THE INFERNAL COMPACT.
With Kate Blount, the sturdy old scout and Swamp Oak finally made
their way out of that gloomy world, now made doubly horrible by the
tremendous explosion which they believed had sent all their friends
to their destruction. This belief Doc Bell had to impart to his fair
charge, and she was terribly shocked over the thought of her lover’s
presumed awful fate.
But they were not to reach the cave, where Blount was left, without
trouble. A careful reconnoissance by the old Indian-fighter revealed
the presence of nineteen Ojibwas in the woods, right over the exit from
the corridor leading from the lake. This compelled the trio to remain
under close cover until nightfall should make it safe to travel.
In the quiet of their secure retreat, Kate related her adventures with
the terrible Snake Queen, and how in the darkness the old hag had been
stricken down by some unknown hand, but which she now learned was that
of Jules Bardue, who, with Big Moccasin, bore her away. She had then
become unconscious, and knew no more until aroused by Doc Bell’s touch.
That the Snake Queen was dead Doc did not believe, but no time was
given for further speculation, for Swamp Oak reported some one coming
up-stream in a canoe. Doc was too amazed to speak, for in that canoe
sat John Williamson! Had he not flung the wretch into the very midst
of the savages, and how could he have escaped his doom?
No time was offered for questioning, for, discovering the opening
in the hill, the haunted man, with almost a cry of gladness, turned
the prow of his canoe into the opening and sprung ashore. The trio
crouched back in the darkness, and John plunged down the corridor, as
if to escape the light forever; and when the shades of night darkened
the woods the three hastened from their cover to reach the cave where
Blount had been left.
“Now fur yer father, gal,” said Bell, addressing Kate, as they gained
the forest above the creek. “We’ll hurry up, fur I know ther old man
ar’ anxious to see his gal, an’ she’s sorter anxious to see him, too.”
They traversed the forest at a rapid gait. Doc Bell knew the way, and
he could trail as well beneath the stars as the sun.
A number of miles had been traversed, when several rifle-shots saluted
their ears.
Doc Bell halted.
Crack! crack! crack!
“By my soul! there’s bloody work goin’ on at ther cave!” he cried,
suddenly starting forward. “I heard Oll’s rifle jest then, an’ I
b’lieve he’s got help; but who on airth kin it be? Hold out, old man,
till we git to yer! Hold out, I say. Doc Bell’s comin’, an’ he’s worth
er stone wall an’ ten cannon!”
The hunter ran at his utmost speed, and Kate Blount and Swamp Oak kept
at his side. At length the yells of infuriated Indians made the night
hideous, and drowned the crack of the death-dealing rifles.
“I knowed it! I knowed it!” cried Doc Bell. “Bloody work’s goin’ on
hyar, an’ I’ve been sp’ilin’ fur a fight. Now look to yer rifles fur
the last time!”
Creeping forward they beheld at least forty savages grouped at some
distance before the mouth of the cave. These Indians were listening to
the harangue of a tall chief, standing in the broad glare of the fire
which they had kindled near the aperture.
Stretched upon the ground, as motionless as stricken statues, lay
seven warriors, who had fallen beneath the rifles of the besieged, and
the chief was firing the hearts of the savages, who seemed inclined to
relinquish the conflict.
“Shall the hunted dogs drive the hunters from their kennel?” he cried,
“and shall Segowatha sleep unavenged? The pale dog whose she whelp slew
our great chief is in our power, if we but stretch forth our hands and
take him. And those who fight with him are enemies to Pontiac’s red
war-dogs. Warriors, will you be squaws? Shall Tall Hickory go back to
his people and say his men slunk like whipped hounds from a hole in the
ground?”
The close of the speech had the desired effect; a chorus of hideous
yells followed it, and the red demons demanded to be led once more to
the conflict.
“Ready,” whispered Doc Bell, with his eyes fastened upon the red
avengers. “If they rush into ther cave in a body we must foller suit.
Ha! there they go--determined to do or die, an’ I calkilate some on ’em
will die.”
Unmindful of the doom that surely awaited him, Tall Hickory threw
himself before the mad warriors and sprung toward the gaping mouth of
the cave. He reached it, when the muffled reports of two rifles broke
the suspense, and with a yell he reeled from the death-opening.
“Now let them hev it!” cried Bell, and a second later three rifles
cracked.
A trio of Indians tottered against their fellows, and, ere they could
touch the ground, the giant hunter was dashing toward the besiegers
with uplifted rifle.
“I’m hyar! ye red devils, I am!” he yelled. “Hyar’s Doc Bell what’s
sp’ilin’ fur a fight; an’ now let ’im hev a fair shake.”
The Indians turned upon the mad hunter with a yell, and the next
instant his heavy rifle stretched a Miami on the sward, while others
were shrinking from the second blow.
“Back! back!” he yelled. “I’m yer master, I am. I’ve whipped ye on the
Miami, an’ I kin whip ye hyar. There! _you’ll_ never chase buffler
ag’in!”
He rained his blows right and left, and beside him, ably seconding
his death-work, fought Kate Blount and the young Peoria. The trader’s
daughter resembled some queen of tragedy. Her long tresses had escaped
from the backwoods comb, and streamed down her back in wanton abandon,
as her body swayed to and fro under the blows she delivered with
clubbed rifle.
The savages soon recovered the equilibrium lost by the trio’s
unexpected attack, and, with thinned ranks, but more infuriated than
ever, returned to the combat, and hemmed our friends in on all sides.
“Fight like catamounts!” yelled giant Doc Bell, above the din of
battle, as he hurled a savage, who was about to fell the brave girl,
to the earth. “Snakes an’ lizards, but this is a tight place; but they
can’t whip us--never!”
The savages felt certain of victory, for their faces were flushed with
anticipated triumph, and they contracted their ranks and rushed upon
the defiant trio with deafening yells.
But suddenly three forms sprung from the mouth of the cave, and the
Indians discovered that they possessed a trio of new antagonists!
Bob Somerville, Nehonesto, and Ulalah had joined our friends, and
before the six at last the red-skins gave way!
“Boy!” cried Bell, springing to his protege, and grasping his hand, “I
thought ye war a ghost when ye darted from ther cave, but thank fortin’
ye’re flesh an’ blood! We thought ye an’ Nehonesto an’ thet dumb gal
war blow’d all to pieces in ther cave.”
“Ours was a narrow escape from death, Doc,” said our hero, as a
perceptible shudder swept his frame, “and I am much surprised to see
you here. We waited for yourself and Swamp Oak a long time by the black
lake, and at last reluctantly reached the conclusion that you had
lost your lives through the accursed machinations of Coleola or the
Bloodhound. Then we hurried from the cave, and had scarcely reached the
forest when a deafening noise assailed and hurled us to the ground,
bereft of consciousness. Ulalah led us hither, and after we had greeted
Blount, we found that the accursed fiends had trailed us. How they
managed to do so, I can not conceive; but they flocked hither like
vultures to a carrion feast, and for several hours we fought more like
demons than human creatures.”
“And how is Blount?” questioned Bell, eagerly.
“Dying, poor fellow!” said our hero, with a sigh. “He’s paid dearly for
his stubbornness. But let us hasten to him. Kate should close his eyes.”
Doc Bell turned to the cave.
“It’s no use,” he said. “Oll’s dead; when I left ’im somethin’ told me
that I would never see ’im erlive ag’in; an’ it hasn’t lied.”
Kate Blount was eager to greet her parent, and with her hand clasped in
that of her lover, she descended into the cavern.
During the descent, Bob had told her that her father had received a
severe wound from a stray ball, during the siege, and bade her prepare
for the worst.
Reaching the bottom of the cavern, her eye caught sight of a figure
lying in the light of the fire, and with a cry of joy she sprung
forward.
“Father!” she cried, bending over the loved form. “Father, speak! ’Tis
I, your pet--your Kate!”
Oliver Blount heard the voice, and opened his dying eyes spasmodically.
Then he tried to clasp her to his heart, but failed; his arms fell
powerless at his side, and, as he gasped her beloved name, his orbs
closed again, and a long-drawn breath told the trader’s child that she
was an orphan!
“I know’d it--I know’d it!” murmured Doc Bell, approaching, and
dropping a tear over the weeping girl. “When Doc Bell’s heart talks, it
never lies.”
Then he slowly turned to Somerville and the two chiefs.
“We are not out o’ ther woods yit,” he said. “I tell yer, it’s a long
way to Fort Chartres, and it ar’ a black way, too.”
“Full of fires,” said Swamp Oak.
“An’ dull knives,” added Doc Bell.
“But we’ll get there,” said our hero, confidently.
“Not without bloodshed; we’ve got to see Coleola an’ ther Bloodhound
ag’in.”
“You don’t mean it, Doc,” said Somerville, glancing at the woman he
loved, while a chill crept to his heart.
He thought of peril for her, not for himself.
“I do mean it, Bob. Them two demons ain’t dead yit, mind I tell yer.
We’ll see ’em ag’in afore we git out o’ these woods, or my name’s not
Doc Bell.”
“Heaven forefend,” returned our hero, fervently. “I had hoped, for
Kate’s sake, that they were dead.”
The giant did not reply, but looked to the priming of his rifle, and
walked to the mouth of the cave.
* * * * *
“Halt! White Snake!”
A yell of horror pierced the almost palpable gloom, that brooded
everywhere, and a groan quickly followed.
“For Heaven’s sake, spare this life of mine! Mercy! mercy! I don’t want
to die now--no, no. I’m not fit to stand before the Great Judge to-day.
Spare! spare! for the love of life!”
The words were couched in the most abject accents, and the teeth of the
unseen speaker chattered like dice in the silence that followed the
utterance of the last.
“I’m going to spare you, dog!” hissed a voice, so near the coward
that he instinctively shrunk away. “I mean that I’ll spare you on one
condition.”
“Name it--quick, for mercy’s sake!”
“You must do my bidding.”
“Whatever it be, I’ll do it--only let one live who is not prepared to
die. Who are you?”
“Jules Bardue--the Yellow Bloodhound of the Ojibwas,” was the reply. “I
do not ask your name--I know it. You are the most wretched man in these
forests--John Williamson, Pontiac’s murderer.”
“Yes, God has cursed me with that name!” groaned the haunted trader.
A minute’s silence followed.
“I am hurt,” said Bardue, at last, “and you must carry me to the woods,
when night comes. I dare not seek the forest now. In the gloom I can,
by signals, bring trusty red people to my side.”
“But me?” groaned the haunted trader, from the depths of his craven
heart. “They will torture me when they know who I am.”
“Only do my bidding, and they shall not harm you,” said Bardue,
quickly. “I rule the savage hearts. Oh, now the hour of vengeance is
at hand. They have stabbed Jules Bardue; they have shot him; they have
nailed him to a rock; but the Yellow Bloodhound lives yet to bite.
Here, John Williamson, stoop down and pick me up. I’ll tell you where
to carry me.”
Tremblingly the miserable man obeyed, and the creole hoped that he
would be strong enough to walk when he joined his red associates in the
forest.
The trader bore the Bloodhound to a dark cavern, and soon a fire
illumined the place.
Then, at the renegade’s request, Williamson related the story of his
flight and wanderings from the jaws of justice.
If ever a truly wretched man trod the dark paths of the forests of the
Illinois, it was John Williamson, and when night came he supported the
wounded renegade to the woods, illy lighted by the scintillations of
the stars.
For a long time Jules Bardue signaled his braves, who he knew could not
be far away; but no answering footsteps greeted their ears.
At length the distant crack of rifles was faintly heard, and they
listened more intently than ever.
The conflict at the cave was raging furiously, and as the twain
listened they heard the deathly sounds die away.
“Williamson, we must hasten yonder,” he cried. “Pick me up and run like
lightning. If you do not obey, remember you’re a dead man.”
With an inward groan, the terror-stricken man lifted the renegade from
the ground and started forward.
But his knees smote each other, and he feared that his burden was
greater than he could bear.
He ran a few rods, and then, utterly exhausted, sunk to the earth.
It was in vain that the creole cursed his slave and in the midst of his
anathemas a hasty footstep was heard approaching them.
The Bloodhound clutched his knife, but the next moment it was hurled
from his hand.
“Ha! ha! ha!” laughed the new-comer. “Coleola and the Yellow Bloodhound
have met again!”
The renegade groaned.
“Spare!” he hoarsely plead. “I will help Coleola slay her enemies.”
The Snake Queen bent eagerly over him.
“Then the Queen of the Snakes and the Yellow Bloodhound bury the
hatchet,” she said. “She will help him eat up his enemies; he shall
help her crush hers.”
“I will, heaven help me! Where are they?”
“Below the ground,” answered Coleola. “They have driven the braves
before them like the strong wind blows the dead leaves away. We will
kill the dogs. Can the Bloodhound walk?”
The sudden change in his fortunes drove Bardue to his feet.
“Walk?” he echoed. “I’m as strong now as ever. Lead the way, demoness.
I’ve a blade that cries for blood.”
Coleola laughed again, and, springing up, strode into the deeper gloom.
It was the strangest league ever formed in the Western wood.
Neither Coleola or Jules Bardue could accomplish their diabolical plans
alone; so, throwing aside the bitter hate of years, they had crossed
hands over the “bloody chasm,” each resolving to massacre the other,
when they had satiated the demon of revenge.
John Williamson, the haunted trader, went with them--never dreaming
that he would soon cease to be a ghoul-chased man!