THE AVENGERS BAFFLED.
Night in the forest of the Illinois.
Not a star is missing in the azure canopy, and the notes of the
nightingale tinkle musically in the freshening breeze.
The cry of the panther is not heard; the owl seems to be feasting
himself upon some delicious morsel won by his prying eyes and sharp
claws, for his hoot reëchoes not through the star-lit wood, nor does
the frightful howl of the wolf, the terror of new countries, disturb
the slumbers of nature.
But through the forests stalk the enemies of mankind, proving that “man
is a human wolf.” The wily red-skin is abroad, either as Pontiac’s
avenger, reddening his hatchet with the blood of his fellow-creature,
or as the hunted Peoria, Kaskaskia or Cahokia, flying from the demons
unchained by a barrel of English rum.
Not far from the scenes of our romance the war of extirpation had raged
with terrible fury. Those English families that failed to shelter
themselves in Cahokia or Fort Chartres had either been butchered by
the crimson devils or were fugitives with no spot whereon to lay their
heads safe from the tomahawk of the avengers.
Upon the night described above an Indian was pushing his way through
the forest, and following the course of the famous Cahokia Creek, not
far from its boundaries. His step proclaimed him young, and well versed
in the tortuous ways of the wood, for in the dim light he avoided the
dry twig or the decaying log that cracks beneath the foot, and leaped
the treacherous root with the precision of one traveling in the broad
light of day.
He was following no trail; on the contrary, he seemed careless
regarding his whereabouts, but hurried on as though some unseen hand
was leading him to a certain destination.
He reached a point at length where a rivulet debouches into the
Cahokia, and there, for the first time in several hours, he halted.
“They are not far from the Peoria now,” he murmured, looking to the
priming of the long barreled rifle he had trailed at his side. “Swamp
Oak knows that the Yellow Bloodhound dares not carry the Lone Dove to
the big bands of Pontiac’s mad dogs, for they would tear her to pieces,
even as the wolf rends the lamb, for she slew Segowatha. All his big
talks would not save the Lone Dove; the red-men of the north loved
Segowatha too well. But--hist!”
The Peoria crouched at his self warning, and slunk into the shadow of a
tree.
A footstep had fallen upon his ears, and presently a giant form
appeared against the whitened side of a deadened oak. It was the form
of a man, and a close look told the Indian that the person was the very
one for whose whereabouts he was searching.
“Ha!” he muttered, “the Yellow Bloodhound is abroad--he has left his
band, and stolen deeper in the forest for what? The wolf never roams
the woods for nothing; the fox leaves his den to prey.”
For a minute the creole (for indeed the giant form belonged to Jules
Bardue) exhibited himself to the lone watcher, and then disappeared as
suddenly as he had come upon the stage.
He plunged into the mouth of the tributary above-mentioned, and waded
to the opposite shore, followed, with the cunning of the wolf, by the
Peoria youth, who never took his eyes from the form just visible in the
dim starlight.
The Yellow Bloodhound did not dream of the snake-like form that crept
on his trail, and when he disappeared over the brow of a thickly-wooded
acclivity, a short distance from the Cahokia, an exclamation of
satisfaction parted the Peoria’s lips, and, rising to his feet, he
bounded forward.
The sight that greeted his vision when he gained the summit of the
hill, elicited no manifestations of surprise, and, calmly leaning
against a tree, he viewed the scenes that lay at his feet.
A fire was dying at the foot of the declivity, and its flickering light
weirdly clothed a lot of recumbent Indians. They lay in all positions,
unconscious of the proximity of a deadly foe, and Swamp Oak griped his
tomahawk vengefully as he thought of their late deeds of revenge.
He saw the creole step over a sleeping chief, and speak a few words to
a guard who leaned against a tree, with eyes fixed upon three white men
lying bound upon the ground not far away.
“Watchemenetoc is abroad to-night,” muttered the Peoria, as his eyes
swept the camp for a particular object. “Where is the Lone Dove? The
Yellow Bloodhound bore her from Odatha’s war-braves, but she is not
with him now. Has she taken her wing and left the lair of the wolf? No,
no; she would not desert her parent.”
A puzzled expression appeared upon the Indian’s face. Kate Blount was
not in the creole’s camp. Swamp Oak had witnessed the Bloodhound’s
separation, late the preceding day, from the war-party, and with the
three male prisoners he had taken the trader’s daughter. He declared
that he intended to convey them to the large body of red avengers who
were devastating the country round about Cahokia, and there, over the
putrid corpse of Segowatha, flay them alive. The creole tried to induce
Odatha to accompany him; but the chief refused, and again resumed his
march for the doomed Peoria village.
Swamp Oak, whose thrilling adventures, since Coleola’s bloodthirsty
murder in his cave-home, shall presently fall from his own lips, did
not at once, after the separation of Segowatha’s Avengers and the
war-party, throw himself upon the trail of the former; but had followed
the latter for reasons best known to himself.
If he had followed the Yellow Bloodhound, he might have witnessed our
heroine’s mysterious disappearance from the band, while now regarding
her fate he was left in the dark.
The white captives were wide awake.
From the summit of the hill Swamp Oak could see the glitter of their
eyes, as they regarded the Bloodhound and their guard conversing in low
tones.
The remainder of the avenging band--twenty in number--were sound
asleep, and presently the creole glided from the guard and dropped near
the dying fire.
The Peoria was conscious now of the working of some deep plot: he read
it in the renegade’s appearance in the woods; his conference with the
guards, and his return to his blanketed couch, from whence he saw him
casting sly glances at the sentinel.
Presently a wild cry pealed from the guard’s throat, and every Indian,
roused from slumber, sprung instantly to their feet with drawn weapons!
They rushed to the dusky sentinel, loudly demanding the cause of the
startling cry; and he, appearing half-frightened to death slunk behind
the Yellow Bloodhound, and pointed to the spot occupied by the captives.
One glance at the trio drew a wild yell from the Avengers, for they saw
that Kate Blount was missing!
“Where is the she White Snake?” demanded the creole, fiercely, and he
clutched the red guard’s throat, as though he would choke the life from
his body.
“The wolf stole her while Ipigena leaned against the tree, and with
closed eyes saw himself a boy again,” stammered the Indian.
Still clutching the Indian’s throat, the creole turned to the maddened
crowd:
“The red dog has slept!” he said, “but we must not blame him. We have
walked many miles through the forest, striking here and there the
enemies of our race, and Ipigena must sleep, for he is weary. But,
braves, the White Adder that stung Segowatha must not escape. Search
the wood, for she is not far away. My eyes opened when the moon hung on
yonder limb, and she was beside her father. Go, Avengers--Pontiac’s mad
dogs--to the trail!”
An instant later the creole and Ipigena were alone.
“What does this mean?” asked Blount of his companions.
“It means simply that the most infernal deviltry is afoot,” answered
the giant hunter. “I see through every bit of it now. That Injun who
came an’ took Kate into the wood was nobody else but the Bloodhound,
an’ that guard played sleepy to deceive us.”
“But why did he take Kate away from the midst of the band he rules?”
“He rules this lot of red cut-throats, but he don’t rule the band
around Cahokia--not by a terrible sight. Why, Oll Blount, they’d tear
yer gal to pieces on sight, an’ ther Yaller Bloodhound knows this.
Tharfore, he’s hid her away with the knowledge ov half o’ the red
skunks with him now. Thar be some here to whom he daren’t tell his
plans. Segowatha’s sons is with him.”
“Will they not find Kate?”
The father’s words were closed in a fearful tone.
“No; Bardue ain’t the man to stow her away under a brush heap, an’ then
turn twenty Injuns on her trail,” answered the giant; “my word for it,
they won’t find yer gal, Oll. It ’pears to me thet thar’s caves around
here.”
“Oh, God,” groaned the anxious parent, “now that my dear child is in
the sole power of a fiend, protect her.”
“He’ll do it, Oll; he’ll do it,” said Doc Bell. “He’s helped me out o’
many a scrape; but the Injuns ar’ comin’ back, madder nor thunder. I
told yer they wouldn’t find the gal.”
Sure enough the savages, with disappointed visages, and fierce scowls
upon the captives, were returning from a fruitless search, and with
wild yells that made the woods ring, they gathered around the Yellow
Bloodhound, clamoring for a pale-face’s blood.
“Blood! blood!” yelled the son of Segowatha, a young and fierce-looking
warrior; “my father’s spirit calls for the red tide of the white girl’s
heart; but now that she has gone--now that Watchemenetoc has borne her
away--the spirit that stands before Little Wolf points to the three
pale men, saying, ‘Skin them! skin them and drink their blood to me in
the hollow of your hands.’”
His words threw a majority of the band into a frenzy impossible to
describe. They yelled “Blood! blood!” like demons, and danced about the
captives before the Yellow Bloodhound could find his tongue.
“We have sworn to bring the pale-faces to the uncovered grave of
Segowatha, there to tear out their hearts and drink their blood,” he
said. “Shall that oath be broken?”
“Yes, yes,” shrieked the blood-mad avengers. “The Yellow Bloodhound
must close his mouth against us. The prisoners must die.”
“Then let them die!” hissed Jules Bardue, and in a lower tone he added
to the guard: “They might escape between here and the big band. But
they’ll never find the girl, never!”
With bloodthirsty eagerness the savages, Ojibwas, Ottawas,
Pottawatomies and Miamis, headed by Little Wolf, made preparations
for the torture. A party brought a quantity of stones from the creek,
and upon them the devils proceeded to blunt their knives, that
the captives’ skin might be torn from their bodies with the most
excruciating torture.
The giant looked calmly upon the devilish preliminaries, and a shudder
stole to young Somerville’s heart. A sad expression wreathed the
trader’s features, telling that he thought not of himself, but of his
daughter.
“We’re in for it now, I guess,” muttered the hunter. “What! Bob, first?
No! no! spare the boy; take me first. I’ve killed the most ov yer
dog-devils. I’ve scalped full twenty ov yer chiefs!”
But the flayers paid no attention to the old hunter; they cut young
Somerville’s bonds, and proceeded to strip his clothes from his body.
“What a pretty skin!” exclaimed a young brave, striking the scout’s
breast with his knife. “Ha! the red blood comes; it flows like
Segowatha’s flowed.”
He sunk the point of his knife beneath our hero’s skin, but no cry of
pain followed the brutal action; and suddenly, stripped to the waist,
the youth found himself jerked to his feet.
Two young braves held him, and amid the flourish of knives and shouts
of vengeance, they turned to the death-tree.
“Shall I die without an effort for life?” muttered Somerville; “die
when I might live to snatch Kate from the Bloodhound’s jaws? Never!”
As his lips grated the last word through clinched teeth, he hurled the
two braves aside, and suddenly wheeling, dashed through the circle of
knives, and soon disappeared in the somber recesses of the forest!
His action disturbed the would-be flayers; but they quickly dashed away
in swift pursuit.
“You can’t catch Bob Somerville!” cried the giant hunter. “He’s the
best runner in the Illinois, an’ with the thought ov bein’ skinned
alive to grease his’ joints, he’ll be worse nor a streak o’ lightnin’.”
It was as the hunter had predicted. The scout’s pursuers soon returned
empty-handed, and turned their fury upon him. The Yellow Bloodhound,
incensed at the young man’s escape, now aided them; hitherto, for show,
he had stood aloof.
A dozen fiends carried the giant to the tree, and the sinewy rope was
passed around his neck.
But, as the son of Segowatha attempted to knot the cord, a rifle-shot
rose above the vengeful yells, and, dropping the sinews, the young
chief staggered from the tree with a dark spot between his little eyes.
With ghastly features the braves shrunk from the fatal flaying post,
and the cowardly creole threw himself behind a tree.
A half-smothered cry burst from Doc Bell’s heart, and, as Little Wolf
struck the ground, he darted from the stake. The affrighted red-skins
drew back before him, and from the trembling hands of one he snatched a
knife, burying it in the owner’s breast, with a backward thrust!
A single bound brought him to the spot where Oliver Blount lay.
He stooped over the trader, and when he rose erect again, a moment
later, Oliver was at his side.
They bounded forward together, as a deafening peal of thunder broke
over their heads! They looked up, and saw above a canopy of inky
darkness!
“The Almighty’s with us!” exclaimed Blount, as they dashed away.
“They won’t foller now, Oll,” said Doc Bell; “but they’ll hunt us to
the death yit. Wonder where Bob is?”
“And my child!” groaned the father, and a moment later he asked: “Where
are we going?”
“To a hidin’-place, in course,” answered the giant, and clutching the
trader’s hand he abruptly turned aside.