COLEOLA AND NEHONESTO.
After slaying the Indian who had pursued her from the hunted Peoria’s
cave home, Kate Blount continued her flight unmolested. She ran forward
quite rapidly until her limbs grew weary, and her gait dwindled down to
a fast walk. She had noted the ground over which she had passed a few
brief hours before with Swamp Oak, and now knew that she was hurrying
toward Cahokia creek.
Suddenly a chorus of wild yells burst upon her ears, and with a
throbbing heart she ensconced herself in the top of a fallen tree, from
whence she witnessed the conflict between the war-party, her father and
friends.
She saw that the Indians did not seek the lives of the trio, and the
countenances of the whites told her that they were going to fight to
the death--that they, seeing their cause hopeless, would force the
red-skins to slay them for self-preservation.
And well, too, she knew that her presence would change the tide of
affairs, and to preserve the life of her father--preserve it, perhaps,
for a fate worse than death by the tomahawk, she slew Big Fox-Fire, and
became the avengers’ prisoner.
When the yell which announced Coleola’s appearance on the cliffs
opposite the war-party, and Kate beheld the mad Snake Queen, a pallor
flitted over her cheeks, and she glanced at her father, who was bound
to a sapling scarce five feet away.
“An unpitying demoness has arrived upon the scene,” he said, returning
her fearful look with one full of sadness. “Coleola can rule the
passions of this band of red-skins, as supremely as the master the
actions of his slave. Girl, expect no mercy at her hands; the bare
sight of her has dissipated all my hopes of escape.”
While he spoke, the Snake Queen and her followers descended, and
crossed the creek by wading.
Coleola’s dark orbs flashed fire when they fell upon her late captive,
and scarcely had she emerged from the water, when with a panther-like
yell she darted forward and halted before the fair white girl.
Her passion kept the Indians aloof, and with distended eyes they
watched her wild, mad movements.
“The she white serpent crept from the hole in the ground and slew
Segagi!” she hissed, and with a dextrous movement she uncoiled the
serpents that encircled her neck, and thrust them forward until their
forked tongues almost touched Kate’s face. “Yes,” she hissed, more
fiendishly than ever, “in the great forest, a prey to the wolf and
panther, lies Segagi, Coleola’s most trusted spy. And does the White
Snake hope to boast of her shot, behind the walls of the great fort?”
She paused, expecting a reply, but the brave girl rewarded her with
none, and striking her cheeks with the whip-like tails of the snakes
she drew back a pace.
“The pale girl must talk to the Manitou!” she continued, “for Coleola’s
snakes shall writhe in her bosom when the fair skin has been torn away.”
A shudder swept to the hearts of the captives at this terrible
announcement. The face of Oliver Blount grew white as snow when he
looked upon his daughter, and thought of the fate that the furious
Snake Queen had marked out for her.
The leaders of the war-party did not attempt to interfere with the
Delaware demoness; they feared her as they feared the evil spirits;
and there were many who believed that she was the natural daughter of
Watchemenetoc, for no one, not even the white-haired chiefs, could tell
how and when she first appeared to the Delaware tribe.
From Kale Blount her eyes swept to the form of the wood Hercules, and a
terrific yell pealed from her throat as she sprung before Doc Bell, and
glared upon him with the ferocity of the whelp-robbed jungle tigress.
“Wal,” said the hunter, calmly, “I hup I see you. It’s been a long
time since we’ve met. I b’lieve I war a prisoner in yer town then, and
it fut’hermore occurs to me that I left that old sorcerer, Conestoga,
whom you called yer husband, as dead as Indians ginerally become. Ye
couldn’t keep Doc Bell in the ring, eh, Coleola!”
The Snake Queen remained unmoved until the hunter uttered the name of
his victim. Then a cry of rage parted her lips and she stepped nearer,
her eyes spitting their anger into Bell’s face. But, the old hunter
finished his sentence undaunted, and returned her insane glare with a
look of calmness.
He had raised her anger to the highest pitch attainable, and when he
saw her long knife flash from beneath the tunic which habited her giant
frame, he gave himself up for lost, and smiled upon the deadly blade.
With a muttered anathema the Snake Queen threw the steel aloft, seeing
nothing but the slayer of her lord, forgetting, in her eagerness to
drink his blood, the tortures she could inflict upon him; and contrary
to her vengeful resolves, decreeing to him a comparatively painless
death.
The rattlesnakes writhed around the tawny arm thrown aloft, and seemed
intent upon reaching the blade held far above her head--the blade that
trembled on the scent of death. For a second the mad-woman glared at
the hunter without striking, and then she stepped back to deliver the
blow with a tiger-like spring.
The Indians saw this, and held their breath. The other captives could
not avert their eyes from the doom of the giant, their companion in
misfortune.
“White dog, die!” shrieked Coleola, and like the panther darted upon
her victim.
But the knife never reached the hunter’s heart; an arm as red as that
of the would-be murderess’ interposed, and when she gazed upon the
intruder, she beheld him planted as firmly as the oak between her and
the hunter!
It was Nehonesto!
“The Snake Queen must reach the big man’s heart through Nehonesto’s,”
he said, calmly returning the flash of the baffled woman’s eyes.
“He is Nehonesto’s brother, and Nehonesto will die for him. Now let
Coleola strike! now let her throw her snakes upon the Ojibwa.”
A cry of rage welled from the Snake Queen’s throat, and she retreated
several feet, tearing the snakes from her arm as she executed the
movement. Her eyes were fixed upon Nehonesto; she saw no other form
than his, and as she paused, with the rapidity of a flash of lighting
one of the rattlers went hissing through the air!
The Ojibwa saw it, but did not move. He merely threw his knife arm
before his face, and flung the serpent aside with a dexterity that
drew a shout of applause from the red spectators. He flung the snake
away with all his strength, and with a shriek of horror he saw it wrap
itself around the throat of the trader’s daughter!
A shout of triumph cleft the air;--it came from Coleola’s throat; and
the second snake had left her arm when Nehonesto darted toward our
heroine!
He griped the immense serpent--immense for a rattlesnake--with his bare
hands, and tore it from its dreadful embrace, with such fury that it
snapped in twain, leaving the tail dangling from his hand, while the
hideous head clung by the fangs to Kate Blount’s cheek!
At the sight of the maiden’s peril a cry of horror burst from the
throats of the Indians, and even Coleola forsook her station, and, with
many others, sprung forward.
The white girl’s head had dropped upon her bosom, and the pallor of
death shrouded her face. Instantly Nehonesto’s knife severed her bonds,
and when the red-men crowded around the spot, he had lowered her to
the ground, and was holding the mouth of his leathern flask to her
colorless lips.
Pity instantly took the place of vengeance, and upon every face, save
that of Coleola’s, that sweet angel sat enthroned.
Kate Blount was conscious, and she drank deeply of the contents of the
Ojibwa’s flask. She knew that whisky counteracted the effects of the
poison of the rattlesnake in the human system, and she felt its effects
ere the flask was drained.
“The Lone Dove of the pale-faces will not tread the dark wood,” said
Nehonesto, noting with a smile the effect of the fire-water. “She will
live--live to become Nehonesto’s captive.”
“No! no!” cried Coleola, at this, “the White Snake lives to die--to
be skinned alive by the blunt knife of Coleola. She caught her in the
Swamp Oak’s cave, but she fled like the hunted fox, while Coleola
sought the red dog that stole her child many moons ago. But ah! Coleola
caught her child, and from her mouth she has plucked her lying tongue.”
As she finished, Nehonesto rose to his feet, and faced the chief--the
leader of the war-band.
“Chiefs, decide between Nehonesto and Coleola,” he said. “He claims the
pale flower, and the giant hunter. Shall they die by the knife of a
mad-woman--they and their brethren,” and he glanced at the trader and
Somerville--“or shall they become the captives of Nehonesto, the War
Eagle of the Ojibwas?”
A fateful silence followed the Indian’s speech, and the chiefs
addressed looked into each other’s faces.
“Decide for Coleola!” cried the Snake Queen, “or the plagues of
Watchemenetoc shall fall upon the red-men like rain-drops, and of all
this band not one shall sleep in the lodges again.”
The cheeks of the sachems paled at this, and trembling at the dreadful
threat, the warriors shrunk from the demoness, shouting:
“Give the pale-faces to Coleola, and let her skin them, else we fall
like blades of grass in the country of the Peorias.”
The chiefs were dismayed, and the captives and Nehonesto read in their
terror-stricken faces the decision. Suddenly Odatha stepped forward to
announce the decision, but before his lips parted, a shrill cry burst
upon the ears of all, and, turning, they discovered a solitary Indian
running toward them, along the Cahokia’s bank.
He wore the habiliments of a Piankishaw warrior, and paused all
breathless in the circle of red-men that surrounded the white captives.
Then he was recognized.
“Why comes the Little Coon alone to the war eagles of the Illinois?”
demanded Odatha.
“He comes from the Yellow Bloodhound,” answered the new arrival,
glancing around upon the prisoners with mingled surprise and triumph.
“He ran before his people who are coming up the deep creek in canoes.
They seek what Odatha has found,” and again his eyes fell upon the
captives.
Odatha understood the sentence.
“Yes, Odatha has found the pale-faces,” said that worthy. “Why trails
the Yellow Bloodhound them?”
“They slew Segowatha.”
The Ottawa caught the runner’s arm and shot him a look of blank
astonishment, while the other chiefs and warriors contracted the circle
with exclamations of disbelief and wonder.
“Yes, the pale-faced girl or the Peoria dog, Swamp Oak, slew Segowatha.
The Yellow Bloodhound fell beneath the dog’s knife, but he leads his
band upon the trail again. They have sworn by the Manitou to tear the
pale-faces’ hearts from them; and let the arm raised to tear the white
snakes away drop before they come. Like a whirlwind, they can not be
stopped.”
He paused, and, glancing at Nehonesto and Coleola Odatha spoke.
“We must not thwart the Yellow Bloodhound,” he said. “He is a mighty
whirlwind, and when he comes the pale-faces must become his--that he
may avenge, according to his oath, the death of Segowatha. Coleola--”
He reverted his eyes to the mad red-woman, but with her remaining snake
she was forcing a path through the throng of braves, and her warriors
were following in her wake.
She heard herself addressed, but she did not pause, and when Odatha
sprung forward to arrest her progress that he might tell her what
he wished, one of her braves pushed him back, and, transfixed with
irresolution, he beheld her swim the creek and climb the cliffs on the
opposite bank.
“When the Yellow Bloodhound comes, Coleola tarries not,” she cried,
looking down upon the war band; “but had Odatha given the pale-faced
girl and the big hunter to her, she would have stayed and faced the
dog whose throat she longs to cut. Between Coleola and the Yellow
Bloodhound flows the river of darkness, and some day or some night
she meets him on the bank, and then the yelp of the dog will be heard
for the last time. Coleola goes, but she will come again, and the
plagues of the Manitou shall fall upon Odatha and his red snakes. The
whites shall yet be Coleola’s; they shall not be skinned by the Yellow
Bloodhound. Whoever slays one of Coleola’s braves shall fall before
her, and the she White Snake shot Segagi! Odatha, forget nothing that
has fallen from Coleola’s lips. Snakes, into the dark woods. Away!”
As she uttered the last word, she shook her snake at the mute
spectators, and, whirling on her heel, sprung from sight.
“Then the pale-faces are the Yellow Bloodhound’s?” said Nehonesto,
addressing Odatha.
“Odatha has spoken,” was the reply, and Nehonesto, with a determined
expression, turned to Kate again.
She had almost entirely recovered from the serpent bite, and under
Nehonesto’s protection was permitted to pillow her head upon her
father’s breast.
“Kate, Kate, thank God you yet live, despite the machinations of our
enemies,” said the old man, bowing his head to receive his daughter’s
kiss. “I know now that He watches over us.”
“Yes, father, but whose arm will interpose between us and the knife of
the Yellow Bloodhound?” asked Kate.
Despite his hopings, Oliver Blount groaned.
“Oh, Heavenly Father, why does such a fiend as Jules Bardue curse the
earth? Oh, that Swamp Oak’s knife had reached his heart.”
If curses could kill, the Yellow Bloodhound, as the creole was styled
by his adopted tribe, would have fallen dead long before the opening of
our story, for the old trader had cursed him as man had never before
cursed his fellow.
As the moments passed, the Indians grew impatient for the arrival of
Segowatha’s Avengers. The captives had been taken from the trees that
they might not afford marks for Coleola’s rifles, for the savages
feared that the Snake Queen would steal back, and satiate her vengeance
by dispatching the whites from the cliffs.
“All together once more,” said Doc Bell, despite the savage looks
of their guards, “an’ I’m gettin’ anxious myself to see that ar’
Bloodhound.”
“We die when he comes!” said Somerville; “but we’ll die like men.”
“That’s talkin’, boy; but we ain’t dead yit,” said the giant, with a
faint smile. “We didn’t die when Coleola came, and I’d sooner meet the
Yellow Bloodhound than she--yes, by a long shot. We’ve got one true
friend in this pack of devils, an’ ye’ve seen a sample ov his nerve.
Nehonesto is the only member ov the moon-scar band that I’ve see’d
fur four years, and I war thinkin’ erbout others awhile ago. Five ov
us--four Injuns an’ me--formed that band on the Saginaw six years
ago--afore I see’d you, boy--an’ a part ov our oath was to die if need
be for one another. An’ I tell you Nehonesto is jest ready to die for
us. Look how that cursed Little Coon watches him; the little Ojibwa
suspects his giant brother, which is bad fur us. I’d like to know where
we’ll be to-morrow.”
“In eternity, perhaps,” said Oliver Blount, who had listened
attentively to the giant’s words.
“Mebbe so,” said Bell; “but I’ve never been thar yet. I don’t care fur
my old self. My anxiety is fur your gal--your Kate, Oll.”
“And my Kate, too,” murmured Bob Somerville, inaudibly.
“Fear not for me,” cried the trader’s daughter. “I want my fate to be
yours. I can die like a woman.”
“But the Bloodhound won’t kill you, Kate,” said the giant. “He reserves
you for a fate worse than death.”
A fearful determination overspread Kate Blount’s face, and, through
clenched teeth, she hissed:
“Never!”