The two scouts looked upon the blood-stained cap with horror.
“The blood is fresh, too!” cried Boone. “Lark must have been killed by
this monster immediately after we missed him in the thicket.”
“It looks like it,” said Kenton, solemnly.
“Let us look for the body.”
But as they were about to commence their search, the sound of footfalls
approaching through the wood fell upon their ears.
“Hush!” cried Boone, grasping Kenton by the arm as he spoke; “do you
hear that?”
“It’s some one coming through the wood.”
“Yes, and hyer all comers are enemies and not friends; let’s to cover,”
said Boone.
A second after the two woodmen were snugly concealed in the bushes.
The steps came nearer and nearer, and then, through the gloom of
the night, the watching eyes of the two saw the fearful form of the
terrible Wolf Demon approaching.
He walked not now with stealthy tread but his step was heavy and slow.
His head was bent down, low upon his breast. Slowly he came on, passed
by the ambush of the scouts, then crossed the moonlit glade and entered
the thicket on the opposite side. He was bending his steps in the
direction of the Indian village of Chillicothe.
Hardly had the awful form disappeared within the gloom of the forest
when Boone grasped Kenton nervously by the shoulder.
“Kenton,” he said, in a hoarse whisper, “let us not search for the body
of our friend, whom this awful thing has killed, but revenge his death.”
“I’m with you, tooth and nail,” replied Kenton, firmly.
“Let’s follow this thing then.”
“Go it,” said Kenton, tersely.
Then the woodmen, with caution, followed in the path of the Wolf Demon.
The Demon proceeded direct to the Indian village.
The woodmen were guided in their course by the noise of his footsteps.
Suddenly the sound of the steps ceased.
Boone and Kenton crept forward with increased caution.
A few rods on and they found themselves on the edge of the timber, and
in full view of the Indian village.
The Wolf Demon was not to be seen!
The scouts then guessed the reason why the sounds of the Wolf Demon’s
tread had ceased so suddenly. The Demon had entered the village in
search of prey.
The path that the two had followed entered the village close by the
river’s bank.
It was plain to Boone that the Wolf Demon had selected the same road
into the Indian village that he, Boone, had taken in escaping from it.
“We’re treed,” said Boone, as they reached the edge of the timber and
perceived that they could proceed no further in their pursuit without
danger of their being discovered by the red-skins.
“A full stop hyer,” said Boone, thoughtfully.
“Yes, it ’pears like it,” Kenton replied.
“S’pose we wait hyer for the varmint? Ef he went into the village this
way, it’s likely that he’ll come out the same path.”
“That’s true.”
“Yes, as preachin’. I don’t know as we kin damage the critter,” said
Boone, thoughtfully. “We hain’t got no silver bullets, and I’ve heerd
say that it takes a silver bullet to stop a spook.”
“We kin try,” said Kenton, decidedly.
“Right again, by hookey! Give us your paw, Sim; we’ll stick by each
other in this.”
“Yes, to death,” answered Kenton.
A firm grip of hands sealed the compact.
Then the two again concealed themselves in the bushes.
They watched and they waited.
* * * * *
In the Indian village, Ke-ne-ha-ha, the great Shawnee chieftain, sat in
the gloom of his wigwam.
The little fire that burned in the center of the lodge cast a baleful
light over the dusky face of the warrior.
Dark and full of sorrow were the thoughts of the chieftain.
He saw again the death-scene of the Red Arrow; heard her shriek for
mercy, and then beheld the warm life-blood gushing, free, from her
young veins. Amid the smoke and flames, she died. Like the Roman
father, he had given to the death his own flesh and blood. And that
deed had brought upon his nation the terrible scourge of the Wolf Demon.
Well might the brow of Ke-ne-ha-ha look dark as the thunder-cloud when
he thought of the past. And in the future he saw no ray of light. He
had little hope that the White Dog would succeed in his mission and
kill the terrible foe.
As he was brooding over these gloomy thoughts, his daughter, Le-a-pah,
entered the wigwam.
“May the White Dog speak with the chief?” the girl asked.
“Let the brave enter,” Ke-ne-ha-ha replied. A gleam of light flashed
over his clouded face. Why should the young warrior seek him, save to
tell of the death of the Wolf Demon?
A second more and the warrior stood before him. The girl remained,
discreetly, at the door of the lodge.
“Well?” questioned the chief.
“The White Dog sought the Wolf Demon in the forest, fought him hand to
hand, but the Shawnee brave fell beneath his foot; the tomahawk was
raised to strike, when Le-a-pah bounded from the wood and the Wolf
Demon held his arm and fled from her like the night flies from the
dawn.”
Ke-ne-ha-ha listened, in amazement.
“The warrior has failed,” he said, slowly.
“Manitou did not will that he should kill the Wolf Demon,” replied the
young brave.
“The brave has tried, and the Shawnee chief will keep his word.
Le-a-pah!”
The maiden came at his call.
The chief gave her to the embrace of the young warrior.
“You are both my children--go.” But no gleam of joy lighted up
Ke-ne-ha-ha’s stern face as he gave his daughter into the arms of her
lover. The living Wolf Demon cast a mantle of gloom over his brain.
The brave and the girl withdrew from the lodge. The manner of the
chieftain forbade further words.
Left alone, Ke-ne-ha-ha strode up and down the narrow confines of the
wigwam in sullen thought.
“Oh, that my life might save my people from this terrible scourge!” he
murmured, with clenched teeth. “For the two lives, he has taken twelve.
How many more of my nation must fall by the tomahawk of the Wolf Demon
ere his taste for Shawnee blood will be satisfied?”
“One!” responded a deep voice.
Ke-ne-ha-ha turned, his blood chilled to ice with horror.
His eyes looked upon the terrible form of the Wolf Demon standing in
the doorway of the wigwam. In the hand of the Demon shone the deadly
tomahawk.
Ke-ne-ha-ha gazed with staring eyes upon the terrible figure.
“Let the chief prepare to die. He is the last Shawnee that will feel
the edge of the tomahawk of the avenger,” cried the deep voice.
With an effort, Ke-ne-ha-ha roused himself from the spell of terror
that the appearance of the dreaded Wolf Demon had cast around him.
With a sudden bound, he seized his tomahawk, that had been carelessly
cast upon the floor of the wigwam.
The Wolf Demon made no effort to prevent the chief from possessing
himself of the weapon.
Tomahawk in hand, the foes faced each other.
Slowly they moved around the narrow circle of the wigwam, watching each
other with wary eyes, each seeking an unguarded opening for an attack.
Thrice they made the circle of the lodge, the little fire, with its
glimmering light, revealing their movements to each other.
Then with a spring, like unto the panther’s in quickness, and in force,
the Wolf Demon leaped upon the Shawnee chief.
Ke-ne-ha-ha did not seek to parry the attack, but nimbly he evaded it
by springing to one side.
The tomahawk of the Wolf Demon spent its force upon the air; and as he
passed, the wily Indian dealt him a terrible stroke upon the head, that
cut in deep through the wolf-skin, and felled him heavily to the earth.
A hoarse note of triumph came from the lips of the chief as he beheld
the downfall of his foe. But his joy was of short duration, for, like
the ancient god of the fable that gathered strength from being cast
to earth, the Wolf Demon rose to his feet. The shock of the fall had
torn the tomahawk from his hand, but he did not attempt to recover the
weapon.
With naked hands--weaponless--he faced the Shawnee chief. The blood
streaming down freely over his face--over the black and white pigments
with which it was painted in horrid fashion--made him look like an evil
spirit fresh from the fires below.
His eyes shot lurid flames as he glared upon the Shawnee warrior.
Ke-ne-ha-ha grasped his tomahawk with desperate energy and waited for
the attack of the unarmed foe.
The Shawnee chieftain did not have long to wait.
With the spring of a tiger the Wolf Demon leaped upon the Indian.
Desperately Ke-ne-ha-ha struck at him with the tomahawk, but the Wolf
Demon warded off the blows with his arm, and despite the efforts of the
chief to prevent it, he closed in with him.
Sinewy and supple was the Shawnee warrior, yet he was but as a child in
the powerful grasp of his terrible foe.
The Wolf Demon held him in a grip of iron. His arms, linked round the
Indian like bands of steel, were crushing the life out of him little by
little.
Vainly Ke-ne-ha-ha struggled to free himself from the anaconda coil.
Like the serpent of far-off India, wreathing its huge length around its
prey, the Wolf Demon held the Shawnee chieftain in his grip.
The breath of the Indian came thick and hard.
Up and down in the narrow confines of the wigwam swayed the contending
foes, like two venomous snakes coiled together.
Exerting all his strength, the Indian tried to break the grasp of the
Wolf Demon. Vainly he struggled--vainly he tried. He felt that his
strength was going fast.
Tight and tighter grew the grip of steel.
The Indian turned black in the face. The blood gushed from his mouth.
He ceased to struggle. The grip relaxed and Ke-ne-ha-ha fell to the
ground, dead.