As Murdock approached the group, he saw that Colonel Boone and a
strange hunter were in the center of the party.
Another strange face also met the eye of the new-comer. It was that
of a man attired in the homespun dress of the emigrant. His hair was
jet-black, and his skin tanned almost as dark as the hue of a red-skin.
He stood on the outer edge of the group, leaning on a long rifle. The
keen, dark eyes of this stranger had a restless look, and wandered
continually about him.
Murdock felt sure, the moment he beheld the face of the stranger that
he had seen him before somewhere, but, for the life of him, he could
not guess when or where. Slowly he drew nigh, keeping a wary eye upon
the hunter-emigrant.
Boone had been telling the settlers the news imparted to him by the
solitary hunter whom he had encountered in the forest in such a
peculiar manner, and who was called Abe Lark.
“The Shawnees again on the war-path!” cried a stalwart settler, known
as Jacob Jackson, and renowned as an Indian-fighter.
As Boone had predicted, there were white faces among the settlers when
they heard the terrible news.
“True as shootin’!” cried Boone, “an’ comin’ ag’in’ us in bigger
numbers than has ever been seen on the border since we licked ’em right
hyer in the Dunmore war.”
A heavy frown came over the face of the stranger, who stood a little
apart from the others, as Boone mentioned the battle of Point Pleasant.
It was evident that the mention of that bloody fight brought back some
unpleasant recollections to the mind of the stranger.
Murdock was watching the man closely, but he was careful not to betray
to the stranger that he was being watched.
“Who leads the red-skins?” asked Jackson.
“Ke-ne-ha-ha,” replied Boone.
“The-man-that-walks!” said Jackson.
And at the name the faces of the whites grew serious. They knew
full well that a better chieftain than the Shawnee never donned the
war-paint, and that the whites had no abler or more deadly foe than
Ke-ne-ha-ha.
“Thar’ll be lightnin’ all round then, for sure,” said Jackson, in a
tone of conviction. “We’ve got to fight doggoned well to whip the
Shawnees this time. Who fetched the news, kurnel?”
“This stranger, hyer,” replied Boone, pointing to Abe Lark, who stood
by his side.
“Glad to see you, stranger,” said Jackson, tendering his huge paws and
receiving a grip that made him wince with pain, muscular and hard as
his horny palm was.
“Same to you, ole hoss,” returned Lark, with a grin on his disfigured
face at the expression of astonishment that came over the features of
burly Jake Jackson, when he received the powerful squeeze of Lark’s
hand.
“Jerusalem!” muttered Jake, looking at his hand in amazement, “that’s a
reg’lar b’ar-hug an’ no mistake.”
“Wal, I reckon the man that gits a grip from me knows it,” replied Lark.
“Well, ’bout this news. Are you sartin, stranger, that the red devils
are a-comin’ ag’in’ us?”
“If you don’t hear the Shawnee war-whoop inside of ten days you kin
jist chaw one of my fingers off, an’ I don’t keer which you take,”
replied Lark, with another grin.
“Then it will be fight, and no mistake.”
“You kin bet your moccasins on that, an’ you’ll lose ’em every time.
The Shawnees have sworn to wipe out every white settlement along the
Ohio. Thar’ll be nigh onto ten thousand Injuns in the field. They are
hot arter blood. You’ll have to fight for your top-knots or lose ’em.”
A bitter look was on the face of the dark-skinned stranger as he
listened to the words of Lark.
“Curses on this meddling hunter!” he muttered, between his teeth; “how
could he have learned of Ke-ne-ha-ha’s plan to surprise this station.
Now, thanks to him, they’ll be on their guard, and the Shawnees will
have to fight for what scalps they take.”
Not an expression on the face of this stranger was unnoticed by
Murdock, who still watched him keenly, but with a puzzled look.
“Can it be possible that it is he?” Murdock mused. “_Would_ he dare to
venture here in the midst of his foes? To venture into the presence of
the men who, if they penetrated his disguise, would hang him up to the
first tree without troubling either judge or jury? Yet I am sure it is
he, though his face is darkened by some means, and his hair is black.
He comes as a spy, probably. Ah!” and a brilliant thought occurred to
the mind of Murdock. “Suppose I get him to aid my plans. He is in my
power, if he be the man I think he is, for a single word uttered by my
lips, and the settlers would almost tear him to pieces. I’ll watch him
closely.” And with this resolution in his mind, Murdock did not remove
his eyes from the stranger. The dark-skinned hunter was so occupied in
watching the group of settlers and listening to their conversation that
he did not notice that he in turn was watched.
“Well, neighbors,” said Jake Jackson, after thinking for a moment, “if
the Injuns are a-comin’ we’ve got for to fight ’em, an’ I am ready for
one.”
“And I for another!” cried a loud, clear voice.
All turned to look at the speaker, who had approached unobserved. He
was a tall, muscular fellow, dressed in the forest garb of deer-skin.
“Sim Kenton, by the Eternal!” said Boone, taking him warmly by the hand.
It was indeed the famous scout, whose reputation as an Indian-fighter
was second to none on the border.
“Glad to see you, Sim!” continued Boone, and the group of settlers
eagerly echoed the welcome. “What’s the news?”
“Thar’s a thunder-storm a-comin’,” replied the scout. “I s’pect from
what I heerd, as I come up, that you know the Shawnees are on the
war-path.”
“Yes, yes!” cried a dozen voices.
“I’ve just come down from the Muskingum, whar I’ve been on a hunt, and
not five miles from this hyer station, I come across a big Injun lyin’
dead in the woods with a clean dig right through the skull. A powerful
fellow he war, too; looked as if he mought have given Old Nick himself
a sharp tussle.”
All wondered at the news brought by the scout. That a red-skin should
be killed so near the station, and yet no one in the station know of
it, was strange.
“What tribe was he? could you tell, Sim?” asked Boone.
“Shawnee,” replied Kenton. “A big brave he was in the tribe, too. I
knowed him well. He was called Watega.”
The dark stranger, who had pressed forward eagerly to listen with
the rest, could hardly prevent an oath escaping from his lips. This
movement on his part did not escape the searching eyes of Murdock.
“I know the chief,” said Boone; “he was one of the principal warriors
of the tribe. A clean dig through the skull, you say?”
“Yes; the man that made it must be a hurricane, for he split the
Injun’s head clean open.”
“Who could have done it?” said Jackson, in wonder.
“That’s what I’d like to know,” said Kenton, with a puzzled air. “Thar
ain’t any man along the border, that I know of, that is powerful enough
for to do it. Thar warn’t any marks of a struggle, neither. The Injun
had been taken by surprise, an’ settled with one blow. Why, it looks as
if the devil himself had had a hand in it.”
“Nothing but one clean dig, eh?” said Boone, reflectively.
“Nothing else,” replied Kenton, “’cept some knife-cuts on the breast,
as if the slayer cut his totem thar, arter finishing the brute.”
Boone gave a slight start--a start that was imitated by the
dark-skinned stranger who was listening to the conversation so eagerly.
“And them marks--three knife-cuts, making a red arrow?” asked Boone.
“Right to an iota!” cried Kenton, astonished at the knowledge of the
other.
“The Wolf Demon, by hookey!” exclaimed Boone, in a tone of wonder. And
at the name of the dreaded foe of the Shawnee nation, the dark stranger
shuddered.
“What in creation do you mean by the Wolf Demon?” asked Kenton, who had
never heard the story of the mysterious scourge of the Shawnees, which
was well known to Boone.
Then the old hunter told the wondering crowd the story of the Wolf
Demon. Told of the incomprehensible being in the shape of a huge gray
wolf, but with the face of a man, who seemed to be an avenging angel
destined to hunt down to his death any solitary Shawnee brave who
strayed from his brethren in the forest.
Wonder-stricken, the stout borderers listened to the tale; deeply
superstitious, they accepted the legend of the Indians without
question; one and all were convinced that the Wolf Demon was, as the
Shawnees asserted, proof against either steel or ball, and was no
human, but a denizen of another world.
“Whar was the body?” asked Jackson.
“Just beyond a tree where some hunter had cut his name--Abe Lark,”
answered Kenton.
“Wal, we were nigh it this mornin’!” cried Abe, in astonishment.
The dark-skinned stranger, having apparently heard all he wanted,
strolled leisurely away.
Murdock, convinced now that he was not mistaken as to the identity of
the stranger, followed him slowly.
“Let this Wolf Demon come within range of my rifle, I’ll quickly prove
whether he is man or devil,” said the unknown, as he walked onward.
“Watega dead? That interferes with my plans, but I can do without him,
since it must be so.” And with these strange words on his tongue, he
was suddenly astonished by being hailed by Murdock.