugitive heard their cries, and glanced back over his shoulder.
He saw several of them with bended bows, and suddenly flung himself
forward at full length in the water, at this point about knee-deep.
His ruse was successful. The barbed shafts passed over his head,
burying themselves harmlessly in the sparkling water.
A loud voice from the bank gave utterance to several hasty words, and
as though in obedience to it, half a dozen braves sprung toward the
water, the remainder bending their bows ready for instant use in case
the fugitive should arise to continue his flight.
With eager interest the white hunter watched this scene, though his
countenance showed evident relief when he saw that the fugitive as
well as pursuers were Indians. Though far from being one of that class
termed Indian-haters, he bore the race little love, for they had dealt
his heart more than one crushing blow.
Even at that distance, he could distinguish peculiarities that marked
the pursuers as Osages, once the all-powerful rulers of that vast tract
of country. Whether or no the fugitive belonged to the same tribe,
he could not tell, owing to his so suddenly burying all but head and
shoulders in the water.
Eagerly he watched the result. He saw a sudden movement of the hunted
red-skin's arms. At the same moment the foremost savage flung aloft
his hands, and fell backward, a feathered shaft quivering deep in his
brain.
With yells of rage the Osages upon the bank let fly a shower of arrows,
while the others dashed into the shallow water. The hunter's heart beat
fast as he saw the fugitive disappear beneath the surface. He thought
him dead.
But not so. With his feet braced against the gravelly bed, he had
impelled his body through the water a full dozen yards, the arrows
falling harmlessly in his wake.
Again his arms rose--once more the sharp _twang_ of the bowstring
sounded. Again the death-yell of the Osage rung out upon the air--again
his comrades yelled furiously, and then the entire party sprung forward.
The fugitive rose to his feet and uttering a single cry, dashed toward
the western shore. It was a peculiar yell--the sharp, shrill war-cry of
the Kickapoos.
A little cry broke from the hunter's lips as he heard this defiant
shout. He recognized it--and more; he recognized the fugitive for a
true and tried friend!
A peculiar cry broke from his lips--low, yet clear and penetrating.
It met the ear of the Kickapoo, and he perceptibly faltered, casting
a swift glance along the now near shore. The Osages also heard the
signal, for they slackened their pace, seemingly fearful lest they
should be drawn into an ambush.
The hunter's fingers still lingered at his lips, his gaze roving over
the enemy. The odds were long--at least ten to one. It seemed as though
nothing but death could follow his attempt to aid the fugitive.
Yet the signal was uttered, and as with renewed life, the Kickapoo
dashed through the water toward the dark opening. He knew that there at
least one friend awaited him.
The Osage at this ford is narrow; but little if any over a hundred
yards in width. Then a very few moments carried the Kickapoo to the
edge of the deep pool before the cave entrance.
"Come in, chief," guardedly called out the old hunter, as the savage
sunk down into the water. "The varmints are bethinkin' themselves of
their we'pons ag'in. Down--down, chief!"
A volley of arrows shot toward the cave, but the Kickapoo quickly dove,
and the hunter was shielded by a point of rock. The missiles pattered
harmlessly around.
Then as the Osages splashed rapidly forward, the rifle of the hunter
spoke. For the third time within as many minutes a death-yell broke the
air, and the clear water was stained with the life-blood of an Osage
warrior.
With laughable celerity the survivors scattered and buried themselves
in the water, barely keeping their noses above the surface, dreading
a volley from the cave. Nor was their chagrin lessened by hearing the
taunting cry of the Kickapoo echo out from the dark opening in the bank.
A low, hearty laugh greeted the fugitive as he rose beside the old
hunter, who was now rapidly recharging his rifle. Driving home the
leathered bullet, the white man remarked:
"Well, chief, the varmints hunted you close. But why is it? The
Kickapoos and Osages have long been friends."
"Yeh--friends now--all but Lightfoot--he en'my. Osage dogs put dust
in Kickapoos' eyes. Mek all blind--mek dig up hatchet to strike the
painted post. Osage say blood is good--Kickapoo say take plenty white
scalps. Lightfoot he say _no_. Den Osage chief he say red dog go follow
his white master. Lightfoot is a chief--he is a man. The words were yet
hot on the lips of Huspah, when he died. See! his scalp is here," and
the Kickapoo fingered the ghastly trophy that hung at his girdle.
"You rubbed the chief out, then, when his braves were lookin' on?"
asked the old hunter, evidently understanding the dialect into which
the savage had unconsciously glided, though at first using imperfect
English.
Lightfoot rapidly recounted the events that had made him an outcast
and hunted fugitive, while the eyes of both kept close watch upon the
movements of the savages beyond.
The Pottawatomies, Iowas, Foxes, Sauks and Kickapoos were growing
uneasy at the constantly increasing strength of the white settlements,
more especially of that section then known as the "Boone's Lick
Country"--now Howard county. In 1812 a plot was formed for a general
uprising, but was discovered in time to be foiled. Since then there had
been occasional skirmishing, with slight losses upon either side. But
now--in the spring of 1814--another and more dangerous plot was formed.
As he listened to the words of the Kickapoo chief, Daniel Boone--for he
was the old hunter--felt that the crisis was at hand.
The chiefs of the different tribes had gathered at the Kickapoo
village, and at the council every voice but that of Lightfoot was
raised for war. His stubborn resistance raised the ire of Huspah,
the Osage, who called him a dog of the pale-faced invaders. The next
instant he fell dead, cloven to the chin by Lightfoot's tomahawk.
The council seemed transfixed with surprise and horror at this bold
act, and untouched Lightfoot scalped his fallen enemy and darted from
the council-lodge, knowing that nothing but instant flight could save
him from a horrible and disgraceful death.
Pursuit was made, and for nearly a score miles the Kickapoo fled with
the avengers of blood treading close upon his heels. Twice he was
wounded, else he would have distanced his enemies, for the name he bore
had not been idly bestowed.
"It's unlucky our being cooped up here, just now," muttered Boone,
uneasily. "It's big news you've told me, chief, and the settlers don't
suspect thar danger. If the red-skins strike to-night, I'm dub'ous
this'll be a black day for us."
"Mebbe not strike so soon, now Huspah dead--so mus' choose 'nudder
chief to lead 'em."
"He was the head one, then?"
"Yeh."
A movement among the enemy now put a pause to the conversation. The
dark dots upon the river's surface were cautiously retreating toward
the further shore, in obedience to a peculiar signal from one of the
number, whose face, washed free of paint by the water, now showed white
and clear.
"He white Injun--Osage call him White Wolf," said Lightfoot, in answer
to a look of inquiry from Boone.
"Seth Grable!"
The words came hissingly through the tight-clenched teeth of the
old hunter, and a stern fire filled his eyes. Evidently he bore the
renegade little love.
His rifle was cocked and leveled, but as though suspecting some such
message, the white Indian took good care not to expose his precious
person. Creeping behind a sand ridge, he gained the woods in safety.
As the savages reached the forest, they uttered a loud yell, which was
echoed back from the western shore. Boone started and frowned. This
showed him the impossibility of carrying out the plan that was even
then shaping itself in his mind. The cave could not be left now. They
must wait until the friendly shadow of night settled over the earth.
But few words passed between the two scouts. Yet Boone was given ample
cause for anxiety, aside from his personal danger. Lightfoot believed
that an attack was to be made simultaneously upon all the white
settlements in the Osage Country. That very night might witness the
carnival of blood.
The hours rolled on, the sun steadily sunk in the west, until hidden
behind the tree-dotted hills, and the shadows darkened the surface
of the gently flowing river. Within the cave-mouth crouched the two
scouts, scarce breathing a word, their weapons ready for instant use,
their every sense fully upon the alert. Yet no sound from without told
of the proximity of foemen. All was silent save for the hum of insects,
the chirping of birds, the splash of some fish as it sportively leaped
into the air, or now and then the shrill, piercing scream of the great
hawk that slowly circled above the scene.
But then, like magic, all was changed.
The water swept boldly around the upper edge of the cave entrance--the
side where Lightfoot was stationed. The Indian suddenly uttered a sharp
hiss, bending his strong bow.
The water no longer flowed smoothly. Numerous bubbles dotted the
surface. The depths were discolored by sand and mud.
A dark object parted the surface, darting rapidly into the mouth of the
cave. The long hair, the draggled plumes, the dusky face were those of
an Osage.
The bow of the Kickapoo, bent nearly double, relaxed, the feathered
shaft sunk deep into the low brow of the savage. A stifled shriek--then
the body sunk below the surface, dyeing the water red with the tide of
life.
Like magic the space before the cave appeared filled with heads, as the
maddened Osages swam rapidly forward, clutching their knives, their
tomahawks, thirsting for the blood of their daring enemies.
Loud and reverberating the Wood King's rifle spoke, sounding the
death-knell of the foremost savage, who sprung half out of the water,
casting a long, glittering blade full at the hunter's heart. It was a
dying effort, and the weapon scarce penetrated the thick woolen frock.
Lightfoot plied his bow rapidly, crouching back upon the shelf, sending
unseen death in swift succession into the crowded mass of his foes.
With knife in either hand, Boone stood in the water waist-deep, beating
back the desperate Osages with the strength and vigor of renewed youth.
Though brief, the struggle was desperate and bloody. The Osages fought
against more than mortal foes. The water whirled swiftly round in
the strong eddy before the cave. Fighting with this, they gained a
foothold, only to be dashed back by the scouts, dead or wounded.
A few moments thus--then, as by one accord, the Osages sunk down
beneath the water's surface and vanished from their enemies' sight.
That this was no subtle ruse, the yells of baffled rage, that soon
afterward arose from below, plainly told.
"You're safe, chief?" hastily uttered Boone, emerging from the water,
panting heavily.
"Yeh--me all right. You hurt?"
"No--only a scratch. But come--this is our time. We must git out o'
here afore the varmints screw their courage up for another lick."
Lightfoot grunted, without speaking, but the Wood King understood him,
and smiled quietly. He knew the cave secrets better than the Kickapoo
did.
"Easy, chief. I know a way out that they never dream of. 'Tis no true
scout that runs his head into a hole with only one opening. Give me the
end of your bow--so. Now follow me carefully."
Grasping one end of the bow, Boone retreated into the cave, proceeding
with the confidence of one knowing every inch of the ground to be
traversed. For a few yards the floor continued level and smooth; then
there came an abrupt ascent, over what seemed irregular steps cut in
the hard clay. This, however, was the work of nature, not that of man.
Boone paused, with a grim chuckle. As Lightfoot gained his side, the
veteran said:
"Look up--what do you see?"
The Kickapoo obeyed. Far above his head shone a faint light, partially
intercepted by gently waving leaves. A dimly twinkling star told him
the truth. Then a cloud shot over this gleam.
"Fix yourself for a tough climb, chief. It's up the inside of a tree we
must go. You'll need all your hands and feet," cried Boone, securing
his rifle upon his back.
Lightfoot now understood all. Boone had not sought shelter in the cave
without knowing how he was to get out of it. And yet this den had often
been explored by himself. How had he missed noting this strange passage?
Easily explained. A month or more previously Boone had shot a
wild-turkey as it sat upon the tree. It lodged, and, aided by the
thickly-clustering grape-vines that shrouded the gnarled trunk, he
ascended for his game. It had fallen into the hollow. Aided by a supple
vine, he descended into the shell. The bottom gave way beneath his
feet, precipitating him into the cave. Thus the discovery was made that
was now to open to them the road to freedom once more.
Carefully feeling around, Boone soon secured the severed end of the
grape-vine, and then began the ascent. This was difficult, since the
hollow of the tree was barely large enough to admit the passage of a
human body, and little assistance could be given by the feet, since the
knees could only be bent a trifle.
Still, though age and sorrow had sapped his strength, the Wood King
raised himself to the top of the trunk, where he clung, panting and
exhausted, shaking the vine as a signal to Lightfoot. As the vine
tightened Boone peered keenly downward.
Though the tree-top had been broken off at some thirty feet from the
ground, its limbs were still vigorous, rising far above the stub,
thickly covered with leaves and twigs. Parting them, Boone gazed
downward and around, as well as the increasing gloom would permit.
The hill was nearly bare of trees, with but scant underbrush, a notable
exception to the larger hills that rose around, in this respect, since
they were densely wooded.
All was still below. Boone could hear nothing to rouse his suspicions,
and he believed that their trail was as yet unobstructed.
Beyond a doubt the Osages were ignorant of this unique passage, and so
would only think of guarding the cave by the river side. It was but
natural to think that, under cover of the darkness, the two scouts
would endeavor to escape there by swimming and diving, and their whole
attention would be turned toward frustrating this.
Thus Boone reasoned, and events proved that he was right.
Lightfoot completed the ascent easily, and then Boone led the way down
the matted mass of grape-vines, using every caution to avoid making any
noise that might alarm the Osages. Five minutes later the scouts stood
side by side at the foot of the tree.
"Come," muttered Boone, "we must strike out for our friends. They don't
dream of the danger brewin'."
"Mus' go tell Yellow-hair fust," doggedly replied Lightfoot.
Yellow-hair, as the Kickapoo called her, was the only daughter of
Edward Mordaunt, who, on one of his hunting-trips, had found the
Kickapoo senseless, almost dead, beside the body of a panther. With a
kindness almost foreign to the borderer in general, Mordaunt carried
the savage to his cabin, where Edith and her mother nursed him back
to life. By this act of kindness they gained his undying gratitude,
and it was mainly his love for them that induced him to fight against
the Indian uprising, since they too were numbered among those to be
massacred.
"Mordaunt has bin the Osages' fri'nd--surely they won't hurt him?"
"Injun don't know fri'nd now--only see white scalp. Kill, sure--all but
Yellow-hair. White Wolf say she be his squaw!"
"The black-hearted devil! But never mind. The time 'll come when he'll
stand afore my rifle, an' then he won't need no more squaws," gritted
Boone, with an anger that he rarely displayed.
"No--his scalp Lightfoot's," doggedly replied the Kickapoo.
Boone made no reply, but crouching low down, glided noiselessly down
the hillside furthest from the river, followed by the chief. Reaching
the bottom, they entered a narrow valley, intending to round the large
hill before again taking to the water. The settlements were, for the
most part, upon the other side of the Osage.
The sky was partially obscured by broken clouds, driving here and
there in angry confusion, betokening a storm. An occasional flash of
lightning would herald the deep rumbling of thunder, and quicken the
footsteps of the scouts.
Half an hour after emerging from the hollow tree, the bank of the
Osage was reached, and with his rifle secured upon a log, which he
impelled before him, Boone swam the river, with Lightfoot beside him.
Scarce pausing for breath, they plunged into the forest, heading for
Mordaunt's cabin.
"Hooh!" suddenly uttered Lightfoot, pausing and bending his ear as the
fresh breeze bore the sound of voices faintly to him.
"The varmints have found out we've gone," and Boone laughed grimly.
"Lose us, den t'ink oders--tek scalp now, _sure_. White Wolf t'ink
'bout Yellow-hair, now," muttered Lightfoot, uneasily.
"Lead on, chief. I'm old, but I can stand a little brush, I reckon, 'f
pushed," retorted Boone.
The two scouts pushed on through the tangled forest at a pace truly
marvelous, considering the gloom. And for full an hour they advanced
without pausing, until the edge of a small clearing was reached, near
the center of which stood a small, rude log-cabin.
"They've gone to bed," muttered Boone, vexedly, for time was precious
now; an hour lost or gained might be either life or death to them all.
Edward Mordaunt's voice rung out sharply in answer to Boone's hail,
demanding who was there, but a word from the old scout quickly set his
fears at rest. The scouts entered, barring the door behind them.
"Wake the women, Ed, an' tell 'em to make haste. You've got to make
tracks for a safer spot than this. Do it--you kin take my word for
it--I'll explain while they're riggin' up," hastily uttered the Wood
King.
Mordaunt obeyed without question, for he had long known the old hunter.
Yet he could scarcely believe that his peril was so great, for he had
ever treated the Osages with kindness. Still he was not foolhardy
enough to close his eyes to the truth.
He hastily prepared his arms and ammunition, with a small bundle of
food. While thus occupied, the inner door opened and two women emerged;
mother and daughter.
Lightfoot glided forward and knelt before them, bowing his proud head,
a softened light filling his eyes. He seemed about to speak, but then
suddenly turned his head.
A rapid footstep sounded just without the door, and then a loud rap
followed. Once, twice--then a clear voice shouting:
"Up--up, and away! The heathen come with fire and sword--they thirst
for blood! Away--flee, while yet there is time!"
Another thundering knock, then the footfalls rapidly retreated, dying
away in the night.