The great chief of the Shawnee nation, Ke-ne-ha-ha,
“The-man-that-walks,” was pacing slowly to and fro before the door of
his wigwam, which was situated in the center of the village.
A cloud was upon the brow of the chief as he paced moodily up and down.
The moonbeams shone upon his stalwart form and glistened in sparkling
rays of silvery light upon the blade of the keen-edged scalping-knife
thrust so carelessly through the girdle that spanned his sinewy waist.
Care was on the brow and anxiety in the face of the Shawnee chieftain.
His thoughts were of the dreaded Wolf Demon--the terrible scourge that
was laying his heavy hand so cruelly upon the warriors of his tribe.
The Shawnee chief had the heart of a lion. No face had ever yet made
him turn upon his heel. A thousand bullets had whistled in waked wrath
around his head and he had faced the storm undauntedly. The glittering
knife of the hostile foe had sought his heart, and even as the point
tore his flesh, he had grimly smiled and stricken his enemy to the
earth.
Ke-ne-ha-ha feared not mortal man, but now his foe was a fiend from
the other world, and the stout-hearted Shawnee chief trembled when he
thought of the terrible foe who struck so silently and yet so fearfully.
He would have given all the fame he had acquired on the war-path, all
the honor that he had won in the council-chamber, to be put face to
face with the demon of his race, so that he might discover who and what
the terrible creature was.
At a little distance from the chief stood two of the principal warriors
of the nation. One was called the Black Cloud, the other, Noc-a-tah.
“A cloud is on the brow of the chief,” said Noc-a-tah, as he watched
Ke-ne-ha-ha pacing to and fro, with all the restless, springy motion of
the imprisoned tiger.
“Yes,” replied the other. “Ke-ne-ha-ha has not smiled since the death
of the Red Arrow. She was his eldest daughter and the singing-bird that
gladdened his wigwam with her song. The heart of the chief is sad--many
moons have passed away, but he can not forget the child that he loved
so well.”
“Let the chief steep his memory in the blood of the so-cursed
white-skins and then he will forget the wrong that they have done him.”
“The chief speaks with a straight tongue,” said Black Cloud, sagely.
“When Ke-ne-ha-ha goes on the war-path he will forget. The sight of
this blood and the smoke of their burning dwellings will clear the
cloud of sorrow from his brain. Then he will laugh, for he can show the
world how the great chief of the Shawnees wipes out the memory of his
wrongs.”
Ke-ne-ha-ha approaching, the two warriors put a stop to their
conversation.
“The white prisoner is securely guarded?” he asked.
“Yes,” replied the Black Cloud, “three warriors guard the lodge of the
pale-face.”
For a moment Ke-ne-ha-ha was silent, apparently lost in thought; then
suddenly he spoke again.
“The mind of the chief is not easy--there is a load upon it--as heavy
as the house the turtle carries upon his back.”
“What troubles the mind of the great chief of the Shawnee nation?”
asked Noc-a-tah, respectfully.
“The chief can not tell--the shadows come upon his heart like the
clouds over the moon, without warning, without reason. Ke-ne-ha-ha
fears for the safety of the white prisoner; he would rather lose one of
his ears than have the white foe escape. Let my warriors go with me. We
will see the pale-face.”
Ke-ne-ha-ha, followed by the two chiefs, sought the lodge where Boone
was confined.
As the Indian had said, three braves guarded the door.
In answer to Ke-ne-ha-ha’s question they replied that all had been
still as death within the wigwam of the prisoner.
Feeling reassured, Ke-ne-ha-ha was about to return to his own wigwam,
when a sudden fancy took possession of him to see the white captive and
so personally assure himself of the safety of the prisoner.
Taking a brand from the smoldering fire, the chief entered the lodge.
The other warriors remained outside.
Ke-ne-ha-ha’s tall form had hardly disappeared within the hut, when a
cry of surprise broke upon the Indians’ startled ears. It came from the
lodge and was uttered by the lips of Ke-ne-ha-ha.
Astonished, the Indians rushed into the lodge.
In the center of the wigwam stood the chief.
The lodge was dimly lighted by the burning brand that he carried in his
hand.
The prisoner had disappeared.
Great was the astonishment and anger of the Indians.
Soon they discovered the slit in the side of the lodge where the
keen-edged knife had opened a passage to the air.
The savages were utterly astounded. Boone had been carefully and
thoroughly searched; all his weapons taken from him, and yet it was
plain that he had contrived to free himself from his bonds and cut his
way out of the lodge.
A moment’s examination, however, convinced Ke-ne-ha-ha that the bonds
that had bound the hunter had been cut by some other hand than his own.
Then the Indians passed through the hole cut in the wigwam, and outside
in the soft earth searched for traces of the prisoner’s footsteps.
These they soon found.
The soft earth of the bank of the river was as yielding as wax, and by
the clear light of the moonbeams the Indians discovered the mark of two
different footprints. The first they came to was evidently made by the
broad moccasin of Boone; but the second was a puzzle. It was also the
print of a moccasin, but the toes turned inward like the footprint of
an Indian.
“The pale-face had some white-hearted Indian, lurking like a snake
within the thicket, who has aided him to escape,” said Ke-ne-ha-ha, in
anger.
A cry of wonder from the Black Cloud attracted the attention of all.
The chief, a little ahead of the rest of the party, had been examining
the bank of the river, which, there, from the level of the stream, was
about as high as a man’s waist.
The others hurried to the side of the Black Cloud, drawn thither by his
exclamation.
With wondering eyes the chief was gazing upon some marks on the soft
clay bank.
And when the eyes of the other looked upon the strange mark, they
wondered, too.
On the soft clay was imprinted an animal’s paw.
The impression was perfect; claws, all were there, and the keen-eyed
chief, Noc-a-tah, picked out a short, gray hair that had remained stuck
in the clay.
Ke-ne-ha-ha’s brow grew dark when he looked upon the strange impression.
“It is the mark of a wolf’s paw,” said the Black Cloud, astonished.
“Yes, and here is one of the hairs of the beast. It is a gray wolf,”
observed Noc-a-tah.
“Let my warriors look further on, they may find more traces,” said
Ke-ne-ha-ha, gravely.
The warriors obeyed the instruction.
In the center of the horse-path, cold and dead, they found the Shawnee
chief.
On the breast of the slain warrior blazed the fearful token, the Red
Arrow.
Ke-ne-ha-ha then knew only too well who it was that had rescued the
white hunter from his power, and left the footprint of an Indian and
the mark of a wolf’s paw as traces behind him. The terrible Wolf Demon
had again been in the midst of the Shawnee village. Again had his
powerful arm struck the fearful blow that sealed the death of a red
warrior.
Mournfully the Indians carried the body of the slain man to his wigwam,
and soon the wail of lamentation and despair broke on the stillness of
the night.
“What does the chief think?” asked the Black Cloud, as he watched the
lowering face of Ke-ne-ha-ha.
“That the Bad Spirit is among us,” returned the chief, slowly. “My
warriors are falling, one by one, by the hand of this secret foe. I
would give my own life to conquer him and save my nation from him.”
“Why not seek the Medicine Man? The Wolf Demon is a spirit--the
Medicine Man will give the chief a charm so that he can fight the Wolf
Demon,” said the Black Cloud, sagely.
“My brother speaks well--his counsel is good--the chief will visit the
Great Medicine,” replied Ke-ne-ha-ha.
And acting instantly on the resolution that he had formed, Ke-ne-ha-ha
went at once to the wigwam of the old Indian who was the Great Medicine
Man of the Shawnee tribe.
The wigwam of the Great Medicine was far from the others of the
village, and half hid itself within the borders of the wood as if it
courted solitude.
The Great Medicine of the Shawnees was an aged man. Infirm and old was
he, yet gifted with wondrous skill. He knew all the properties of the
herbs of the forest, the meadow and the swamp. Could cure by charms and
conjurations the most dangerous diseases.
The savages looked upon him with awe and wonder. Even Ke-ne-ha-ha, the
great chief as he was of the Shawnee nation, felt a slight sensation of
fear creep over him as he entered the wigwam of the Great Medicine.
As usual the Medicine Man sat in a corner of the lodge all wrapped up
in blankets, even his head concealed. Only his face was visible, and
that painted in streaks of black and white in a horrible fashion.
A little fire burning in the center of the lodge cast a dim light over
the scene.
The Medicine Man made a slight motion with his head as the chief
entered, as if to acknowledge his presence.
“Let the Great Medicine open his ears while the chief of the Shawnee
speaks, and let his words sink into his heart as the soft summer rain
sinks into the earth.”
Another slight motion of the head answered the words of the chief.
“It is good--let my brother listen,” said the chief, gravely.
Again the Medicine Man bowed his head.
“The Shawnees are a great nation--many warriors--brave as the
panther--cunning as the fox. The Shawnee braves fear not death, but
they wish to meet it face to face. Now it crawls upon them from
behind--in the darkness, and strikes them to death before they dream
that a foe is near. Can my father tell me of a charm to conquer the
Wolf Demon?”
“Does the chief wish to see him?” asked the Great Medicine, in a
cracked and wavering voice.
“Yes,” answered the chief, eagerly.
“I will bring the Wolf Demon before him at once.”