A STROKE FOR VENGEANCE.
With painfully throbbing heart, Fred Wilson left his companions and
hastened along the narrow Trace toward the blazing cabin, to learn the
fate of his family. He dreaded the worst, for a strange sensation of
coming evil weighed heavily upon his mind.
He was not given to superstition or a belief in omens, but now it
seemed as though the spirit of some loved one was hovering around him.
A firm belief assailed him that he was doomed to suffer some deep and
bitter loss.
And in vain he strove to cast this thought aside; it would return
despite himself. And from a fancy, it became a settled conviction.
Still it did not prevent him from displaying his usual caution and
skill, and he glided along the path, dark and gloomy though the woods
were, with almost the certainty and ease he would have displayed in
broad daylight. Only at times could he distinguish the reddish glow of
the blazing cabin; at others the densely clustering boughs concealed it
from his vision.
In this manner he had proceeded over half a mile, when he fancied he
heard the faint sound of cautious footfalls before him. Instantly
pausing, he bent his ear to the ground. He was not deceived; some
person or persons were coming toward him.
With a wild hope in his heart, the young scout softly drew to one side
of the Trace, and crouched down beside the trunk of a large tree, in
such a position that the passers-by, whoever they might chance to be,
would be momently outlined against a rift in the tree-tops beyond.
The catlike footfalls came nearer, and then the travelers passed
before him. In the first one he recognized an Indian. He could just
distinguish the nodding plumes upon his head.
And then the next one he noticed was the same. But he had,
unfortunately, looked one moment too long upon the first passer. By so
doing, he only caught a faint glimpse of the second. The last he saw
more closely.
There were only three in number, and he believed them all Indians.
Had he known the truth, the entire course of the after events of that
memorable night would have been changed; perhaps for the better.
For had he known that his friend, John Stevens, was of the number, he
would have dared all to rescue him, and thus learn definitely how the
young settler's mission had terminated. But he was not aware of this,
and so suffered them to pass by, unchallenged.
Fred then arose and pressed rapidly on, his mind filled with
conflicting emotions. This party were coming direct from the burning
building; then what was he fated to find there? All was still in that
direction. Was the tragedy over?
And then the young man paused upon the edge of the clearing. With
wildly-beating heart, he gazed out upon the scene of destruction that
lay before him.
The cabin was one mass of glowing coals, though as yet the walls were
standing. And though his eyes roved keenly around upon the smooth
ground before the building, the dreaded sight met not his gaze. He had
feared he would behold the dead and mangled corses of his family lying
there, weltering in their blood.
But, as we know, this sight did not greet his eyes, and he derived some
faint consolation from it. All might not yet be lost.
And with these thoughts, he began cautiously circling around the
clearing, too wise to venture within the broad circle of light, while
ignorant whether there might not be a score of his enemies lurking
near, watching for some other unwary victim.
He had gained a position nearly opposite the point where he had first
stood, when he received an evidence of the prudence of his caution. A
tall, dark form emerged from the shadows near the mouth of the Trace,
and then strode rapidly toward the building.
Just then the walls fell in with a loud jar, and as the sparks ascended
skyward in a dense cloud, the blaze burst out afresh, and cast a
still more brilliant light over the scene. By its aid, Fred could see
that the new-comer was an Indian, and an angry glow filled his heart,
as he reflected that this same savage might have been an active agent
in the death of his family. For the young man still believed that he
would find them dead. In no other way could he account for the strange
depression that weighed upon his spirits.
And he resolved that this one, at least, should never live to boast of
his bloody deeds. He should die, and by his hand. And then he set about
compassing this end.
In this point again Fortune seemed favoring him. The red-skin stood
motionless for a moment, his eyes roving keenly around the clearing;
then his tall form stooped, and he glided to and fro, evidently
searching for some sign.
Fred waited in eager anticipation for a moment more favorable than
this, although the range was short, and he could easily have picked off
the savage with his rifle. But this was a move he did not fancy, as he
did not know how many red-skins might be within hearing, and with the
lives of others partly depending upon him, Fred dared not run the risk
of a shot. The blow must be dealt with cold steel, if at all.
The red-skin ceased his zig-zag movements, and now proceeded in a
direct line. Fred knew that he was following some trail, and to his
stern delight, found that trail led the Indian toward the Lower Trace.
With sternly-compressed lips and eyes glowing with a strange light, the
young scout glided rapidly toward the point where the Trace began, a
long, keen knife firmly clenched in his hand. He was none too soon, for
scarcely had he crouched behind a tree-trunk, than the Indian entered
the bushes, his head still bowed toward the ground.
Then he paused, with a slight grunt, as of disappointment. It was none
other than the petty chief who had been with One Eye, or Sloan Young,
and who had started off to put Dusky Dick upon the watch when it was
found the Stevens family had fled.
Fred Wilson collected his energies and sprung upon the unprepared
red-skin, knife in hand. Ere the assailed could lift a finger in
self-defense, the keen weapon hissed through the air and then buried
itself, with a peculiar _thud_, deep in his broad chest.
A low, gurgling cry arose to his lips, but then died away with the gush
of blood that filled his throat. Then, as the knife was withdrawn, the
tall form, so lately full of life and strength, tottered and sunk to
the ground, a lump of lifeless clay.
"You are the first one--but will not be the last, by many more!"
muttered the young scout, with a terrible depth of hatred and revenge
in his tones, as he stooped over the dead man and adroitly removed his
scalp.
Then he suddenly sprung erect. A significant sound met his ear. A
rifle-shot--an Indian yell, at no very great distance.
It apparently proceeded from near the spot where he had left the
Stevens family, and Fred feared they had been discovered by the Sioux.
He could do no good by remaining here, as there were no traces of his
family, and he resolved to return at once, though fearing it would be
too late.
The young scout was not one to hesitate, when once his mind was made
up, and securing the gory scalp to his waist, he entered the forest
once more, gliding with speedy footsteps toward the point where he had
left his friends in hiding. Still, despite his rapid progress, he was
too late.
As he neared the covert, he uttered the signal agreed upon, but without
an answer. Then he crept forward to the clump of bushes. He parted them
and peered inside. They were untenanted by those whom he sought.
Fred stood in angry disappointment, not unmingled with apprehension.
He did not know whether Stevens had disobeyed his strict injunctions,
and ventured forth in an attempt to escape unaided, or whether he had
been surprised and taken prisoner, and he dared not strike a light to
discover, lest it should prove a beacon to guide a treacherous bullet
or arrow to his life.
Then, as he stood there, another sound met his ear; one similar to that
which had drawn him from the clearing, only louder and more protracted.
Two single rifle-shots and then what seemed a united volley,
accompanied by wild yells and whoops.
There could be no mistaking this. He knew that one party, at least, of
his friends had been attacked by the Indians; most likely those whom he
had taken under his own charge.
He did not hesitate, only long enough to determine the direction and
probable distance of the strife from where he stood, and then pressed
forward toward it, with as much speed as was consistent with safety.
And now he displayed in an astonishing degree, the skill he had
attained, thanks to the instructions of Tobe Castor.
He glided through the forest at a half-run, with apparently as much
ease and celerity as though the intense gloom was replaced by broad
daylight, seeming to avoid the tree-trunks and other obstacles by
intuition. And his footfalls made scarcely more noise than those of the
deer, traversing its course with unhasted steps.
Fred could still distinguish the faint sound of yells and cries,
as though the strife still continued, though there were no more
rifle-shots. This fact puzzled him not a little, though he did not
slacken his pace.
Then the yells seemed to shift places, continuing only for a few
moments; then dying entirely away. Then again came the loud reports
of firearms, with shrill howls of anguish and terror. The plot was
becoming somewhat tangled and complicated, and Fred's wonder increased.
Still he proceeded, though more deliberately, for under the
circumstances he thought prudence was the wisest course for him to
follow. Then he uttered a little exclamation as his foot struck against
something yielding. There could be no mistaking this peculiar touch; he
knew that he was standing over a corpse!
A convulsive shudder ran through his frame as he leaped back apace; but
then he conquered this involuntary repugnance, and advancing, stooped
over the form. Eyesight could avail him nothing here; the sense of
feeling alone must be depended upon.
His hand touched the body, and a thrill pervaded his form as his
fingers rested upon a soft, slimy substance. He knew it was blood, fast
coagulating. Then a glad hope filled his heart as his hand encountered
the smooth-shaven crown, with the long scalp-lock of an Indian.
Perhaps his friends had not perished, after all!
He slowly moved away from the corpse, feeling along the ground with
his feet, but for some moments, felt in vain. Then he again touched
something that he knew was another victim.
Stooping, his hand rested upon the unmistakable dress of a white man.
Gliding up the body, he then felt of the face. The long heavy beard
there confirmed his suspicions. He felt assured that the dead body of
Wesley Stevens lay before him.
And then a low cry of agonizing horror broke from his lips, as he
touched a woman's dress. He staggered back and sunk to the ground,
trembling and unnerved. He feared the worst. He dreaded to move, lest
he should find the dead and mangled corse of his loved one--of sweet
Jennie Stevens.
But then with an effort he aroused himself, and without a thought for
the danger he might thus incur, he struck a match and bent over the
forms of the ill-fated fugitives. By its faint flickering rays, he
recognized the father and mother; the light also showed him the bare
and gory skulls where the scalps had been ruthlessly torn away.
He only saw this much, when the match burned to his finger tips and
then expired. Tremblingly he essayed to light another, but he was
too greatly unnerved. He sunk down upon the blood-stained ground and
covered his eyes as though he would shut out the horrible vision that
filled his brain.
It was a moment of frightful torture, and it seemed as though he would
go mad. He believed that the dear one, whom he loved better than his
own life, was lying near at hand, dead--murdered like her parents.
But then with an effort he aroused up. Though sick at heart, his hands
were steady as he struck another match. He had nerved himself to bear
the worst, now.
The light cast a faint glow around, but the dreaded sight did not meet
his staring eyes. As he strode around the spot hope sprung up in his
heart, once more.
A whip-like report broke the stillness of the air, so close that Fred
started back and dropped the match, believing that he had been the
target. But then he beheld his mistake, as another and yet another
shot rung out at some little distance to his left. He also heard shrill
yells, that he knew could only proceed from the throats of red-skins.
His eyes flashed instinctively and he clutched his rifle with a firm
grip. He remembered now the second series of shots and yells he had
heard; these were probably a continuation of those. If so, then the
savages who had slain his friends were yet at hand, and if Jennie was
taken a prisoner, she must be there also.
If so, perhaps he could effect her rescue now. But then who could be
the ones at whom the shots were fired? His family? Fred uttered a low
cry of eager hope as this idea flashed across his mind.
The young scout listened for a moment, and then glided forward in the
direction from whence came the sounds. Scarcely had he made the first
step, when the cries died away. But still advancing, Fred soon caught a
glimpse of a bright light before him.
More cautiously he crept on, every sense upon the keen alert, until he
paused beside a huge tree whose butt was surrounded by a dense growth
of bushes, and then gazed out upon the scene. He beheld a huge bonfire,
blazing upon a slight knoll. But not a living figure was in sight.
Then as he gazed, a dark figure glided between him and the fire; the
light shining brightly, revealed the features of an Indian. Then, like,
a shadow, this melted away. The stillness began to be oppressive, and
Fred could scarcely comprehend the drama that was being enacted before
him.
Leaving the tree, he glided stealthily along through the gloom,
intending to incircle the bonfire, and discover, if possible, who were
attacked by the Indians. He knew there were enemies close about him,
and he brought his keenest powers into play, making scarcely more noise
than would have done a serpent.
He had gone but a few yards, when he heard a slight rustling a little
to one side, and, pausing, he speedily distinguished the form of a man,
evidently a red-skin. It seemed as though he must be discovered, and
Fred drew his limbs together for the emergency; but the savage brushed
past him, almost close enough for their extended arms to have met. If
he saw the dusky figure of the young scout, he evidently mistook it
for one of his own comrades.
With a long-drawn breath of relief, Fred passed on, his eyes roving
keenly in every direction. Keeping at a certain distance from the
fire, he had covered nearly one-fourth of the distance necessary for a
complete circuit, when a new peril threatened him; one that he did not
see in time to avoid.
He noted the form of an Indian coming toward him, just without the
circle of light. Anxiously he watched the movements of this foe. He
could not retreat, as that would only subject him to suspicion, and the
red-man was so close that the slightest movement would be heard.
And yet the savage was coming directly toward him. Fred crouched lower
and drew his knife partly from its sheath. He had not time for more,
when the savage paused directly beside him, his eyes bent upon a long
line of bushes at but a few paces distance. Then he spoke in a low
tone, using the Sioux dialect.
"Gray Bull is creeping up to find the pale-faces. Let my brother keep
his rifle ready to shoot them as they spring up."
Fred did not reply, lest his voice should betray him, but he stealthily
drew his knife from its sheath. Then the savage turned toward him, in
evident surprise at not being answered.
The fire blazed up afresh, as the topmost sticks broke and fell down.
A ray of light penetrated the bushes, and fell fairly athwart the pale
features of the scout and those of his copper-tinted companion.
Fred beheld the wondering look--the quick change that told of
recognition, and knew that only the promptest action could preserve his
life. His left hand shot out and clutched the throat of the red-skin,
and then the keen knife hissed through the air.
But with a sudden start back, the Indian freed his throat in time to
utter a wild yell of alarm, ere the weapon drank his life's blood. Then
for a brief moment all was still.
Then a single rifle-shot rung out, and Fred felt the bullet crease his
neck. He knew that he was discovered and leaping to his feet he leveled
his rifle at an advancing Indian and fired. Then with a hoarse, defiant
shout, mingled with a death-yell from the stricken savage, he turned
and fled from the spot.
A frightful tumult arose, and the woods echoed with the swift, heavy
tramp of the Sioux as they dashed in hot pursuit after their daring foe.