A FIERY ORDEAL.
The Wood King did not notice the pause of Abel Dare, nor did he make
the discovery that he was alone, until fully a mile had been traversed.
Then, as he repeated an unanswered query, he turned around.
The young man was not in sight. Believing him to be close at hand,
Boone uttered a low whistle, to hurry him up. But there came no answer.
Again and again, with increased volume, the signal rung out; but the
result was the same. No answer came to the impatiently listening ears.
Wonderingly Boone began retracing his steps. What could have happened?
Surely no serious accident, or he must have been alarmed.
His soliloquy abruptly terminated. A faint sound met his ear that,
at first, he thought might be the strayed, but then he knew better.
Instead of one pair of feet, there were a full score. The Osages were
once more closing upon him.
For a moment the Wood King listened as though undecided what course to
pursue. By pressing forward in that one originally pursued, he might
possibly escape detection, but it would almost certainly be fatal to
Abel Dare, who, ignorant of the crooks and turns of the trails, would
easily become bewildered and thus fall an easy prey to the savages.
Reasoning thus, Boone struck into a trail that bore abruptly to the
right, gliding rapidly along.
For a while he believed he would escape without being sighted by the
Osages, but then this hope died out. As he turned an abrupt curve in
the trail, he caught sight of a dark figure gliding toward him. There
could be no mistaking it; the moonlight was still too clear for that.
The figure was that of an Osage warrior.
A collision was inevitable. At nearly the same moment, the savage
caught sight of the pale-face, and drawing his tomahawk, flung back his
arm for a cast, uttering the shrill yell of discovery. Quick as were
his motions, the Wood King anticipated them, and with a spiteful report
the long rifle sent its leaden pellet crashing through the Indian's
brain, turning the cry of triumph into a shriek of horrible agony. Then
a corpse lay quivering upon the rocks.
For a moment Boone almost despaired. In answer to the yell of the now
dead savage, cries were echoing from every point of the compass. The
wood-ranger was surrounded. Since entering the rocky tract, the Osages
had scattered, some entering each one of the numerous trails that
branched off from the main one, so that, by Boone's backward movement
in quest of Abel Dare, he had glided into their very midst. Death or
capture seemed inevitable.
Still the Wood King was not one to tamely submit while a chance
remained him. Knowing that the yell and rifle-shot would draw the
savages directly to that spot, he darted forward past the dead body, on
the faintest chance that this trail was now unoccupied by other than
himself.
Scarcely had a hundred yards been traversed ere a shrill whoop rung out
from the right, telling that his flight was discovered. Clenching his
teeth, Boone darted ahead with all the speed he could bring into play
over such a rough trail. Bounding over bowlders with the activity of
one in his prime, scrambling up or climbing down an abrupt ascent or
descent, the Wood King fled from his enemies, who were now fairly upon
his track. A thrill of renewed hope pervaded his being as he became
convinced that his enemies were all behind him; that the slain savage
had been the only living obstacle in the way of his flight.
Having more than once explored this strange tract of ground, Boone
improved every little advantage, losing no time in making useless
turns, heading direct for a place of refuge not far distant, where he
hoped to elude his persistent pursuers. Evidently the Osages divined
his purpose, for they pressed on at reckless speed, more than one
coming to grief upon the jagged rocks in their mad haste. Their yells
rung out loud and piercing. Boone's brows contracted as he thought of
the result should their cries arouse some of the wandering band of foes
ahead, and enable them to cut off his flight. Then he smiled grimly at
the wild, improbable idea.
The rock-bed was cleared, and the hunted scout darted forward with
accelerated speed. A narrow, gravelly tract was passed; then came one
of sand, thickly covered with coarse grass. Beyond this the grass grew
more rankly, with straggling oak and thorn bushes. Through this Boone
darted, heading straight as the crow flies, with the nearest savage two
hundred yards behind, now running in stern silence, straining every
muscle to the utmost in the endeavor to overtake the fugitive before he
could reach the covert for which he was heading.
On through the stiff, stubborn bushes Boone dashed; then another belt
of grass lay before him. The end was now near at hand, and he felt
invigorated. Again the savages yelled, this time partaking more of
chagrin than anticipated triumph. Boone smiled grimly, his head bent
forward, his steps carefully calculated.
The nature of the ground changed again. It would give beneath his feet,
springy, elastic. Occasionally a few drops of water would be dashed
aside. It resembled the edge of a swamp; the mud, though growing soft,
was not sticky. The grass began to grow in irregular patches, with
black spaces between. Here and there the moonlight was reflected back
from water. Still beyond grew a dense wall of something grayish brown.
This was the hiding-place toward which Boone had been tending.
In fact it was a large shallow pond, covered with a dense growth of
wild-oats, reeds and bushes. The water was nowhere deeper than a man's
hight. Amidst this thick-laced growth a fugitive might lie hidden
within arm's-length of an enemy, without being seen.
Suddenly Boone raised his head. The yells of his pursuers were echoed
back from the opposite side of the pond. Faintly glimmering through
the undergrowth he could distinguish a camp-fire. Evidently a party of
savages had been resting there until aroused by the shouts of their
kindred, and were now spreading out to intercept the game that was
afoot.
Even had he not resolved upon it, there was now no other course open
to the Wood King but to seek refuge in the pond, and he hastened on,
bounding from one tussock to another like a deer in full flight.
Suddenly he disappeared from view of the savages who had paused at the
edge of the pond. He had sunk down in the water, crawling forward until
the dense grass was reached. These he carefully replaced behind him,
and then listened intently.
All was still save the rustling of the fresh breeze swaying the grass
and reeds. What devil's plot were the savages hatching? Why did they
not search for their prey? This course Boone had counted upon their
following, feeling sure that while they were thus engaged he could
manage to steal away unseen. While wondering, he cautiously loaded his
rifle, and then, noiselessly as possible, pushed on toward the middle
of the pond.
For half an hour he stood waist deep in the water, anxiously listening
for some sound by which he might judge of the enemy's movements, but
in vain. But then his face was upturned, and he sniffed quickly at
the air. A faint trace of smoke was perceptible--and yet the wind
was blowing away from the camp-fire he had seen. Could it be? An
involuntary exclamation of horror broke from his lips. Only too plainly
he read the truth.
_The Indians were setting fire to the reeds and grass!_
But would it burn? Eagerly Boone felt of that growing so thickly around
him. It cracked and crumbled beneath his hand. It was dry as tinder
to within a foot of the water. And now the smoke was thicker and more
dense.
Hastily he plunged on, seeking for a spot where was open water, but
in vain. The reeds grew everywhere. Then he paused. A warning sound
came to his ears. It was the roaring, rushing voice of the devouring
element, crying aloud for its victim.
Crushing a handful of the stuff, he placed it upon the pan, then
discharged his rifle. A spark caught. Tenderly he blew his breath upon
it. It flickered--grew larger--then died out. And the roaring of flames
grew louder and nearer, and the smoke was almost unbearable.
Slinging the rifle on his back, Boone cut and slashed at the
stout-stemmed grass and reeds, flinging them from him in handfuls,
clearing a space around. The sweat rolled from his face--not alone
from the violence of his exertions, for the air was now hot and
parching--like that of an oven. Already he found it difficult to
breathe.
Sinking beneath the surface, he tore at the muddy bottom, scooping up
great handfuls, and then daubing it over his head and face. Then he
tore off the woolen hunting-shirt and wound it round his head and neck.
He could breathe more freely now, since the smoke was excluded. And,
too, it shut out the horrible glow that now lighted up the scene, and
deadened the sickening roar.
Again and again he dipped beneath the surface to cool his aching
temples; then as he felt the intense heat, the falling particles of
the reeds and rushes, Boone knew that the fire-fiend was upon him, and
inhaling a long breath, he sunk beneath the surface, his head touching
the cool, muddy bottom. Clinging to the slimy roots, he lay there until
it seemed as though his lungs would burst. Then the long-pent-up breath
came forth. For a few moments longer he resisted, then rose to the
surface. Though the breath he inhaled seemed blistering his throat,
Boone gasped with delight. It was renewed life. But then the heat
seemed melting his very brain, scorching the woolen garment that now
steamed like a furnace, and again the hunter sunk to the bottom.
Twice was this repeated, then as a cooler current of air struck the
shrouded head, he tore the bandage free and glared around. A broad wall
of flame was gradually receding. The surface of the pond seemed one
living coal. A second glance showed him this was the water-soaked part
of the growth, too green to blaze up.
The fiendish yells of the savages came indistinctly to his ears above
the crackling roar. He started and bent his ear keenly. Then his face
lighted up. From one side there came no yells. It seemed as though the
savages had deemed it impossible for the pale-face to live through
the fiery ordeal, and had all flocked to cut off his retreat to the
opposite side to that on which the fire had been started.
Without reflecting that, notwithstanding the silence, some might have
been left to guard this point too, Boone plunged forward, thrusting the
glowing stalks down into the water as he proceeded, feeling that this
was his only chance of escape. To wait until the fire was out and the
smoke-cloud raised from the surface, he knew would be fatal. Then the
keen-eyed savages would espy him, when captivity or death must follow;
for he was too greatly exhausted to flee for life now.
Hurriedly he pressed forward, too hardly bestead for time to think of
using much caution, for he must gain the undergrowth beyond before the
flames died out, or be discovered. Gaining the shallow water, he crept
forward, crouching low down, with drawn knife, ready to sell his life
dearly. But no alarm was raised as he gained the edge of the pond. That
side seemed deserted.
With a muttered prayer of thanksgiving, the Wood King pressed on with
as much speed as he could extract from his weary, sorely-tasked limbs.
At length he sunk down behind the first line of bushes, and glanced
back.
The flames had swept the pond clear to the further shore, and were
now rapidly dying out. Flitting here and there, he could just discern
several human forms. They were the Indian, and he knew, by their
actions, that his flight had not been discovered. Still, knowing that
his trail would eventually be found and followed, Boone dared not
give way to the drowsiness that was stealing over him, and so arose,
pressing steadily on until the rock-bed was gained. Here his trail
would be lost. Knowing this, he felt that he was saved, and kneeling,
rendered thanks to the One who had so wonderfully preserved him.
Yet he dare not halt here for the rest he so greatly needed. He knew
that his trail would be followed to the rock-bed, and that thoroughly
searched by the savages before they would allow such an enemy to
escape. So he wearily pressed on, through the gray light of coming
dawn, shaping his course by the knowledge that Lightfoot must be
impatiently awaiting his coming at the cave by the Osage.
Clearing the rock-bed, he struck a direct course for the rendezvous.
The cool morning breeze greatly revived him, and partially dispelled
the drowsiness. Once he paused. There came to his ears the faint sound
of yelling, from the far right. Though he knew it not, it was the
discovery of Abel Dare by the Osages under Seth Grable.
Half an hour later Boone discovered two smokes: the nearest light and
fleecy, the other dark and heavy, arising, as he calculated with a
peculiar thrill, from the vicinity of the cave. Was it a signal kindled
by Lightfoot to hasten his coming? This interpretation did not satisfy
him, though he could think of none other.
Both smokes were before him, almost in a direct line. Hastily advancing
to the opposite swell, he crept along until he could look down into
the valley. From a small grove of trees beside a tiny creek, arose the
smoke. Even as he looked, a body of horsemen filed out into the open
ground. A wild cheer broke from his lips, and leaping up, Boone ran
forward, waving his hand as a signal.
The party instantly halted and seemed about to turn back into the
grove, but then appeared to recognize the comer as a white man.
Breathlessly Boone gained their side, but not until he spoke did they
recognize him. Black mud had dried upon his face and hair. His skin,
what little was visible, was burned to a blister, blackened with smoke.
A more deplorable looking object could scarcely be imagined.
Amid their hasty questions, the eyes of Boone were anxiously fixed upon
the smoke-column beyond the prairie. Reason told him that Lightfoot was
too good a scout to kindle such a beacon when so many enemies roamed
through the country. Abel Dare might have done it, but was he there?
Boone doubted it.
"Boys," he said, speaking hurriedly, "I believe that smoke means danger
to a friend of ours--one true as steel, though his skin _is_ red. I
mean Lightfoot, the Kickapoo chief. Will you lend a hand, or must I go
alone?"
"Nary 'lone--not much!" cried Jim Fosdick. "You think the reds is at
the devil's work over thar--wal, we jest kum out skelp-huntin', an'
these 'll do as well 's any others, 'specially as we kin save a fri'nd
by wipin' 'em out. What say, boys--be I right?"
Every voice was raised in assent, and then Boone leaped up behind the
lightest weight, and gave the word for hard riding. From the next
valley they heard rifle-shots coming from the direction of the smoke.
Upon the next ridge human voices were borne to his ear; the yelling of
exultant savages. And the smoke grew blacker and blacker, rising in a
tall, sloping pillar.
The party grew more excited. Knife-points were used as spurs. Snorting
with pain and excitement, the horses thundered on at break-neck speed.
The prairie was passed, the timber began, the ground grew more broken;
but the smoke-column now floated above their heads.
"'Light and tie," cried Boone, leaping to the ground. "We kin go faster
now afoot, an' the horses' hoofs would tell the heathen we was comin'."
Rapidly the settlers obeyed, and then hastened across a densely-wooded
ridge. From its summit Boone saw that his fear was well-founded. From
the hill that crowned the cave, the smoke arose. The red flames were
bursting from the hollow tree. _And seemingly standing amidst the
roaring fire, was a human figure!_
Down the hill they glided, across the valley, then up to the last belt
of bushes, unheard, unseen by the yelling demons above. As their rifles
cracked, a wild cry broke from their lips. The human form leaped out
from the tree, its garments ablaze, holding a flaming bow in one hand.
Down--down, until it reached the ground, with a dull, sullen _thud_!
Unheeding the cry in their excitement, the savages broke cover and
rushed in a body toward the figure. At that moment the settlers poured
in a deadly volley, then charged up the hill, uttering their terrible
war-cry.
Over a dozen braves fell--the others seemed petrified with horror. But
as the settlers came closer, the survivors turned and fled with all the
speed left in their bodies.
In hot pursuit the settlers followed--all but the Wood King. He rushed
to the spot where the man had fallen, and tore the still smoking
garments away. A groan broke from his lips as he recognized the body.
It was that of Lightfoot.
Boone knelt beside the body of his comrade. Then he started abruptly
back. A hand moved--glided swiftly to the charred belt, clutching the
hot handle of a knife. The chief's eyes opened, a mad fire burning in
their depths. He struck viciously at the kneeling form. Boone caught
the hand and held it fast.
"Chief--don't you know me--your friend?"
Slowly a change came over the blistered face, the fire softened in his
eyes, and the weapon fell to the ground. The mouth opened--a husky
gurgle followed. He could not speak. He had breathed the scorching
flames too long.
Great tears rolled down the Wood King's face, for he knew now that
his friend--tried and true, though with a red skin--was dying. But
he dashed them aside, as Lightfoot made a peculiar gesture. One hand
traced a circle in the air then touched his own bare and blistered
head, afterward motioning toward a dead Osage that lay near.
Boone read the pantomime aright, and shuddered, but he could not refuse
the last request of a dying friend. He dragged the Osage near, then
averted his face. Lightfoot partially raised his body, and tore the
scalp from the gory skull. Then he shook it aloft, a horrible sound
parting his lips.
Boone turned quickly. The outcast fell back. He had died while
attempting to sound his exultant war-cry.