SURROUNDED BY DEATH.
A shrill yell of exultation burst front Lightfoot's lips as he heard
the death-shrieks behind him, and right deftly did he improve the
advantage given him by the momentary hesitation of his pursuers,
darting forward with the speed of a well-conditioned race-horse. It
needed not the clear voice that shouted encouragement to him from out
the gloom, to tell him who were the daring marksmen. Lightfoot knew
that Boone and Dare had ventured from the forest in order to create a
diversion in his favor.
But the savages quickly recovered from the confusion these shots had
thrown them into, and knowing--if only from there coming no other
reports--the number of the enemy, rushed forward with augmented fury.
Side by side the three scouts entered the woods; close after them the
Indians, yelling like very fiends.
"Sep'rate--we'll meet you at the cave--by the river, chief," jerkingly
uttered Boone.
No reply was made, but Lightfoot abruptly veered to the left, while
Boone and Dare ran on side by side. All thought of caution was
abandoned. The pursuers were too close for the fugitives to attempt
dodging, or trying to lessen the noise of their crashing footsteps. So
close were they that, when Lightfoot turned aside, the pursuers also
divided, resolved to win their prey by stern, desperate racing.
For nearly a mile Lightfoot held his vantage with comparative ease,
thridding the tangled forest with the skill and ease that none but a
thorough woodsman can ever hope to attain. After that, he came upon
smoother traveling, breaking from the wood out upon a level, grassy
tract of open ground, fully a mile in width.
The race, thus far, had not breathed the iron-limbed scout, though
thoroughly warming him up, removing the soreness he had begun to feel
from his wounds and bruises. And now as he entered the open, a clear,
exultant cry broke from his lips, and inhaling a deep draught of the
cool night-air, he bounded away over the level space with the litheness
and agility of a deer.
With answering yells the Osages followed, straining every nerve to
overtake Lightfoot before he should reach the further side. Swift of
foot were they--some of them of wide renown--yet, foot by foot, the
outcast chief left them behind.
Over two hundred yards in advance, Lightfoot plunged into the forest
again, uttering a taunting cry that half-crazed his pursuers. It seemed
as though his escape was fully assured--even the Osage braves began to
despair of overtaking him.
And yet, even in the moment of his seeming triumph, an accident
occurred that threatened to prove fatal to Lightfoot. He had not run
fifty yards after leaving the open when his foot struck a stub or
projecting root, hurling him violently against a log. He lay as he had
fallen, motionless, senseless, as if dead.
No longer yelling, but listening eagerly for the sound of footfalls,
the savages rushed on, knowing that, by pausing to hearken, their last
hope of overtaking the fugitive would be banished. On they dashed,
scrambling over the fallen tree brushing unconsciously past their
senseless foe, even casting a shower of decaying leaves upon his body,
so narrowly did they miss him.
For fully an hour Lightfoot lay there, like one dead. But then
consciousness gradually returned, and he struggled to a sitting
posture, still clutching the limb that had broken short in his hand
when he fell. Slowly recollection came to him, and he recalled the
events of that night; but clearer than all these, a golden-haired woman
stood out before his mental vision, appealing to him for assistance.
This thought seemed to put new life into his veins, and he sprung
lightly to his feet. His brain throbbed violently, and he glided to the
edge of the open ground, and peered keenly forth. Not a living soul was
to be seen. The moon now shone clear and brightly. A stiff breeze was
blowing. After a swift glance around, Lightfoot glided out from the
shadow, and began recrossing the natural meadow.
_He was returning to the Osage village!_
It seemed a foolhardy act, but the chief firmly resolved to again enter
the village, to rescue Yellow-hair, if it lay in his power. He felt
assured that she was there--that the captive brought in by Seth Grable
was none other than Edith Mordaunt.
He was not acting without due reflection. The deed would be easier on
that night than any succeeding one, for several reasons. Nearly, if
not quite all of the braves had set forth in pursuit of himself and
friends. Even if not, they would scarce suspect a second attempt, after
the first having so nearly proven fatal. Nothing would be further from
their minds than that he would again venture into the village. For
these reasons Lightfoot resolved to make the attempt. He had vowed
eternal fidelity to Yellow-hair; he had abandoned his people because of
her--he would save her from the White Wolf's fangs, though it should
cost his life.
Across the meadow he glided. In this lay his greatest danger. It was
not likely that the Osages had yet given over searching for him. Were
any of them gazing out upon the meadow, they must see him.
Nearing the other side, he slackened his pace. When within arrow-shot,
he turned abruptly to the right, and ran at full speed for several
hundred yards, then darted into the woods. By this move he hoped to
escape any ambush that might have been laid for him. Yet no sound gave
token that such was the case, as he hastened on through the forest.
Ten minutes later he stood gazing out upon the Osage village. The fires
were still smoldering, a few forms could be seen, but the place was
very quiet. Evidently the warriors had not yet returned.
There seemed little fear of his being discovered, but Lightfoot feared
taking the time that must be consumed by crawling up to the log huts,
and, crouching low down, he glided along in a circuit that would bring
him up behind the corral. This he gained in safety, undiscovered, and
then crept toward the village in the shadow cast by the rude fence.
Though he could plainly distinguish several braves sitting behind
the smoldering fires, lazily smoking, Lightfoot gained the outer row
of lodges unseen, even by the wolfish dogs that skulked round the
village. Here he paused to locate more perfectly the cabin into which
he had seen the captive maiden hurried. A few moments sufficed for
this, but then a black frown corrugated his brow.
A fire smoldered before the cabin door. Beside it an Indian crouched;
one of the smokers he had before noticed. Fate seemed conspiring
against the bold Kickapoo, for while this guard remained on duty, he
could not hope to accomplish his aim.
Lightfoot glanced keenly around. Only one other form met his eye--that
of the second smoker. All others in the village appeared buried in
slumber.
A determined expression settled over Lightfoot's face. He had decided.
Too much had been dared to hesitate now. He might never again succeed
in entering the village. He dared not risk delay, lest the lamb should
be sacrificed to the lust of the wolf.
Prostrating himself, like a shadow he glided over the ground, nearing
the cabin he felt assured contained Yellow-hair. The progress of a
snake could not have been more noiseless. 'Twas the perfection of skill.
A moment more satisfied his doubts. In range with the guard, Lightfoot
saw that a cabin hid the smokers from each other. Could he silence the
one without attracting the attention of the other, he might succeed in
freeing the captive. The risk was very great, yet he resolved to dare
it.
At that moment he longed for his trusty bow. With it he could easily
dispose of both these braves, without alarming the sleepers. And now he
had only knife and tomahawk to depend upon.
Without alarm, he gained the cabin, then crawled to the corner. The
fire was but a few feet from the door. A single leap would place him
beside the drowsy guard. Yet he feared to risk it. A single cry--nay, a
gasp--a groan would be sufficient to arouse the other watch, and then a
whoop would alarm the sleepers. This Lightfoot reasoned as he silently
moved out from the shadow into the light, a bright blade gleaming in
his hand.
Slowly, silently, scarce perceptibly, a veritable shadow of death,
the Kickapoo lessened the distance separating him from the drowsy
sentinel. Nearer, still nearer until, with extended arm, he could have
driven the long blade to the haft between the savage's shoulders. Yet
the stroke was withheld.
Noiselessly Lightfoot drew himself together. Then his left arm was
gradually extended. The moment was at hand.
The eye could scarcely follow his motions. His left hand closed like a
seal upon the Indian's mouth, bearing him forcibly backward to meet the
deadly blow dealt by the free hand. A peculiar _gritting_ sound as the
keen blade was _pressed_ lower, was all.
And yet the sound met the ear of the second watcher, and Lightfoot
heard a suspicious grunt as he arose from beside the fire. Discovery
seemed inevitable, yet the Kickapoo did not seek safety in flight.
With a sudden movement he threw a corner of the dirty blanket over the
wound, then crouched low down behind the corpse, supporting it in a
lifelike position, peering out from beneath a corner of the blanket.
He saw the savage step round the corner of a cabin, then pause, as if
undecided. By the dim light he could not detect the blood that was
slowly soaking through the blanket.
"Did you call?" he demanded, presently.
"No--I coughed, nothing more," promptly replied Lightfoot, suiting the
action to the words.
As if satisfied, the Indian turned away. The Kickapoo smiled grimly.
Noiselessly he removed the well-filled quiver from the dead brave's
back, intending, with it and the bow that lay at his side, to prop
the body in a lifelike position to guard against suspicion, while he
attempted the release of Yellow-hair.
But a new danger threatened the scout. As he worked, a dark form was
gliding nearer and nearer, coming from behind, as though copying the
example set by the Kickapoo.
Then it darted forward with a malignant sound, half-yelp half-bark, its
long fangs closing upon the spy's shoulder. It was a dog--one of those
fierce, treacherous, slinking, skulking, wolfish curs that can only be
found among the Indians.
An involuntary cry broke from Lightfoot's lips as he felt this attack,
and he sprung to his feet, tearing the cur from its hold, crushing him
to the ground with a force that snapped its bones like pipe-stems. The
slain sentinel fell forward, the plumes and long hair igniting in the
flickering blaze, sending up a bright, crackling flame.
A cry came from beyond, and Lightfoot glanced up. An Osage brave stood
out in full view, evidently astounded by the scene. And then from the
surrounding cabins came an increasing bustle that showed Lightfoot his
peril.
Stooping, he caught up the bow and quiver. With wonderful adroitness
the loop was fixed and an arrow notched. But, with another whoop, the
Osage sprung behind the cabin.
Two cat-like bounds carried Lightfoot to its corner. The Indian was
hurriedly fitting an arrow to the string. 'Twas his last action in
life; a sharp twang--a shrill yell: the Osage lay struggling in death
agonies, transfixed by the feathered shaft, and Lightfoot darted away
toward the forest, with the speed of one who knew that life depended
upon his exertions.
The village was aroused by the alarm; warriors hastily snatched up the
nearest weapon and hastened into open air. The fires were smoldering,
but the moon shone brightly.
A lithe figure darted past them with the speed of thought. Was it
that of friend, or of an enemy? Not until Lightfoot had passed the
last cabin and rent the air with his shrill, taunting whoop, did they
suspect the truth. But then pursuit was immediate. Burning with rage,
they darted after the fleeing form. Twice that night had he bearded
them--he should not live to boast of it. Were the Osage braves dogs
that a degraded outcast should thus throw dirt in their faces? The
deadly, vindictive yells answered _no_!
On Lightfoot dashed, a feeling of contempt for his pursuers banishing
that of chagrin at his double failure. But gradually the fact of his
being in danger forced itself upon him. He could hear the loud tramp of
the Osages close at his heels as he dashed through the forest; could
hear others spreading out by degrees upon either side to guard against
his doubling upon them. Were these braves swifter than any he had
before encountered? No. The change was in himself.
He was weakened by long toil and little rest; by the loss of blood as
well. The arrow shot in the thigh of the day before; the numerous but
smaller hurts received in the furious _melée_ at the village; the gash
upon the head inflicted by his fall--all combined served to weaken his
frame, to render his muscles less elastic. Every energy was brought
into play, yet he ran heavily, with difficulty, far different from his
usual light, springy leap.
Still on he fled, running for life, with the yelping hunters close upon
his track. Through the forest, over the meadow, winding through steep
hills or crossing them direct as the nature of the ground demanded;
still on he fled, desperately holding his own, though unable to
increase his brief advantage.
Still on, until an anxious look overspreads his face. The Osages yell
with increased malignancy. The ground is comparatively open, now, and
Lightfoot can see the folly of attempting to diverge from a straight
course. The savages chase him in the shape of the new moon. Only in a
direct course can he hope to escape them. And yet before him lies a
trap. This knowledge calls up that look--this knowledge draws the yells
of exultation from the lips of his pursuers.
Clenching his teeth tightly, the Kickapoo sprung forward with increased
speed. Such a pace could not long be maintained, but he knows the end
is close at hand. His fingers tighten upon the bow--brings the quiver
round upon his breast. If the end is death, he will die as he lived--a
terror to his enemies.
Across an open tract, he turned and glanced back. The Osages yelled
loudly; they fancied him securely trapped. Sending back a yell of
defiance, Lightfoot darted up the abrupt slope, forcing his way through
the thicket of scrubby pines and cedars. Beyond this lay a few yards of
open ground; then came empty space.
Leaping out Lightfoot knelt down, an arrow fitted to the string,
another held between his teeth. Thus he waited the approach of the
Osages.
He crouched upon the very brink of a precipice, at whose base, nearly
one hundred feet below, roared the Osage river. Its surface was dark
now, wrapped with shadows of the cliff, but the Kickapoo well knew how
it looked as the sullen roaring came to his ears.
Plainly as though at midday he could see the swift current tearing
madly along, dashing itself into spray over the sharp, jagged crests
of scores of bowlders that had, from time to time, dropped from the
face of the cliff. The passage was not an easy one for a boat in
broad daylight; what then would be the fate of a swimmer in midnight
darkness--if one should leap down from the hight above?
The Osages came on boldly enough, though they knew that, at bay,
an awkward customer awaited them. But they had been sorely smitten
that night--they thirsted for this man's blood with a vengeance that
overpowered the fear of death.
As the first head showed above the thicket, the hunted outcast's bow
twanged loudly, and a muffled yell, as the head sunk down, told how
steady had been his nerves. Maddened to frenzy, the dead man's comrades
leaped out upon the open, resolved to end all by one desperate rush.
But another _twang_ mingled with their cries--another dusky form reeled
back, the death-yell dying out in his throat in a husky gurgle.
And then the hill was occupied by the Osages alone!
As he loosed the second death-winged arrow, Lightfoot turned and
boldly sprung over the precipice, his wild war-cry sounding strangely
thrilling as it soared up from the depths below. It ceased abruptly.
Then came a peculiar sound. Was it the sullen plunge of a body into the
water, or the dull _thud_ of a human form striking flatly upon some of
the jagged bowlders that pierced the waters surface?
These questions asked the Osages. But not long did their indecision
last. With eager cries they ran along upon the precipice-edge, making
for a point where the river-bank was low. Dead or alive they resolved
to recover the body of their terrible foe.
But Lightfoot was not dead. Besides the great distance, he had to run
the risk of falling upon some of the immense bowlders, which, in the
gloom, were invisible. Knowing this, he yet retained his presence of
mind, and, though expecting death to follow, leaped for life.
Straight down, feet foremost he descended, one hand clutching the arrow
in his quiver, though with arm pressed close to his side. Striking the
water with almost stunning force, he sunk until his feet struck bottom
with a force that doubled him up in a ball. But then he shot up,
springing half out of the water, half-stunned, bewildered, confused,
but alive!
With barely consciousness to keep afloat, he made no effort to avoid
the rocks. And perhaps 'twas as well, for the current carried him
through the perilous passage in safety, though more than once the
sharp, knife-like edges of the flinty rock cut through his skin.
Then the river-bed widened, and the stream flowed more quietly.
Lightfoot had partially recovered from the stunning shock, and now swam
rapidly on, hearing, above the sullen roar of the waters, the yells of
the Osages upon the bank above. He easily divined their purpose, but
felt little doubt but that he could balk it.
As the bank grew lower, he was forced to keep close in to the shore
to avoid the moonlighted space beyond, and the race was so close that
he could hear the rapid tread of the Osages as they rushed toward
this point. Still he passed the danger in safety, and then turning
upon his back he glanced back. Several Indians were already in the
water, eagerly looking for some trace of their enemy. Grimly smiling,
Lightfoot swam on, little heeding his aching bones.
Half a mile below, he reached the ford, mention of which has so
frequently been made in this story. As he stood erect in the shallow
water an acute pain ran through his left leg, and he fell forward. A
quick examination told him the truth. His ankle was badly sprained; so
severely that further flight was not to be thought of. To save his life
he could not have walked a half-mile.
Then Boone's parting words flashed upon his mind, naming the cave by
the river as the rendezvous. It was possible that his comrades were
even then awaiting his coming.
Sinking down in the water Lightfoot swam toward the entrance, uttering
as he did so a signal often made use of between himself and the Wood
King. But no reply came; again, with the same result. He knew then
that the old hunter had not arrived, and, despite his own danger, a
thrill of pain agitated his mind. He had learned to almost worship the
noble-hearted woodsman.
Swimming into the cavern, Lightfoot crawled up on the sandy beach,
half-fainting from pain and exhaustion. His labor that night had been
really Herculean.
But then he turned and peered out upon the river that lay half in
darkness, half-revealed by the silvery moonlight. He gave a start and
dashed the dripping hair from his eyes. Two black dots were visible
upon the surface. Then two human forms reared themselves upright,
standing in the shoal water. They were Indians--Osage warriors. Their
object was plain. They had swam down here to intercept their foe's
escape, if alive, to secure his scalp if his dead body should float
down the river.
Lightfoot frowned deeply and felt of his weapons, for the darkness
rendered eyesight useless. The bow was still strung, though the string
was somewhat lax, from being water-soaked. Rubbing this forcibly, he
succeeded in rendering it fit for use. The quiver still retained its
arrows; the girdle at his waist still supported the hatchet and knife
given him by the faithful Feather-Cloud. Again he smiled grimly. Though
crippled, he could yet make a stern fight for life.
But then a new thought struck him. He would avoid the fight if
possible; and the tree above offered him the means of hiding until all
search was over, as he believed.
Along the cave floor he crawled, reaching the hollow tree with
difficulty. Creeping inside, he loosened enough of the decayed wood to
cover up the entrance, then clutching the grape-vine, dragged himself
up to the mouth of the hollow. Ensconcing himself securely among the
dense boughs, he drew up the vine, coiling it beside him. And then,
utterly exhausted, he sunk into a sort of stupor, for it could scarcely
be called sleep.
This stupor lasted until the sun was up, and was then only broken by a
shout from below. Bewildered, half asleep, he listened. Voices come to
his ear up through the hollow tree. He knew then that the cave had been
searched while he slept, and that the enemy had discovered the passage
he had used. And then he saw what a fatal accident his sudden awaking
had caused.
His start had dislodged the coiled grape-vine, so that it fell down
into the hollow trunk. And now it became taut, jerking from side to
side as an Indian tried to drag himself up. Desperate, Lightfoot drew
his hatchet, and at one stroke severed the vine. A muffled yell came up
from below, then a heavy fall, followed by shrill cries of triumph as
the Osages discovered the cleanly severed vine. They had found their
prey.
Instinctively Lightfoot clutched his bow and started to descend the
outside of the tree. But a twinge of pain reminded him that escape by
flight was useless. And then a yell from the hillside below called his
attention to a number of Osages running up to surround the tree.
Coolly the Kickapoo waited until the savages were within a score
yards of the trunk, then his bow sent a feathered shaft deep into the
breast of the foremost brave. Startled, the survivors broke for cover,
but another missile overtook them, and Lightfoot yelled defiantly as
another victim was added to the heavy price demanded for his life.
For a time all was still. Not an Indian could be seen; not a missile
was discharged at the Kickapoo, though his position could be fairly
defined. Once their chiefs had doomed Lightfoot to the stake; now they
resolved that a similar death should be his.
A whiff of smoke came curling up the hollow shell. Lightfoot drew back.
The Osages yelled madly. The sport was fairly begun. How would it end?
How could it end but in the death of the hard-hunted outcast!
Thicker and more dense grew the smoke. A dull, sullen roaring was
audible as the flames entered the shell, eating greedily into the
rotten wood. The leaves began to shrivel and turn black. The intense
heat drew great beads of perspiration from the skin of the Kickapoo.
The forked flames shoot out of the hollow top. Still further back draws
the outcast, now fully exposed upon a limb. His hair begins to shrivel,
his flesh to crack. His torture is excruciating, yet he, with a defiant
shout, echoes back the yells of the Osages.