It is a night of fearful storm, but one that has been full of events
to the captives. Taken to the Indian village they were doomed to the
stake; but the counterfeit Black Bear coming in with Florence, had
learned all--the assault on the cave, the death of Allacotah, which
freed the unhappy wife from a bond that must have broken her heart--and
by co-operating with Rainbolt, whom Florence brought to the guidance of
the released captives, the brave Solomon Strange had, under cover of
the storm, set the whole party free; and we now behold them gathered in
the Ranger’s Cave, happy enough over their release. But the happiest of
all was the ranger himself, who, with his restored wife in his arms,
was repaid for his long, long days of suffering.
Only Solomon Strange was abroad on that night. Furiously the wind drove
in his face as he moved westward through the woods, guided by the
lightning’s glare. But, what cared the mysterious Solomon Strange for
the bellowing thunder, the rumbling wind, the sullen roar of the trees,
the crashing of fallen timber, the vivid lightning and the rain? Ah,
_what_ cared he?
On through the forest aisles he went. On, on.
Presently he entered a small opening in the woods and stopped.
That spot seemed to recall a dark deed to his mind, for it was there
that he had beaten down the renegade, Blufe Brandon; and but a little
ways off he could hear the waters rushing wildly through the black
gorge into which he had thrown the body.
After a moment’s pause he crossed the glade and entered the forest. A
few steps more and he had disappeared in the cavern, wherein that day
he had left his bear-skin disguise.
Ten minutes passed and then he came forth again, but he wore not the
disguise of the Black Bear.
His long yellow hair and whiskers floated around his head and face like
ragged streamers in the wild winds.
At the mouth of the cavern he paused and leaned upon his knotted club.
Just then a vivid flash of lightning revealed the figure of a man with
a thin, ghastly face and hollow eyes standing before him.
He stepped back and raised his club, for sure was he that an apparition
confronted him.
Another flash of lightning. The figure still is there. Solomon Strange
started like a guilty thing, as he recognized the man’s features--the
features of the renegade, Blufe Brandon.
“Brandon, is it you?” he asked.
“Yes; who are you?” returned the supposed defunct renegade.
“I am Solomon Strange, the Wizard of the West, the same who beat you
down in the forest glade, and tumbled you into the gorge for dead. Ho!
ho! a right merry time have I had playing Black Bear. Your bear-skin
fit me to a gnat’s heel, Mr. Blufe, and then I went up to the robbers’
ranch and passed myself off as Black Bear, and was initiated in the
brotherhood of Mountain Men, as you had arranged at the Devil’s Tarn.
Oh, a right jolly time had Duval Dungarvon and I, Mr. Blufe. A gay dog
is Captain Duval, but he got drunk and I didn’t, and the reason was,
he poured goblets of liquor down his throat, while I poured just as
much down--upon the floor. And while Duval, the thirsty dog, lay dead
drunk, I stole a bottle of his best, gave it to his prisoners, and then
let them out, locked the empty prison and hid the key, Mr. Blufe. And
all this merry sport I’ve had in your bear-skin, and no one knew but I
was Black Bear himself. But, how glad I am that you are not dead, Mr.
Blufe, for I felt like I had done a dirty little deed when I flung you
into the gorge, so deep, so dark, Mr. Blufe.”
“I believe you are an infernal fool,” returned the bruised and wounded
renegade, growing enraged at what he knew must be so.
“Whew! how the winds blow,” continued Strange. “Come into the cavern
and I will tell you more, Mr. Blufe. Come in where the rain won’t
wash you into the gorge, for there is only a shadow of you left, you
unfortunate dog.”
“Go to the devil,” responded the renegade; “I will not go in.”
“But, you must come, you must hear me, Mr. Blufe,” and Strange seized
him, and dragging him into the cavern, compelled him to listen to an
hour’s tales and talk.
When he had finished, however, he turned and glided out the cavern into
the forest.
Soon after Blufe Brandon, weak with loss of blood and fasting, emerged
from the cave and moved slowly away toward the Indian encampment,
cursing the mysterious author of his sore bones and bruised head.
An hour after his interview with the resurrected chief, Solomon
Strange was seated under the shelter of a great pine in conversation
with another man, one whom he had requested to meet him there--at the
Devil’s Tarn.
That man was the white-haired prisoner of the robbers’ ranch, Gustave
Barker.
For hours they sat and conversed as though no storm was raging around
them.
Finally the storm died away, and as the moon struggled out through the
rifts in the skurrying clouds, Solomon Strange and his companion left
their seat beneath the great pine by the Devil’s Tarn, and took their
way eastward through the forest.