THE OSAGE VILLAGE.
Boone seemed perplexed and ill at ease. For some minutes he watched
Lightfoot as he quartered the opening like a hound searching for a lost
scent; but then a signal called the Kickapoo to his side. With a few
low words, Boone turned and retraced the route they had followed the
night before in their flight from the Osages.
The clearing that once contained the happy and peaceful home of
Mordaunt, was gained. A heap of black, unsightly ruins was all that was
now left.
Making a circuit of the clearing, the scouts knew that no human being
had been there since the rain ceased. Boone frowned, though he had
scarcely dared hope for a different result.
Pausing beneath the shelter of a tree, the scouts consulted on
their future course. Blind as the trail was, neither one dreamed of
abandoning the search until they should either rescue Edith or obtain
proof of her death.
A sudden recollection caused Lightfoot's eyes to glisten--his hopes to
rise. He believed he possessed a clue by which the broken trail might
be regained.
Several times mention has been made of Seth Grable, a mongrel renegade,
also that he boasted the possession of several squaws. Lightfoot
knew that one at least of these lived apart from her tribe and was
frequently visited by the White Wolf at her little cabin in a snug
valley beside the Osage. By mere accident Lightfoot had made this
discovery, while out hunting, and now as he recalled the lone and
well-hidden refuge, he believed Edith would be concealed there by the
renegade until the storm blew over.
"The idee's wuth a trial, anyhow," said Boone, in a thoughtful tone.
"'T any rate, we kin find whar the varmints crossed the river. Lead on."
Lightfoot glided forward, with Boone steadily tramping at his heels.
The distance was considerable, and the sun was high in the heavens
before the valley was reached. Cautiously the scouts crept toward
the little vine-covered cabin, though there was little need of their
precautions, for the nest was empty. The rain-softened earth around
retained no trace of feet--the cabin had evidently been deserted before
the storm.
The scouts looked at each other in silence. Their disappointment
was great. Another hope was gone. Would the broken trail ever be
united--the lost one found?
In dogged silence they headed up-stream. Across the river, stood the
village of the Osages, yet miles distant. If Edith had not been taken
there, they knew not what to think.
For nearly an hour they pressed on, closely scrutinizing the
river-bank, so as not to overlook any trail. Then both scouts paused
abruptly.
Now, as on the fatal night just past, the sound of firearms and human
voices raised in anger came to their ears from the direction they
were following. A moment Boone hearkened, then muttered, as he sprung
forward:
"It's the boys--they've run ag'in' a nest of the varmints. Come, chief,
we must lend 'em a hand."
The two scouts dashed forward along the river-bank at full speed,
the sounds of the conflict growing plainer and more distinct, now at
no great distance. Reaching the summit of a small hill, the scouts
momentarily paused.
Below them were the combatants--a number of Pottawatomies and the
white settlers who had followed the reckless lead of Abel Dare. A true
bush-fight was in progress. Each man closely hugged his tree, stump or
log, carefully shielding himself, while keen to take advantage of any
false move of his adversary.
Yet Boone's brow darkened as he took in the situation at a glance.
He saw that his friends were in really great peril--that they were
outnumbered, that the Pottawatomies were gradually spreading out so
as to command front and both flanks, where they could pick off the
settlers at their leisure.
He glanced into Lightfoot's face. The answer to his unspoken question
was plainly written upon the Kickapoo's face. He too saw the peril
and was eager to baffle it, though more from hatred to the tribe of
Pottawatomies, than love for the hardly-bested white hunters.
The distance was too great for Lightfoot to use his bow with effect,
and it was necessary for the success of their plans that the savages
should be terrified as well as surprised. Fifty yards below was a dense
clump of bushes, and toward this Lightfoot glided, trusting that, even
if observed, his features would not be recognized. Boone remained upon
the hill. His rifle easily commanded the enemy's position.
Reaching the cover, Lightfoot quickly fitted an arrow to the bow, and
loosing it at the back of an exposed Pottawatomie, sent forth his
shrill, fear-inspiring war-cry. Almost simultaneously the rifle of the
Wood King spoke, and his full, deep voice sent encouragement to the
hearts of the settlers.
Amazed, bewildered by this sudden and deadly attack in their rear,
the Pottawatomies leaped to their feet, glaring wildly around.
_Crack--crack--crack!_ Then hastily reloaded rifles from among the
settlers were discharged--like a shaft of light another arrow sped from
Lightfoot's covert, rankling deep in the very heart of a battle-scarred
warrior.
With a loud cheer Boone broke cover, dashing down the hill. The
settlers answer him--so does Lightfoot. The Pottawatomies believe
themselves surrounded and outnumbered. With cries of dismay they turn
and flee, leaving their dead and dying behind them.
They are not pursued far. The settlers have learned a lesson in
prudence that they will not soon forget. One of their number is dead,
another at his last gasp, while scarcely one of the others but bears
some token of the struggle. Yet the savages had suffered far more
severely, since, in all, nine dead bodies marked the accuracy of the
pale-faces' aim.
Boone drew aside with Abel Dare, who seemed far more like his usual
self, though still fitful and wild in both actions and speech. In a
few words Boone heard all he had to tell. No trail had been found
or any adventure met with until they stood face to face with the
Pottawatomies, when, without stopping to calculate the chances, the
settlers began the fight.
At this moment Jim Fosdick advanced, evidently as spokesman of the
party. He said they had accomplished what they set out to do--dealt a
blow at the enemy and secured more than scalp for scalp. That their
duty now was to help protect the settlements.
Abel Dare began a testy reply, but Boone checked him.
"They're right, lad, though you mayn't think so just now. Every man's
arms is needed thar, for thar the varmints will strike the heaviest
licks. It's right--don't say any thing ag'in' thar goin'."
"And you, too! So be it--I will work alone. Though all the rest abandon
you, Edith, I will save you, or die! For _you_ don't think those devils
murdered her, do you?" he wildly added, imploringly gazing into the
face of the old hunter.
"No, I don't. Never mind my reasons just now. But see--I b'lieve she's
alive; that I kin find her--an' I've swore that I'll git her away from
the varmints if mortal man kin do it," quietly replied Boone.
"Then you ain't goin' back with us?"
"No, Jim; the chief an' I have other work on hand."
"And I--I go too."
"You'd better go back with the boys, Abel. We two kin do all that's
needed, 'specially as sarcumvention must come into play."
"I _will_ go--if not with you, then alone," doggedly added Dare, his
black eyes gleaming.
"All right--you shall go."
A few more words were spoken and then the party separated, the settlers
carrying with them the bodies of their friends, to bury them in some
spot where the savages would not be likely to unearth them for the sake
of their scalps. The three scouts continued up the river-bank, shortly
after, crossing at the ford previously mentioned.
At mid-afternoon they paused, and composed themselves to rest, snugly
ensconced in a dense thicket that covered the summit of a hill
overlooking the Osage village. They needed rest, and could do nothing
until the shades of night fell upon the earth.
But few words were wasted in idle speech. During their tramp the
subject had been sufficiently discussed, and each perfectly understood
the part allotted to himself. Their search for Edith was to begin at
this point, since it was the village of that portion of the Osage tribe
to which Seth Garble had allied himself. Since the captive was not at
his own private cabin, she must be here.
Boone and Dare lay down beneath the cooling foliage and were speedily
sound asleep. Lightfoot, though his eyes had been sleepless for at
least forty-eight hours, remained at his post overlooking the village,
seemingly as tireless as though a mere machine.
The village seemed unusually lively and bustling, though, as he could
see, the crowd consisted mainly of squaws and pappooses, with a few
able-bodied warriors--probably a score, in all. Through his watch, he
saw nothing of Grable or Edith. Yet there was nothing in that to be
wondered at.
The sun had long disappeared when Lightfoot touched Boone and Dare, as
a signal that the time was at hand for their work to begin. The sky was
clear and cloudless, the stars twinkled brightly though the moon had
not yet risen.
"It's all understood, then," said Boone, with an uneasy glance at Abel.
"The chief is to enter the village an' find out whether the gal is in
there or no. We're to wait for him outside."
"Yes--but it seems to me a coward part to play," muttered Dare,
fingering the knife at his belt.
"It's _policy_. The chief is of thar own color, understands the lingo
as well as his own tongue. He kin go unsuspected whar we'd be found out
at a glimpse. You must see it's for the best; an', mind ye, Abel, you
mustn't strike in out o' turn, or we'll leave you to do the job in your
own way."
Dare grumbled something about its being hard to be forced to remain
idle while others worked, but agreed to obey. Then the trio cautiously
glided down the hillside and neared the outskirts of the Indian village.
This was a permanent place of habitation, where the Osages had lived
for many years, and was of a substantial nature. The village was
pitched amidst hills, to protect it from the cold winds of winter,
close to a creek that wound through the valley, only a few hundred
yards from the forest that furnished them with fuel for their meals.
Most of the huts were built of mud, with bark roofs--a few were of
stone rudely held up with clay mortar. Beyond the huts rose a stout,
commodious horse-corral, with boundaries defined by high walls of
timber, fallen trees dragged into place, strengthened by stakes planted
firmly in the ground.
At the edge of the clearing Lightfoot left his comrades, and glided
out from the trees. Crouching low down in the gloom, he glided rapidly
toward the corral, then partially skirting the village.
Gaining the wall, he paused to reconnoiter. The village was all
alive. A number of fires burned brightly. The savages were hastening
to and fro, or gathered in little knots, gossiping. There seemed
little likelihood of their settling down for the night. To enter the
lighted street was almost certain discovery, and that meant death to
the Kickapoo, now. Yet he did not hesitate long. A quick gesture, and
he was changed. A moment's fumbling altered his scalp-lock into that
of a Fox. His form seemed to sink into itself, becoming less tall,
more squat. In the grotesquely distorted features, one could scarcely
recognize the handsome Kickapoo chief.
A moment later and he was within the lighted village, stalking
leisurely along, brushing shoulders with his most deadly enemies,
unsuspected. Yet, though he had almost completed the circuit of the
village, passing within earshot of each group of gossips, lingering
near each cabin, Lightfoot gained no knowledge of the one he sought.
Could it be that she was not in the village?
He paused beside one of the cabins and listened intently. The sound
of low voices reached his ear, though but indistinctly. There seemed
something familiar in the tones of one of the speakers that sent a
thrill through his veins. With bated breath Lightfoot hearkened.
The voices ceased, and the chief heard a light footstep. Mechanically
he started erect, but instead of seeking cover, he stood out in the
full glow of the firelight, once more Lightfoot, the handsome war-chief
of the Kickapoos. The footsteps came nearer--a light form turned the
corner of the cabin, then paused, with a faint exclamation of surprise.
Only for a moment; then the plump form was clasped tightly to the
breast of the Indian scout, as he drew back into the deeper shadow.
Lightfoot forgot his mission, the peril he ran, every thing save the
presence of the Indian maiden who yielded herself so freely to his warm
embrace. Forgetful of all else, he poured soft words into her ears, for
the moment acting like a true lover, no longer the cool, calculating
warrior.
Feather-Cloud was the daughter of a Kickapoo sub-chief. She had won
Lightfoot's love a year since, but the opposition of our friend
to the tribal alliance prejudiced the old chief against him. That
Feather-Cloud was now on a visit to some friends among the Osages, is
all that need be said.
Though Lightfoot knew it not, jealous eyes were upon him. The rapturous
meeting with Feather-Cloud had been witnessed by a young warrior, who
was now creeping closer, his ear strained to catch their words. And he
soon heard enough to know that an enemy had entered the village of his
people.
The Kickapoo's first intimation of danger was in a shrill yell that
rung out close behind him, and then a heavy form precipitated itself
full upon his back. Staggered by the rude awaking as much as the shock,
Lightfoot reeled and fell to the ground.
But his surprise was only momentary. Scarce had he touched the ground
when all his faculties returned.
The Osage clutched his throat with suffocating force, his yell of alarm
ringing through the village with startling distinctness, only to be
taken up by a score of throats as the warriors sprung in a body toward
the spot.
The sinewy hands of Lightfoot rose and clutched the throat of his
antagonist, his fingers almost meeting in the yielding flesh, while
the bones fairly seemed to give way beneath the enormous pressure.
Quivering in every fiber, the Osage relaxed his grasp, and casting his
enemy from him like a child, the Kickapoo sprung upon his feet, knife
and tomahawk flashing in his nervous grip.
Not a moment too soon. From every quarter came the Osage warriors.
Behind them flocked the squaws and children. All were yelling in
confused chorus. It seemed a scene from Pandemonium.
Uttering his thrilling war-cry, the outcast chief leaped forward,
without awaiting the onset. With a motion rapid as thought, the heavy
tomahawk fell; when it rose again it was stained a bright-red hue, and
ruby drops fell from the once untarnished blade. Again and again it
descended, now drinking the life-blood of an Osage, now parrying some
deadly blow aimed at its wielder's life.
It was a thrilling sight to see that one man struggling against such
fearful odds--fighting for liberty, for life! To see the blood-stained
weapons flash in the weird flickering of the camp-fires; to hear the
fatal blow, the half-stifled exclamation, as some keen weapon pierced
the sensitive flesh; to see here a human form fall to the earth,
perchance to rise no more, or else struggle to his feet and again
plunge into the _melée_.
Fiercely, desperately Lightfoot fought, now out in the full glow of
the firelight. At first his life had been aimed at, and despite his
wondrous skill and celerity, more than one weapon had tasted his blood.
But then the name of the outcast was echoed from lip to lip, and the
cry arose to capture him for the torture-post.
Choosing rather to die at once, Lightfoot sprung upon the Osages with
desperate fury, dealing his blows with lightning rapidity, leaving
behind and around him a swath of dead and wounded. With superhuman
strength, he slowly pressed through the cordon, and then, with one
triumphant whoop, he cut down the last warrior that barred his road to
freedom, and darted forward toward the friendly forest, where, once it
was gained, he would be comparatively safe.
But even in the moment of triumph he was foiled. A boy flung himself in
the way, clasping the Kickapoo's legs with all his members--even biting
at them like a bull-dog.
Lightfoot fell heavily to the ground. Before he could arise, or regain
the blood-stained weapons that were torn from his grasp by the fall,
half a score Osages were upon his back.
A confused struggle--then Lightfoot was lifted up, bound hand and foot.
The Osage yell of triumph rung out loud and clear.
Lightfoot smiled grimly as he glanced around. He had carved his name
in broad and deep letters upon their ranks. Their victory had been a
costly one.
At this moment a cry came from the forest. The Osages answered it.
A few minutes later, a considerable body of Indians--both Osages
and Pottawatomies--entered the village. One approached and spat in
Lightfoot's face. It was the White Wolf--Seth Grable.
Making no reply, the Kickapoo glanced quickly around. A ferocious fire
filled his eye as he caught a glimpse of a white woman being led into a
cabin. In the firelight, her hair, floating loosely over her shoulder,
shone with a golden gleam.
The savages gathered together, and the White Wolf addressed them in
hot, forcible words. Others followed him, the majority supporting his
argument.
Lightfoot listened to them, his features composed and cold. Though
his life swung in the balance, he appeared to take no interest in the
matter.
Grable called for the outcast's immediate death--his death by the
fire-torture. In answer to those who advocated delay until the
entire tribe were assembled, he pointed out the great esteem--almost
adoration--in which Lightfoot had been held by his tribe before his
recent sentence, and hinted that the Kickapoos might interfere to save
him, when the Osages who had fallen by the traitor's hand must go
unavenged.
This argument carried the day, and in the blood-thirsty yells of the
savages Lightfoot read his doom.
The warriors who held him now securely bound him to a post, then
hastened off to assist in the preparations for the torture. Lightfoot
strained at his bonds with all the strength of his mighty muscles, but
in vain. The bonds were too stout to break, too well applied to slip or
come untied.
He saw the Osages collecting fuel and placing it round a post, at a
little distance from where he was bound. Escape seemed impossible.
A figure shrouded in a blanket glided past him, a fold of the garment
touching his person. Instinctively he glanced up. The figure abruptly
turned and repassed him, uttering two words:
"_Be ready._"
The glance from a bright eye explained the meaning to the captive. The
figure was that of Feather-Cloud. She was working for his life.
As though suspecting something of the kind, two braves came and stood
beside him, watching the growing of the death-pile. The respite was
rapidly shortening. Would Feather-Cloud be able to carry out her plan?
As this thought flashed through his mind, Lightfoot felt a gentle touch
upon his arms where they passed around the post behind him. He was
answered. The Indian maiden was even then at work, unsuspected by the
warriors who stood by, within arm's-length.
Lightfoot felt the bonds yield upon his feet, then upon his hands and
arms. Something cold and firm was slipped between his fingers. One hand
clutched the haft of a knife, the other that of a tomahawk.
The lips of Feather-Cloud touched his hands, and then she glided away.
The time had come for action!
Like lightning the double blow fell--death-stricken, the Osage
braves reeled back, uttering their quavering death-yells. Shrill and
triumphant rung out the war-cry of the Kickapoo as he turned and darted
toward the forest.
He was nearly clear of the village before the Osages recovered from
their surprise. The pursuit was made, swift and instant.
From before the fugitive two bright flashes illumine the scene--two
sharp reports break the air, and the pursuers falter as the
death-missiles break their ranks.
But only for a moment--then they once more dart forward in deadly
pursuit.