Boone, concealed in the bushes behind the fallen tree, on which sat the
Indian girl and the red warrior, cursed the unlucky star that led the
twain to select the place of his concealment for a stolen interview.
The scout hardly dared to breathe lest he should betray his presence to
the two.
They, however, looking with eyes full of love upon each other, thought
only of the happiness that they enjoyed when thus together.
The girl was the daughter of the great chief, Ke-ne-ha-ha; her lover
was a young brave known as the “White Dog.” A warrior young in years,
but who had already distinguished himself on the war-path against the
foes of the great Shawnee nation.
The children of the wilderness, wrapped in the joy of the stolen
meeting, had little thought of aught else, and never for a moment
suspected that within arm’s length, a listener to their conversation,
lay the great ranger and scout, Daniel Boone--the man whose
death-dealing rifle was destined to tumble many a plumed and painted
warrior to the earth.
The scout, who fully realized the danger of his position, could see no
possible way to escape. He knew full well that the slightest movement
on his part would inevitably betray his presence to the two who sat on
the trunk of the fallen tree. Once discovered, every warrior in the
Shawnee village would be quick on his trail.
One thought only consoled Boone. From the conversation of the squaw and
chief--Boone understood enough of the Shawnee tongue to comprehend what
was said--he might learn something concerning the Indian expedition.
If he could gain important information, and manage to escape without
betraying his presence to the Indians, then his mission would be
accomplished.
“Is the chief satisfied?” asked the girl, with a smile, gazing full
into the dark eyes of her lover as she spoke.
“Yes,” replied the warrior. “Le-a-pah has kept her word. She is the
singing-bird of the Shawnee nation. The White Dog will love her till
the great lamp in the sky grows old and the spirit-lights fade and die
forever.”
“Le-a-pah is the daughter of a great chief; he would be angry if he
knew that his child met the young brave by the forest,” said the girl,
sadly.
“The White Dog is a young warrior, but the scalps of the Delaware
already hang and dry in the smoke of his wigwam.” The tone of the young
chief was proud as he uttered the words that told of his prowess.
“The chief speaks with a straight tongue,” and the girl looked with
pride into the manly face of her lover. “Le-a-pah loves the White Dog,
but the great chief, her father, has said that she must be the wife of
the warrior who is called Black Cloud. The heart of Le-a-pah is sad,
for she can not love the Black Cloud.”
“The Black Cloud is old--the singing-bird is young. Would her father
mate the bounding spring with the chill autumn? It is bad!” and the
young brave shook his head sadly.
“The Black Cloud is a great chief,” said the girl.
“When the White Dog comes back from the war-path against the
white-skins on the Ohio, _he_ will be a great chief, too. Many white
scalps will hang at his belt, and his tomahawk will be red with the
blood of the long-rifles,” said the chief, proudly.
Boone, from his hiding-place, listened intently when the warrior spoke
of the expedition to Ohio. This was the very information he was after.
“The white-skins are many; the Shawnee chief may fall by their hands,”
and a shadow of apprehension passed across the face of the Indian
maiden as she spoke.
“Then his spirit will go to the long home beyond the skies, and in the
spirit-land will chase the red deer. But, if the White Dog comes back
to the banks of the Scioto, then Le-a-pah must be his wife and dwell
forevermore in his wigwam.”
“The Shawnee girl will be the wife of the young chief whom she loves
as the sun loves the earth, or she will never sing in the wigwam of a
chief.”
“Good!”
The young brave drew the slight form of the unresisting girl to his
heart.
“The chief will love the singing-bird while he lives; when he dies, her
face will be in his heart,” said the warrior, fondly.
“When does the chief go on the war-path?” asked the girl.
“Three sleeps more and the Shawnees will burst like a thunder-cloud on
the pale-faces,” replied the Indian.
“On the Ohio?”
“Yes,” answered the chief.
“Now, if the heathen would only say whar,” muttered Boone, listening
eagerly.
“The white-skins will fight hard.” The girl was thinking of the peril
that her lover was about to encounter.
“The red-men will fight as they have never fought before,” said the
warrior. “The tomahawk and brand shall scourge the pale-face from the
ground that the Great Spirit gave to the Indian. The waters of the
Kanawha shall run red with blood. The Shawnees have not forgotten the
many braves that fell by the deadly leaden hail of the white-skins many
moons ago, by the Ohio and Kanawha.”
The chief referred to the defeat sustained by the Indians at the hands
of the border-men commanded by Lewis, which took place some years
before the time of the action of our story.
“It is against Point Pleasant, then,” said Boone, to himself, as the
words of the Indian fell upon his ear. “Well, let ’em come! I reckon we
can blaze ’em as bad the second time as we did the first. Now, if these
young critters would only make tracks out o’ this, how quick I’d make a
bee-line for the Ohio. But--dog-gone their copper-colored hides!--they
don’t seem at all in a hurry to go.”
The scout was right in his thought. The two lovers were in no hurry to
bring their love-meeting to a close. It was probably the last chance
that they would have of being together, and they were anxious to
improve the opportunity. Love is the same the world over, whether it
springs in the heart of the savage, beneath the spreading branches of
the oak in the forest wilderness, or in the breast of fashion’s votary
in the crowded city.
Warmly the warrior pressed his suit and told of the deathless flame
that burned within his heart. Coyly listened the girl to the avowal
that she loved to hear.
The lover eagerly pleaded for a farewell kiss from the lips that he had
ne’er touched. Shyly the Indian maid refused the favor, though in her
heart she consented.
The chief clasped the girl in his arms. She, with assumed anger, freed
herself from his embrace and pushed him away. The chief, losing his
balance in the struggle, tumbled over backward from the log, coming
down plump on top of the scout concealed in the bushes behind the tree.
Quick from the throat of the Indian came the note of alarm. He realized
instantly that the form concealed in the bushes must be the form of a
foe.
With a mighty effort, Boone rolled the chief to one side, then sprung
to his feet, prepared to fly for his life.
The Indian girl shrieked with terror when she beheld a pale-face spring
up amid the bushes.
Her cry attracted the attention of the Indians in the village, and,
with hasty steps, they rushed toward the line of timber, anxious to
learn the cause of the alarm.
Boone felt that desperate effort alone would save him. A foot-race
through the forest with a score of Shawnees was the only chance, but to
escape the vengeance of the Indians would require a fearful effort.
As the scout started, his foot caught in a clinging vine, and over he
went on his face. Before he could recover, the young chief, the White
Dog, was upon him.
The Indian was sinewy and stout of limb, yet he was no match for the
stalwart scout. With a grasp of steel, Boone grappled with the red
warrior.
For a moment they swayed to and fro over the earth; the scout trying to
break the grip of the Indian, and he striving to hold the unknown foe
until his brethren should come to his aid.
The Shawnees were approaching fast. Their shouts rung out on the air
like a death-knell.
Thus nerved to redouble his exertions, the iron-limbed scout swung the
red-skin from the ground, and essayed to cast him from him; but, like
a snake, the supple savage twined himself around the body of the white.
The cries of the Indian girl, alarmed for the safety of her lover,
were answered by the angry shouts of the approaching crowd, who could
plainly see that there was a struggle going on in the borders of the
thicket.
“Help! help!” cried the girl: “this way! a white-skin!”
“Let go your hold, you cussed red imp!” cried Boone, between his teeth,
as he vainly tried to break the grip of the red chief.
The Indian now was merely trying to hold the white foe till assistance
should come to his aid.
Desperate, Boone’s hand sought the handle of his knife. The bright
blade flashed in the air; a second more, and it would have been buried
to the haft in the body of the White Dog, but the Indian girl perceived
her lover’s peril, and sprung to his aid, grasping the hand of the
scout just as he was about to plunge the knife in the red-man’s breast.
The red chief, taking advantage of the girl’s aid, twisted his leg
around that of the scout, bore Boone backward to the earth, upon which
the combatants fell with a heavy shock. A second more, and the Shawnee
warriors surrounded the contending men.
With many a cry of triumph they bound the daring pale-face who had
lurked so near to the Shawnee village.