THE PHANTOM WARRIOR.
But it was not fated that Clancy Vere should die by the scalping-knife.
The Indian who had acted as the leader of the party leaped forward with
a sharp cry, and with a quick blow of his powerful hand, sent the knife
flying from the maddened brave’s grasp into the water tossing and
roaring twenty feet below.
“What would Bear-Killer do?” he said, giving the baffled savage a sudden
push that sent him staggering back against the tree. “Has he forgotten
the laws of our nation? Does he forget that the great chiefs have said
that when a number of warriors take a captive all shall have a share in
putting him to death?”
Bear-Killer was cowed; but he stood with lowering brows, glowering upon
the young hunter with a look of fierce hatred that made him appear, with
his dark face bruised and bleeding, absolutely diabolical.
“Wy-an-da is right,” he said, at length. “Bear-Killer forgot. The
pale-face must die hard! Bear-Killer must be avenged!”
“We will give the white hunter to the laughing waters,” said Wy-an-da.
“He must die!”
“He must die!”
The four Indians repeated these three ominous words in a hoarse chorus,
and began to circle slowly around the captive, brandishing their
tomahawks and knives furiously and screaming the wild scalp-halloo of
their tribe.
Several minutes passed thus, Vere standing in the circle of screeching
braves calm and unmoved; then all became suddenly silent, standing still
and dropping their hands by their sides as if moved by a common impulse.
“Is the pale-face ready to die?” asked Wy-an-da.
“I have said that I do not fear death!” replied the young hunter,
calmly. “I am ready!”
The last faint ray of hope was extinguished now. He was bound and
helpless—they could do with him as they would; and as calmly as possible
he resigned himself to his fate—the horrible fate that seemed
inevitable!
“Wy-an-da will tell the pale-face hunter how he must die,” said the
chief. “It is not a pleasant death. He will be afraid. His heart will
grow small within his bosom and his face will be white as the snow in
winter. He will not like to die so. Will he be brave at the last
moment?”
“I tell you I am ready to die!” shouted Vere.
He knew that the savage was trying to torture him, and he would not let
him see what pain it really gave him—the anticipation of this sudden and
terrible departure from the life that had just begun to seem so happy to
him.
“Why do you wait?” he added, stolidly. “I tell you I am ready!”
“It is well,” said Wy-an-da. “The white hunter is a brave man. He shall
die thus: he will be hung by a lasso, head downward, from the branch of
that tree there that reaches out over the laughing waters. Then the
Indian that can throw his tomahawk the truest will cut the lasso, and
the white man will fall down and the laughing waters will sweep him over
the rocks. Then his body will be dashed to pieces on the sharp stones
below! Is it pleasant to think of? Will the pale-face be brave?”
This speech was greeted by a chorus of satisfied grunts from the
savages.
A shudder ran through Vere’s frame and his spirits sunk as he heard the
chief pronounce his fearful doom; but it was only for a moment. Then he
appeared calm and apparently unmoved.
A more diabolical torture could not well be conceived.
It was terrible—this standing face to face with death; but the young
hunter showed no signs of fear.
Five minutes later he was swinging, head downward, over that black flood
hastening on with a wild roar to the precipice below.
The chill autumn wind, wailing in fitful gusts through the forest trees,
his body gave an oscillating motion, and it seemed, as he swayed at that
dizzy height, as if every vibration would precipitate him into the water
below.
After the lasso was securely fastened to the protruding branch, the
Indians drew back about twenty paces from their swinging victim and
prepared for their trial of skill in hurling the tomahawk.
Each was anxious to have the first throw.
At length it was decided that Wy-an-da should have the precedence.
He took his place with a confident air, like one who is assured of
success.
Carefully noting the distance, he drew his tomahawk back, and, taking
deliberate aim, gave it a quick jerk; and it went whirling out of his
hand.
They watched its flight eagerly.
It missed the lasso by six inches.
The swaying hunter was saved thus far.
He had been watching Wy-an-da as he only could look whose life hung on
the issue.
He closed his eyes as he saw the weapon whizzing through the air, and
awaited the end.
A tall Indian of massive frame stepped forward.
“O-wan-ton try,” he said.
He measured the space accurately with his keen eye; but his tomahawk
flew wide of its mark, burying itself to the eye in the limb to which
the lasso was secured.
The victim of the laughing waters was saved again.
Next came Wolf-Nail.
The young hunter watched him with a white face and a heart wild with
despair.
He stepped forward slowly, and hurled his tomahawk without much care.
The swinging cord was a difficult target.
Vere felt the lasso jerk, and thought the end had come.
But he was saved again.
The handle of the tomahawk struck the lasso, and the weapon glanced off
and fell with a muffled splash into the water.
Bear-Killer was the last to try.
He was yet half-wild with rage; and with the blood still streaming from
his disfigured face, he made ready to hurl his tomahawk, hoping to sate
his vengeance and send the young hunter to eternity.
Vere was looking at him, and his heart seemed for a moment to stop its
pulsations.
This time death seemed certain.
He saw that the red demon did not intend to throw at the cord.
He was taking deliberate aim at his head!
The young hunter saw him draw back his weapon, and closed his eyes.
There was a moment of terrible agony to the man vibrating, as it were,
between earth and eternity—and then all became dark!
He seemed to be shooting down—down—and he knew no more.
He had fainted.
Those few terrible moments of suspense—ages they seemed to him—had been
more than he could bear. The constantly tightening noose around his
ankles was excruciatingly painful, and the position in which he hung
caused the blood to flow to his head. None but a man young and strong
like Vere could have retained his consciousness so long as he had done.
Bear-Killer was exultant. A moment more, and his fiend-like longing for
vengeance would be satisfied.
He noted the distance carefully with his practiced eye, and with a grim
smile of triumph on his blood-streaked face, raised his tomahawk and
prepared to make the fatal throw.
Suddenly a wild, unearthly cry, like a prolonged wail, rung out on the
wind, sounding strangely ghastly above its moanings.
Bear-Killer’s tomahawk slipped from his grasp, and a sickly pallor
overspread his face, and those of his companions blanched to an ashen
hue.
The four Indians gave utterance to wild cries of fear and consternation.
“_The Spirit Warrior! The Spirit Warrior!_”
A white steed was flying across a small opening in the forest directly
toward them, and mounted upon its bare back, guiding it with neither
bridle nor reins, rode a ghastly human skeleton of gigantic proportions.
With cries of terror, the stricken little band of savages turned to fly.
On came the terrible Phantom Rider with the speed of the wind!
As it drew near, it sprung up suddenly, and standing upright on the back
of its flying steed, threw something round and black high in the air;
then, with another unearthly scream, rode on and disappeared in the
forest.
The thing went up with a hissing noise, a broad, brilliant streak of
flame marking its course, and then fell with a terrific explosion in the
very midst of the Indians.
Then there came a chorus of agonized shrieks, and three of the savages
were laid dead on the ground.
Bear-Killer escaped, and fled with a loud, terrified howl into the
forest.
The dead Indians were horribly mangled, and Wy-an-da’s head was blown a
rod from his body.
Then all was silent save the roaring cataract and soughing wind.
Not a being was in sight, save the unconscious one who swung by a small
cord between this life and the one beyond the grave!