After having secured with tough thongs of deer-skin the stalwart limbs
of their prisoner, they bore him forward to where the fire burned in
their village.
All the inhabitants, attracted by the noise of the capture, had left
their lodges and now pressed forward to look upon the prisoner.
Great was the astonishment of the Shawnees when the flickering light of
the flames, falling upon their captive, revealed to them the well-known
face of Daniel Boone, the great scout of the border.
A howl of delight resounded through the Indian village at this
discovery. The red-skins had no foe whom they dreaded more than the man
they now held, bound and helpless, a prisoner in their midst.
A grim smile was upon the features of Ke-ne-ha-ha, the Shawnee chief,
as he looked upon the face of the man who had so often escaped him on
the war-path.
“The white-skin is no longer an eagle, but a fox; he creeps into the
shadow of the Shawnee village, to use his ears,” said the chief,
mockingly.
“The Shawnees have already had proof that I can use my hands,” replied
the scout, nettled by the words as well as the tone of the savage. “A
chief that is not fox as well as eagle, is not worthy to go upon the
war-path. His scalp should be taken by squaws.”
The Indians could not dispute the words of Boone.
“What seeks the white chief in the village of the Shawnees?” asked
Ke-ne-ha-ha.
“Guess, and maybe you’ll find out,” replied the captive coolly.
“The white-skin comes as a spy--a foe into the village of the Shawnee,”
said the Indian.
“When did any of your nation, chief, ever come except as a spy or a foe
to the houses of the whites?” asked Boone.
“Ugh! the white-skin has stolen the land of the red-man. Cheated him
with lies. Ke-ne-ha-ha is a great warrior--he will take the scalps of
the long-knives and burn their wigwams,” said the Indian, proudly.
“You’ll have to fight afore you accomplish _that_, Injun, I reckon,”
replied Boone, whose coolness and courage astonished the red warriors.
“The white-skin shall die!” said the chief, fiercely.
“I reckon we’ve all got to die, sometime, Injun,” answered Boone, not
in the least terrified by the threat.
“Let my warriors take the prisoner to the wigwam of Ke-ne-ha-ha,” said
the chief.
The order was instantly obeyed. The prisoner was carried to the
wigwam--one of the largest in the village. In the center of the lodge a
little fire was burning.
The scout was laid upon a little couch of skins within the lodge; then,
in obedience to an order from the great chief, the Indians withdrew and
left the captive alone with Ke-ne-ha-ha.
The chief’s wigwam stood only a few paces from the banks of the Scioto,
that stream running close behind the Indian lodge.
After the Indians had placed the helpless prisoner within the lodge,
they returned again to their scalp-dance around the fire, excepting a
few warriors, who, under the leadership of the White Dog--who suddenly
found himself famous by his capture of the great scout--made a circuit
of the forest surrounding the Shawnee village to discover if there were
any more white foes lurking within the wood.
The search was fruitless. No trace could they find of the presence of
a white-skin; and so, finally, they came to the conclusion that the
daring ranger was alone. The Indians then returned to the village.
The escape of Kenton from the search of the Indians is easily
explained. He had approached the village on the west, and, skillfully
taking advantage of the cover afforded by the bushes, had, like Boone,
reached the edge of the timber. From his position he commanded a view
of the village, and from his concealment beheld the capture of his
friend. Guessing shrewdly that the presence of one white man might
lead them to suspect that there were others in the neighborhood, he
determined to withdraw from his dangerous position. He had seen no sign
of Lark since he had parted with him at the hollow oak, and he came to
the conclusion that Lark had not yet reached the village.
Kenton retreated from his exposed position. Slowly making his way
through the wood, his eyes fell upon a large oak tree. The thought
suggested itself to him that in the branches of the oak, he might find
shelter.
So up the tree he mounted.
Once more in his hiding-place, vailed in as he was by the leafy
branches, he felt that he could bid defiance to any search that the
Indians might make.
Hardly had Kenton adjusted himself comfortably in the tree, when he
heard a slight rustling in the bushes to the right of the oak. The
keen ear of the alert scout instantly knew that some one was moving
cautiously through the thicket. The sound came from the direction of
the village.
Kenton thought that, possibly, it was Lark, who, like himself, had
scouted into the Shawnee village, and was retreating to safer quarters.
Then, through the dim aisles of the forest came a dark form gliding
onward with stealthy steps. In the uncertain light Kenton thought he
recognized the figure of Abe Lark, the scout. Bending down from his
hiding-place, Kenton was about to warn him that a friend was near, when
the dark form crossed a little opening upon which the moonbeams cast
their rays of silvery light, and Kenton caught a glimpse of the form as
it glided through the moonlit opening.
The lion-hearted scout almost dropped from the tree when his eyes fell
upon that form. The hair upon his head rose in absolute fright. His
eyeballs were distended, and cold drops of sweat stood like waxen beads
upon his bronzed forehead.
Well might he feel a sense of terror, for there below him glided--what?
The vast proportions of a huge gray wolf, walking erect upon hind legs,
but the wolf possessed the face of a human!
A moment only the wolf--man or phantom--whatever it was--was beheld by
the astonished scout, then it disappeared in the gloom of the thicket.
With the back of his hand Kenton wiped the perspiration--cold as the
night-dew--from his brow.
“I’ve seen it!” he muttered, to himself. “It’s the Wolf Demon.
Jerusalem! I’d rather fight forty Shawnees than have a tussle with a
monster like that. I always thought that the Injun story ’bout the Wolf
Demon was all bosh, but now I’ve seen it; so near the Shawnee village,
too. Thar’ll be a hurricane soon, or I’m a Dutchman.”
Leaving the scout to his meditations, we will follow the course of the
terrible figure that had so affrighted the stout Simon Kenton, who was
one of the bravest hearts on the border.
Cautiously and carefully through the thicket the creature glided. It
was making its way to the Scioto river.
Suddenly the figure paused, and apparently listened for a moment.
The sound of footsteps of the Indian warriors, headed by the White Dog,
scouting through the forest, broke the stillness of the night.
But for a moment the mysterious Wolf Demon listened; then as the
Indians came nearer and nearer, with a leap, as agile as that of the
squirrel, the terrible form seized hold of a branch of the oak beneath
which it was standing, and swung itself up into the concealment of the
leaves of the tree.
The Indian braves came on and paused for consultation under the
branches of the very tree that concealed, in its leafy recesses, the
terrible scourge of their race.
“Wah! The pale chief is alone,” said one of the warriors; “no other
pale-face is within the woods.”
“He is a brave chief to come alone to the lodges of the Shawnee
nation,” said another of the warriors.
“Boone is a great brave,” said the White Dog, who felt a natural pride
in extolling the bravery of the prisoner whose capture was placed to
his credit.
“He will never take the war-path against the Shawnees again,” said one
of the braves, with on accent of satisfaction.
“No; his scalp shall blacken and dry in the smoke of a Shawnee’s
lodge,” said the White Dog.
“It is good,” responded another, with a grunt of satisfaction.
“The great white-skin will die by the fire, and the red braves will
dance around him with joy,” said the Indian who had first spoken, with
a fierce expression of delight in his voice.
“The long-knife was alone--no more are within the wood; let us return
to the village,” said the White Dog.
The other warriors grunted their assent, and the party, turning upon
their heel, took the way leading back to the village.
Hardly had the figure of the rearmost savage disappeared in the gloom
of the wood, when forth from the tree came the terrible figure.
Lightly it bounded to the ground, and, with a glittering tomahawk
clutched in its paw, followed swiftly but cautiously on the track of
the red-men.
The Indians, however, kept together. Had one remained behind the other,
he would never have lived to have told what struck him.
The terrible form followed to the edge of the timber, and ground its
teeth in rage at the escape of its foe.
Then it headed again for the river, keeping within the shelter of the
timber. The river reached, the mysterious prowler took advantage of the
stream’s bank, which had been hollowed out by the washing of the water,
to reach the wigwam of Ke-ne-ha-ha in which Boone was confined.
There, in the very shadow of the wigwam, the terrible figure lay upon
the ground concealed by the darkness, and listened intently.