CHAPTER XIV.
THE TRAGEDY IN THE FOREST GLADE.
Like a phantom the tall form of Solomon Strange glided through the forest after Black Bear.
Now and then the renegade would stop and gaze around him as though he felt a presentiment of lurking danger, and then again move on.
Half a mile from the Indian encampment was a little glade through which ran the trail the chief was following. As he neared the edge of it, the madman quickened his pace, and just as the renegade stepped into the moonlit space, a wild voice called out:
“Stop!”
The renegade involuntarily stopped and turned around.
At this moment the tall form of Solomon Strange sprung from the forest shadows, and dealt the chief a blow with his club that felled him lifeless at his feet.
Bending over the prostrate form, he scrutinized it.
“Yes, life is extinct,” muttered he, and dropping upon his knees he began removing the bear’s skin from his body. This done, a low, triumphant laugh escaped Solomon Strange’s lips, and he lifted the lifeless form in his arms, and carried it a short ways into the woods and hurled it down into a deep, black gorge.
Ten minutes later, a dark, hairy form appeared in the glade. It was the form of Solomon Strange disguised in the bear’s skin.
No one could have told him from Blufe Brandon. Their movements were similar, and their size exactly the same.
“So far I have been successful,” he murmured. “I stand in Black Bear’s disguise; and now if I can only have the nerve and cunning to occupy his position among the red-skins for a few days, I will make these old hills stand aghast with wonder and startling revelations. The Cheyenne tongue I can handle to a demonstration, and I believe I can imitate Black Bear’s voice exactly.
“And then, there’s Duval Dungarvon; but I can hoodwink him easy enough. Yes, to-morrow noon I will meet him at the Lone Pine, get a synopsis of the ‘initiatory ceremony’ into the order of road-agents and cut-throats. Ah, Solomon Strange! a desperate game is yours, and for what?—to solve a dark mystery, and rub out the stains of a dark crime that lays concealed behind it, but—”
His musings were here brought to an abrupt termination, by suddenly entering the opening in which stood the Indian encampment, while a few paces off sat an Indian sentinel.
“Will he challenge me?” the false chief mentally asked.
Then he knew that the sentinel would see that it was Black Bear’s disguise, and allow him to pass. And so he did, with only a low, guttural exclamation at sight of the great chief.
As Strange entered the outskirts of the village, he saw that a large fire was burning in front of the council-lodge, and that a number of warriors were singing and dancing around it.
“I’ll swow,” muttered Strange, “I’m going to be drawn right into business, the first thing. I’d rather kept a little to myself a day or so, until I got the exact run of things—heavens!”
As if to favor his wish, at this moment a wild scream was heard overhead, and lifting his eyes, the mysterious Solomon Strange beheld the Aërial Demon floating over the village; so horrifying in its appearance that his blood seemed turned to ice.
Had a bomb-shell exploded in the midst of the exultant warriors that were dancing around the council-fire, they would not have scattered and fled in greater fear and terror.
The moment that the false Black Bear saw the young warriors flee with terror to their respective lodges, he hurried across the square and entered the lodge to the right of the council-house, which he knew to be the renegade’s.
All was dark within this lodge, so Strange went and procured a torch from the deserted council-fire. With it, he rummaged the room, making himself acquainted with every thing, nook and corner within it.
He then extinguished the torch, threw himself upon a couch of skins in one corner, and curious to say, this mysterious madman, who after all was not a madman, fell asleep and slept soundly until morning.
He was awakened by the sound of voices without, and rising from his couch he peered out.
At this moment a light footstep was heard approaching. The skin hanging at the door of his lodge was raised, and a beautiful Indian woman entered, carrying upon a tray of woven rushes some slices of venison and roasted fish.
It was the wife of Allacotah, Silver Voice!
Solomon Strange started like a wild man at sight of the woman, but she failed to notice it.
“The chief of the Cheyennes must be hungry, since he had no supper,” said Silver Voice, handing him the venison and fish.
Again Solomon Strange started—this time at sound of the woman’s voice, though his disguise concealed his emotion. As he took the provision, however, Silver Voice caught sight of his eyes that glowed like burning coals of fire through the hairy mask, and caused a strange feeling to pervade her breast.
“Yes, Black Bear is quite hungry,” Strange replied, watching to see if his voice attracted her notice.
It did. The woman started and turned to flee with sudden fear.
“You are not Blufe Brandon!” she exclaimed.
Solomon Strange seized her by the arm and prevented her escape. Then he stooped and whispered something in her ear. She would have involuntarily screamed, but Strange placed his claw-clad hand over her mouth and prevented her.
“Hush! for God’s sake!” he exclaimed in an undertone, “do not expose me, but help me.”
Here was more mystery. What could this strange, wild man be to Silver Voice? And what she, to him? And why did he have the power to hold her spell-bound—speechless? Alas! why, and for what?
For fully ten minutes Silver Voice remained in the lodge with the false chief, in a low and earnest conversation. Then she went out and returned to her own lodge to the left of the council-lodge.
Presently, her husband, Allacotah, entered Black Bear’s tent. He found the supposed great chief lying upon the couch of skins.
“Is the great Black Bear unwell?” asked the young chief.
“He is,” returned Solomon Strange, hoarsely; “exposure to the night air is fast telling upon the Black Bear’s lungs. It hurts him to speak. He is hoarse, but he wished to speak to the brave young chief, Allacotah.”
“The ears of Allacotah are open,” returned the young chief, “he harkens to the voice of the great Black Bear.”
“Since I am unable to take the war-path,” began Solomon Strange, his hoarseness seeming to grow worse each moment, “I want the brave young Allacotah to take all my warriors and go away in the hills toward the rising sun and search for the white maiden. Should you find her, harm not a hair of her head, or the vengeance of the great Manitou will rest upon you. Should you find any pale-faces, harm them not, but bring them before Black Bear, even the great White Ranger whose sword has slain our braves in the heart of our encampment. Black Bear has spoken.”
“Allacotah has heard, and will do his bidding with joy and pride,” returned Allacotah, “but he is sorry the great chief is unwell, and can not lead his warriors upon the trail. But he must rest and he will be well soon. Allacotah has spoken.”
The young chief turned and left the tent, and in a few moments the wildest excitement prevailed throughout the village. Laughing to himself at his novel situation and splendid success, Solomon Strange peered out at a hole in his lodge, and saw that Allacotah was gathering his warriors for the war-path.
In less than an hour every warrior able to bear arms had left the village.
Black Bear, or Solomon Strange, now arose and walked away through the encampment and plunged into the woods.
He was on his way to Lone Pine to meet Duval Dungarvon.