THE CHIEF'S PERIL.
The face upon which Edith Mordaunt's eyes fell during the momentary
glare of the lightning, was indeed that of Lightfoot, the Kickapoo
outcast.
Even as his daring ruse seemed fully successful, he heard the double
report--the wild yell of angry vengeance that told of his friends'
discovery by the Osage braves. He knew that Yellow-hair was in peril
most imminent, and the knowledge nearly crazed him.
Like a madman he turned abruptly and rushed back toward the spot
where he had left his friends, caring nothing for the risk he himself
run--thinking only of _her_. Bewildered by this new alarm, taken by
surprise by the desperate rush of the outlawed chief, the Pottawatomies
allowed their enemy to slip through their fingers, when the game was
fairly their own.
Halting for nothing, Lightfoot dashed on at top speed, fearing lest
he should be too late. He sprung into the little opening with drawn
hatchet and knife.
He heard Edith shriek, and thus guided, he sprung to her side. A brawny
Osage stood bending her head backward by the long hair, a blood-stained
tomahawk brandished on high.
With a fierce, grating snarl, Lightfoot leaped at his throat. Then
followed a swift stroke--the savage writhed in death-agonies at the
feet of the Kickapoo.
"Lightfoot save you, or die!" muttered the chief, as he gathered the
trembling form to his broad breast.
He sprung forward a few steps, then faltered, his eyes dazzled,
blinded by the unusually vivid flash of lightning that shed around the
brightness of noonday.
A dark form leaped before him--a heavy weapon fell with a dull
_thud_ full upon the unprotected head, and Lightfoot sunk lifeless
to the ground. Edith shrieked faintly as she recognized the stricken
form--then, with a dim sense of being tight clasped by strong arms to a
broad breast, her senses reeled and she fainted.
And Boone, the Wood King?
He fought bravely, desperately, with the strength, skill and activity
of renewed youth. He struggled on while a gleam of hope remained--until
he alone of that little band of fugitives was left upon his feet. All
were down--either dead, dying, or senseless.
Then he thought of his own safety. Flight, instant and speedy, alone
could save him, before the scattered Osages could fairly surround him.
Calling into play every muscle of his stout frame, he sprung forward,
swinging the long, heavy rifle before him. Two savages fell before its
tremendous sweep, and an opening was made.
Through this Boone darted, striking down, broken and helpless, the arm
that was raised to stay his flight. Then a wild thrill ran through his
veins as he realized that all his foes were behind him--and a single
exultant yell broke from his lips as he darted away through the
forest, entering upon a stern, desperate race for freedom, if not life.
His shout told the Osages all, and they dashed after him with yells
of horrible rage, that not even the deafening peal of thunder could
entirely drown.
At least the defiant cry of the Wood King was productive of one good
result, whatever might be its effect otherwise. Lightfoot was just
staggering to his feet, when Boone broke away, and drawn off by the
cry, the Osages passed him without notice.
Still confused by the heavy blow that had felled him to the ground,
Lightfoot supported himself by a bush, and stared around him. The storm
was beginning to rage, the lightning-flashes followed each other in
rapid succession, lighting up a soul-harrowing scene.
A glimpse of a woman's garments roused Lightfoot from his half-stupor,
and with an inarticulate cry he sprung forward and sunk to his knees.
Breathlessly he waited for the next gleam of lightning.
In that score of seconds he suffered the tortures of the damned. He
knew that he knelt beside the dead. His hand rested shudderingly upon
the shattered skull of a woman. He feared it was that of Yellow-hair.
The character of Lightfoot may seem exaggerated--overdrawn, but not
so. True, he was an Indian among a thousand, but such a being really
lived and breathed. Edith Mordaunt had, by her tender care and skillful
nursing, brought him safely out from the very shadow of death. He owed
his life to her. He was ready to repay the debt; for her sake he had
renounced his tribe, his people, his faith--for her he had become an
outcast. He would have died to spare her one moment's pang. And now he
believed he was kneeling beside her dead and mangled body.
The flash of lightning came, and a cry of joy broke from the Indian's
lips. The blood-stained hair beneath his hand was gray--almost white:
that of Mrs. Mordaunt.
His cry was echoed by that of another being--faint and rattling. As the
lightning died away, he turned quickly toward the point from whence it
proceeded. All was intensely dark: he could distinguish nothing.
Again the lightning cast a brilliant glow over the scene, and revealed
to Lightfoot his peril. Only a few yards distant an Osage crouched low
to the ground, a bent bow in his hands, the barbed shaft pointed full
at his heart.
This much he saw, and then the glow died out. At the same moment a
faint _twang_ met his ear, and a burning pain seemed tearing deep to
his very heart.
With an angry snarl he sprung forward, grappling with the Osage. It was
an unresisting enemy. Not a quiver or a moan followed the knife-thrust.
With the loosing of the arrow, the spirit of the Osage brave had fled
to its happy hunting-grounds. True to his teaching, his last act was to
deal the enemy a blow.
Lightfoot felt at his breast A few drops of blood stained his fingers,
but the arrow was gone. He probed the wound--it was but a trifle. The
strength of the dying brave had not equaled his determination.
The Kickapoo arose, and by the quick-following flashes of lightning
carefully scrutinized the spot. To his joy he found nothing of
Edith--because by that he knew that she still lived.
In the alternate gloom and brightness he glided around, stooping
momentarily over each one of the dead savages. He was an Indian. He
knew how to strike his living enemies sorest. On the morrow the Osage
tribe would wail over their scalpless dead.
Standing erect, he flung back his head as though bidding defiance to
the lightning's shaft, the thunder's bolt, as the long-pent-up storm
broke in all its fury. The wild, thrilling scalp-cry of the Kickapoos
resounded through the hills and forest--then the outcast chief turned
and disappeared in the darkness.
And now the flashes came less frequent, the thunder-peals less heavy;
the rain falls in torrents, as though eager to wipe out forever the
evidences of crime and bloodshed that stained the earth's fair surface.
Believing himself the only survivor, and knowing that his only hope of
escape with life was in speedy flight, Boone darted away through the
forest, closely followed by united Osage and Pottawatomie braves. In
that darkness, only relieved by the dazzling flashes of lightning that
left all in even denser gloom than before, by force of contrast, flight
was not only difficult but dangerous.
Yet the veteran ranger, thoroughly skilled in the craft that had been
the study of his life, wound his way through the tree-trunks growing
so thickly around, over fallen timber and other obstacles, with truly
marvelous celerity and ease. But after him came others equally as
expert, fired by a burning thirst for vengeance upon the one who had
that night dealt them such a bitter blow.
Boone had already shaped the details of a plan by which he hoped to
escape his pursuers, and now bent every energy of his body to the first
point: that of gaining a few yards greater lead. With this purpose he
dashed ahead at a dangerous pace, though knowing that a single misstep
might end in his death or capture.
At this point the storm broke in all its fury and in it the scout
recognized a truly welcome ally. The rain fell in torrents, pattering
loudly upon the tree-tops, that soon began to shed their watery load
upon the undergrowth beneath their boughs.
A few moments later Boone suddenly paused, pressing close to the
gnarled trunk of a huge tree that had been momentarily revealed by the
glare of lightning. Here, holding his breath, trying to still the loud
throbbings of his heart, he stood with knife tight clenched in his
hand, to await the result of his ruse.
One, two, half a dozen savages dash by, running with hushed voices now,
for they dread losing their prey, since the tempest so nearly drowns
his footfalls. Then others pass by panting, losing hope with each step.
A minute passes--then a wild yell comes from beyond the point toward
which the savages had chased a phantom. They had missed their prey.
Boone smiled grimly.
"Yelp on, ye blood-thirsty curs--yelp on till your throats split with
hate an' fury. The trail's broken--the nose of a true-bred hound
couldn't splice it now," muttered the Wood King.
Rapidly gliding a few yards to the right, Boone paused beneath a
broad-spreading elm tree, and clutching the ivy vines that shrouded
its trunk, clambered up to the limbs. When nearly a score feet from the
ground he paused, and crouching down upon the gnarled limb, listened
intently.
Numerous signals filled the air, the voices of birds and beasts, but
the veteran smiled contemptuously at the frail disguise, perfect as the
imitations were. On such a night not even the panther ventured from
its den, still less the feathered tribe. He knew that the savages were
beating the forest for him, knowing that he had put some such ruse in
operation as the one described.
"Let them hunt--an owl couldn't spy me out here in the night, an'
I reckon they'll tire of it afore day," muttered Boone, carefully
shielding the lock of his rifle from the rain-drops.
More then once during that long night he could hear the cat-like
footsteps of the savages, as they prowled about hoping to light upon
some trace of their enemy. But then all grew still, save the dull,
monotonous patter of the rain-drops upon the already saturated leaves.
Gradually the old hunter yielded to his fatigue, and leaning back
against the gnarled tree-trunk, slept on peacefully and calmly as
though in a bed beneath a hospitable roof. And when he awoke, the
new day had dawned, the sun-rays were just tinging the crests of the
tallest trees.
The storm was over, and the fresh-washed face of Nature appeared doubly
beautiful. The feathered denizens of the forest were in full voice, and
for a moment the Wood King lay listening, half-dreamily, for the moment
forgetful of the dread events of the past night.
But then he remembered all; once more he was the stern wood-ranger.
Listening intently, his keen eyes roved over every foot of ground
visible from his perch. A rapidly-flitting bird--a pair of playful gray
squirrels met his gaze; nothing human--nothing of the savages who had
hunted him so hard the night just past.
Noiselessly he turned and forced the wiping-stick into his rifle. The
barrel had dried during the night. Then he loaded it carefully, packing
powder into the vent, priming it and then scraping the flint. He knew
that his life might depend upon the fidelity of his rifle.
With the lightness of the velvet-footed panther, Boone dropped to the
ground, thumb upon hammer, finger touching the trigger, and glared
around. But his suspicions were unfounded. No enemy was near. They had
abandoned the search in despair, knowing that, their blows begun, there
could be no rest for them while a single pale-face drew breath in the
Osage country. Night and day they must labor, or a fearful retribution
would overtake them.
Cautiously, with ready rifle, Boone retraced his steps toward the
opening that had been the scene of death. He had no hope of finding any
of his friends alive, yet he could not restrain the impulse that urged
him on.
He stood upon the edge of the opening. The scene of the massacre was
marked by the snarling, scuffling forms of half a dozen wolves. As the
hunter strode forward, they slunk away, howling lugubriously.
Stout-hearted, iron-willed though he was, Boone felt a thrill of
horror creep over his frame as he gazed down upon the torn and
trampled ground. A few tattered fragments of clothing--a number of
bare, dismembered bones, nothing more. The four-footed scavengers had
completed the work of their brother wolves in human form. This was all
that was left of the true-hearted settler and his wife. The hunter
turned pale even through the deep sun-dye, and fierce words gritted
through his tight-clenched teeth.
"May God's curse rest upon the black-hearted devils, until every
mother's son o' them is like these poor critters! To think that only
yest'day they was all well an' hearty, an' little Edith--ha!"
He paused abruptly in his mutterings and glanced hurriedly
around--almost wildly. Could it be? Only _two_ skulls were
visible--only two! Then where were the others? Those of Edith and
Lightfoot?
"Kin it be they got off? Sure I saw 'em both fall!"
With heart throbbing painfully the old scout reached the vicinity,
fearing the worst--scarce daring to hope.
Then he paused, glancing quickly toward the forest. The sound of
footsteps rustling among the undergrowth caught his ear, and he
crouched down behind a scrubby bush, with rifle cocked in readiness for
use.
A human figure stepped into view, followed by another. Boone sprung to
his feet, for he recognized them. They were white men--settlers.
"Fosdick--an' you, Kingsley, is all well at the settlements?" eagerly
cried Boone, springing forward.
"Yas--but thar's b'en black work 'mong the outlyin' cabins, it seems.
So much fer trustin' the red devils too fur--ef all 'd 'a' be'n o' my
mind, this wouldn't 'a' happened, fer lack o' hands to do it with,"
growled the burly borderer.
In cooler blood, though, even Fosdick was forced to admit that _all_
the Indians were not bad, since to timely information given by several,
the "Boone's Lick Settlement" was saved from almost entire massacre,
and the insurrection nipped in the bud; only a few of the more isolated
cabins were destroyed and the settlers killed.
"How did you chaince to hear of this so soon?"
"Abe Dare brung us word--"
"Abe Dare--then the varmints didn't kill him 'th the rest?" echoed
Boone, in astonishment.
"No--he's thar by the cabin--or rather what _was_ the cabin, 'th some
o' the boys, a-pickin' up the old folks."
Boone hastened to the spot, and found the truth had been told. Here
too the four-footed wolves had been at their horrible feast. Around
the still smoldering ruins the bones of the ill-fated settlers were
scattered.
The hunter found Abel Dare pale and stony--sadly changed by that
night's events. Boone wondered if he yet knew all, but feared to put
the question that would decide his doubts.
From the talk of the settlers he learned how it came that Dare had
escaped the massacre of his adopted parents, for the young man spoke
never a word. Pale and icy stern he worked on, hollowing out a rude
grave to contain all that remained on earth of his loved ones.
That evening Abel Dare had visited the Mordaunt cabin, for Edith
was his promised wife. On his return home he met the little son of
a neighbor, going in quest of assistance. By an awkward fall his
father had broken a leg. Abel returned with the boy, and by that act
of kindness, in all probability escaped death. The fracture was a
simple one, and he managed to set it. Scarcely had he succeeded, when
the little boy spoke of a bright light over the hill-top. Its position
roused Dare's fears--he believed it to be from his own clearing. At
top speed he hastened there--but too late. The tragedy was over. His
friends had rushed forth from the blazing pile, only to meet death at
the hands of the demoniac savages. He could see their ghastly bodies
lying in the full glare of the fire, with the yelling, exultant fiends
dancing around in mad glee.
His rifle sprung to his shoulder, and the hammer fell; but with a
simple _click_. In his mad race through the forest the flint had fallen
out. This discovery recalled his senses. The savages numbered over
a score; to attack them now would but insure his own death--and he
resolved to live _for vengeance_. With this thought uppermost in his
mind, he turned and hastened at top speed for the settlements, never
faltering once on the long trail, his muscles nerved by the sight he
had just witnessed. He found the settlement greatly excited. Some
friendly Indians had betrayed the plot for its destruction. Yet half a
dozen men answered his appeal, for the most part single men, hunters
and scouts--the ones who were now with him.
In silence Boone listened to the plans--if such they could be
called--of the scouts. They swore vengeance upon the tribe of
Pottawatomies in general. An Indian was an Indian to them; whether
their hands had shed _this_ blood mattered not. "A life for a
life"--true border law--this was their creed.
"An' thar drops number one!" snarled Jim Fosdick, throwing up his
rifle, as a dusky form stepped out into the clearing and advanced
toward them.
"Stop!" cried Boone, knocking up the weapon, sending the ragged bullet
hissing over the tree-tops. "That's a true fri'nd--hurt him, an' you
must deal 'th _me_!"
"He's a Injun," muttered the scout, sullenly.
"But his heart's white; he resked his life last night to save the
Mordaunts--"
"What--what did you say, old man?" cried Abel Dare, rousing from his
apathy, his face flushing, his eyes glowing like living coals.
"Be cool, boy; 'tain't so bad but it might be wuss," muttered Boone,
uneasily, beckoning for the Indian to approach, for Lightfoot had
started toward cover at his unceremonious reception. "I don't
think--that is, I hope the gal is alive."
Abel Dare sunk to the ground in a nerveless heap, with a groan of
heart-rending despair. This new blow, following so closely what he had
already undergone, broke down his forced composure, and he wept like
a child. Boone motioned the men aside. He knew that it was better so;
these tears might ease the over-tasked brain, and keep it from utterly
giving way.
By his directions, the scouts gathered the remains of Mordaunt and
his wife together, and placed them in a shallow grave, while he and
Lightfoot searched the vicinity in the faint hope of finding some
trace of Edith. But their efforts were unavailing. The heavy rain had
obliterated all footprints.
Boone closely questioned the Kickapoo, but instead of throwing any
light upon the subject, his statement rendered the uncertainty still
deeper.
On recovering his senses, he had followed on after the Indians who were
hunting for Boone, mingling with them in the darkness without fear of
discovery. He soon learned that Edith was not with them, but neither
was the White Wolf, Seth Grable. Still hoping to learn something
of her--and resolving to free her, if need be, at the cost of his
life--Lightfoot kept near the savages, even after they abandoned their
hunt for Boone. They returned to the opening, to find their own dead
_scalped_. Their rage and shame were delicious morsels to the Kickapoo.
Carrying these to the hill, they hid the bodies in a gully, then set
forth on their mission of blood. Knowing that Edith would not be taken
upon such a tramp, Lightfoot left them and searched elsewhere; but all
in vain. He could find no trace of either her or Grable.
"But we _will_ find her, if alive--I swear to it!" and then the two men
crossed palms; in each other's eyes they read the same resolve.
At this moment Abel Dare came up, ghastly pale, his eyes glowing like
those of a madman's. In husky tones he called upon the men to follow
him--that he would lead them to strike a blow for vengeance. The scouts
seemed to catch the infection--they cheered wildly and then followed
the lead of the half-crazed man.
Only Boone and Lightfoot held back. Yet they did not expostulate. They
knew how useless that would be.