THE FOES AT BAY.
“Hist, Young Hunter!”
These words dropped in cautious tones from Nehonesto’s lips a moment
after his recognition by the young scout.
Bob Somerville listened, and heard the panther-like tread of an Indian.
Suddenly the Ojibwa touched his shoulder, and together they crouched to
the ground.
“’Tis Nogawa,” whispered the scout.
“Nogawa?” returned Nehonesto, interrogatively. “Nehonesto has seen him
among the lodges of the Ojibwas. Why comes he here?”
“He belongs to the Bloodhound’s party,” said Somerville, and then, in
a few words, he told the giant savage how the creole sought for Nogawa
when he (the scout) sprung upon him.
“Ha! Nogawa knows where the Lone Dove is,” murmured Nehonesto, in tones
of unconcealed delight. “He has been spying for his master, and--”
A bird-signal broke the sepulchral stillness of the night.
It was now patent to the twain that Jules Bardue and Nogawa had
promised to meet near the mouth of Mink Creek, and that the Indian had
been tardy in keeping his appointment.
Nehonesto smiled, and from his throat came the croaking of the great
emerald frog.
Immediately the footsteps which had ceased, were heard nearer than
before, and presently they saw the lithe form of Nogawa approaching.
Suddenly he halted, signaled, and heard the frog croak again.
Then the two friends heard him exclaim, “Yellow Chief!” and with his
eyes bent upon the spot where they crouched he walked boldly and
unsuspectingly into the snare!
Nehonesto sprung forward, and Nogawa found himself a prisoner!
“Who holds the eagle’s pinions?” he demanded, trying to tear away from
the grip of his own countryman.
“Who? Nehonesto! Nogawa came to meet the Yellow Bloodhound, and if
he would find him, he must dive beneath the water and hunt among the
fishes. Yes, the Yellow Bloodhound has stepped upon the trail of death;
he scents blood no more in the woods of the Illinois. Nogawa knows
where he hid the Lone Dove, and to the den he must lead Nehonesto and
the Young Hunter.”
The last words were couched in a determined tone, but the captive
did not reply, he looked into Nehonesto’s eyes, as though he but
half-credited the words regarding the fate of his master.
“Nogawa,” and as Nehonesto spoke, he drew his scalping-knife from his
wampum girdle, “you must lead us to the Lone Dove. Nehonesto, like
yourself, is an Ojibwa, but unless you do as he bids, the door of the
lodge in the dark land will open to receive an Indian’s spirit. Speak,
Nogawa--what will you do?”
For a moment the young Indian’s head dropped upon his breast, and when
he raised it, his captors read the decision he had made in his dark
eyes.
“Nogawa will obey his brother”--glancing at the knife; “what else
should he do?”
“Then, quick upon the trail!” cried Somerville, who thought of the
brave girl whose life, at that moment, might be in imminent danger.
The young Ojibwa obeyed by moving forward, his arm still encircled by
the long fingers of Nehonesto.
“Where did the Yellow Bloodhound send Nogawa?” asked Nehonesto, as
they walked cautiously down the bank of the Cahokia.
“He sent him with a band who hunted for the three pale-faces,” replied
the Indian, “and Nogawa was to return and tell him if his eyes had
fallen upon the dire Snake Queen.”
“And did Nogawa see Coleola?” asked our hero, a shudder creeping to his
heart, as the dread woman appeared to his imagination, clothed in the
hideousness of vengeance.
“He did!”
“And where was she?”
“She was on the bank of the creek, where the muskrats dwell.”
Somerville looked at Nehonesto.
“The red hag is going to work us trouble,” he said. “She will not leave
this country without the scalps of all whom she hates. She hunts the
Bloodhound now.”
“And she hates Nehonesto as the Indian hates the copperhead,” grated
the Ojibwa between his set teeth.
“She may even now be near!”
“Nehonesto saw her not when he approached,” replied the long-haired
chief, “and Nehonesto’s eyes are as sharp as the eagle’s.”
Thus, with dark forebodings to keep him continually alive to their
presence, Bob Somerville walked on, venturing no more to question
Nogawa, who seemed to be reconciled to his fate.
At length they reached the beginning of the high banks, but instead of
ascending, Nogawa stepped into the water and waded on up the stream,
carefully noting every thing around him. At the water’s edge a thick
growth of willows thrived, and bending, kissed the ripples in the
center of the stream. Their well-leaved branches prevented the sharpest
eye from beholding the stalks, and when the forced guide paused before
the king of the weepers, Nehonesto griped his arm more tightly, and in
a whisper bade him proceed.
“The Bloodhound’s cave is here,” replied Nogawa, and he looked up to
see that no heads were peering over the cliff.
“Here!” said Nehonesto, exhibiting some astonishment, and parting the
bushes, he could discover nothing that indicated the presence of a
hidden home.
The young Ojibwa did not reply, but stepped forward, and a moment later
the trio had vanished.
They found themselves in a gloomy passage, whose walls and ceiling they
could touch with head and hands.
Nogawa led the way, unfettered now by his clansman’s hand, and Bob
Somerville brought up the rear, with cocked rifle and ready knife.
“Who guards the Lone Dove when the Bloodhound has left his kennel?”
whispered Nehonesto.
“The Big Moccasin,” was the captive’s reply, and a second later he
continued: “He and Nogawa know the Lone Dove’s hiding-place. The
Bloodhound would not tell his other braves.”
On, on they went in silence, until young Somerville touched Nehonesto’s
arm.
“There’s feet behind us,” he whispered.
They listened.
“No,” said the Ojibwa, at length, and the march beneath the wood was
resumed.
All at once a groan penetrated the gloom the trio were piercing, and
they became as marble statues.
Instantly Nogawa, the traitor, shrunk back, exclaiming:
“’Tis the Yellow Bloodhound!”
“Impossible!” said the scout. “I cut him to the death.”
A second groan, more prolonged than the first, now reached their ears,
and again they started forward. As they did so, the sound of footsteps
in the gloom which they had traversed fell upon the Young Hunter’s
acute senses, and he was about to warn Nehonesto, when he thought of
his first warning.
Presently a light greeted them, and they drew back from its glare to
crouch in the shadow of the gigantic stalactites, hanging from the roof
of the corridor.
Looking ahead with eager eyes, the trio beheld three figures occupying
a dramatic position.
Upon the rocky floor of a large cavern, and opposite the mouth of the
corridor, lay Jules Bardue, his head propped up by a bundle of furs.
His cadaverous face was deathly pale, and his blood-shot eyes wandered
about in their sockets like lost stars. His clothes were covered with
blood, and it was Big Moccasin’s unsurgical examination of the rent in
his breast which had drawn forth the groans our friends had heard.
Shrinking against the wall of the cavern, in the full light of the
blaze, the spectators beheld Kate Blount, as beautiful as ever; but
her face wore the hue of death, and the look which she cast upon the
wounded renegade was tinged with triumph, while she trembled at the
volley of oaths that rung from his lips.
“Nehonesto loves to hear the Bloodhound groan!” grinned the Ojibwa.
“The Young Hunter did not reach his heart, but we must trap the dogs.
Nehonesto wants to torture the Bloodhound.”
“He is suffering enough now,” said the scout. “Big Moccasin must be
rummaging among his vitals.”
A moment later the long-haired Ojibwa rose and stepped forward.
“Shoot them!” said Bob.
“No!” said the chief, sternly; and then he cried: “White and red dog,
Nehonesto and his friends are in your kennel.”
The startling announcement caused Big Moccasin to dart to his feet,
and, despite his prostration, Jules Bardue followed his example,
snatching a brand from the fire as he did so.
Then he staggered toward the captive girl, and suddenly paused over a
piece of funnel-shaped bark, protruding from the junction of the wall
and floor. The rim of the funnel was as large as that of a panama hat,
and directly over it the renegade held his torch.
“Ha! ha!” he laughed, turning his hideous eyes upon the trio, who had
pressed to the mouth of the cave and covered him with their rifles.
“Shoot, if you dare! Though dead, I can blow you to atoms. I hold this
torch over a lot of powder that communicates with a giant heap buried
beneath us, and in a moment with Jules Bardue, the greatest devil that
ever walked the earth, you’d be in eternity. Now, shoot, shoot if you
dare!”
He laughed again, and the trio gazed upon him, transfixed with horror.
With throbless hearts they saw the torch blaze over the deadly
composition, expecting each moment to be ushered into the presence of
the stern Judge, for the separation of one spark from the flambeau,
would seal the doom of all.
Instinctively Kate Blount shrunk from the desperate man, and in the
center of the cavern stood Big Moccasin with folded arms, and stoical
of countenance.
“What shall we do?” questioned the scout, fearfully.
What could they do?
Nehonesto was silent.
A footfall in the corridor broke the spell, and a moment later a
quartette of rifles cracked.
Nehonesto’s right hand dropped to his side, and Nogawa, the traitor,
fell forward with a death groan. Bob Somerville, uninjured by the
deadly pellets, turned, but ere he did so, he saw the renegade reel
over the funnel of death, and, springing forward with a cry of horror,
Kate Blount snatched the torch from his hand as it trembled on its
descent into the powder!
Instantly the young scout saw who confronted him, and with the cry of
“Kate!” he wheeled, and sprung toward the woman he loved.
He reached her side, and folded her to his heart in a loving embrace;
but ere he could raise an arm to defend her, as he, with set teeth had
determined to do, and that to the death, she was snatched from his
embrace, and held from him by the snake-encircled arms of Coleola!
And he--he found himself griped by two red Titans, and, against the
further wall of the cave, he saw Nehonesto being bound with strong
sinews!
Then his heart sunk to immeasurable depths in his bosom, and when
Coleola saw his look of despair, a devilish shriek of triumph pealed
from her throat.