“It seems fatal for Indians to visit here,” said Dorsey Webb, with a smile. “Hitherto they have met with a warm reception, which is not encouraging for the red man.”
The torch was lifted again, fanned into a good blaze, and they started back. The journey was accompanied with much toil; there were masses of broken rock to surmount, and near two hours were spent in the feat.
Suddenly Silver Rifle reached forward, and took the torch from her companion’s hand.
“What is it?” he asked, in a low whisper, believing that she had discovered something.
“I heard nothing,” was the reply. “We must extinguish the fire now, for we are very near the mouth of the cave.”
He did not reply, but saw the torch put out and dragged at her side.
“Hist!”
Silver Rifle’s lips touched his ear as she spoke the premonition of danger, and he instantly became as motionless as a statue.
The tread of moccasined feet was heard, and they divined that somebody was groping along the western wall of the cavern, which was very uneven, and provided with stony shelves.
The person appeared to be searching for some particular object, for by running his hand along the shelves, he threw multitudinous pieces of broken stalactites to the ground, from which emanated ringing sounds as they struck.
But one person to all appearances tenanted the cavern, and the twain in the corridor listened intently until they were startled by sounds in their rear.
Silver Rifle clutched the Destroyer’s arm.
He instantly divined the cause of the gripe, for he had been listening to the sounds before they became so distinct as to cause alarm.
“Indians in our rear, and the cavern,” she whispered. “What is to be done?”
“Much, and that quickly,” was the low reply. “This fellow in the cave is approaching. What can he be looking for?”
“Heaven knows,” breathed Silver Rifle; “he must know that we have lately vacated the cave, else he would use a torch. But—”
The Destroyer’s hand closed gently over her mouth, and broke the sentence, and the next moment she felt him leave her side.
A cry of surprise, the fall of a heavy body quickly followed the leap, and the short, sharp struggle that succeeded was quickly over.
The girl sprung forward and landed at White Tiger’s side.
“I’ve killed him,” he cried. “Now we must fight the devils in the corridor.”
There was no time to look, for the savages who had followed them from the lake shore were quite near, and, as the couple waited for them to turn a curve that they might fire, a low, angry growl issued from the corridor.
“They’ve roused a bear among the rocks,” said Silver Rifle, “and the beast is being driven down upon us. He has turned the bend now; I hear him among the loose rocks; wait till the Indians follow his example. There! they’re around now. Ready—shoot low to kill Bruin if possible—fire!”
Simultaneously the rifles cracked, and the howl of brute and humanity were blended in the darkness.
The next instant the youth sprung to the smoldering fire, and a kick illumined the cavern with a dim light, which revealed the mouth of the corridor, beside which Silver Rifle stood with ready weapon.
The entrance was scarcely large enough to admit of the passage of a bear, and two persons stationed there could defend it against numbers of an enemy.
The bear had been wounded, and a moment after the shots, he turned with a howl of pain upon the Indians, who rose with cries of horror, and poured a volley into the infuriated beast. They shot at random, for they could not see him; but some of the shots took effect, and more painful howls followed. Then suddenly, with the impetuosity of a thunderbolt, he sprung past the young besieged, and confronted them with menacing attitude and defiant growls in the light of the flickering fire.
Here was a new danger, a new enemy to be met, and the now antagonist showed fight, and even moved slowly toward our friends at the mouth of the corridor.
Silver Rifle glanced at the young Destroyer, and then raised her rifle.
He saw this, then was compelled to look away, for the Indians were moving in the corridor again.
A moment later the report of a rifle resounded throughout the cave, and the bear rose on his hind feet, and with his front limbs extended like a two-legged monster, came forward to take vengeance for the shot which had plowed a terrible furrow through his eye.
Straight at the girl darted the brute, and retreating to the edge of the corridor with drawn knife, our heroine prepared for the battle.
She glanced at the Destroyer, who, with a low cry, recognized her danger and leaped toward the animal!
In a second he thrust his rifle forward, till it struck bruin’s breast with a dull thud, when his finger pressed the trigger.
There was a groan, the great head dropped upon the black breast, and the vanquished terror of the forest dropped dead at Silver Rifle’s feet.
Then, as the victors turned to the corridor again—for the scene which I have just described occupied but a minute—a dark, elongated form leaped into the cavern.
White Tiger struck as it rose erect before him, and a savage reeled away with a low cry, indicative of death. Another and another Indian made their appearance, and after a desperate resistance, Silver Rifle and the White Tiger found themselves captives once more. Their captors numbered four Chippewas, who quickly assured them that they had caught the glimmer of Silver Rifle’s torch from the water, and had pursued, little dreaming, until they found themselves in the corridor, that they were on the trail of their worst enemies.
Two savages had fallen in the conflict in the cavern, and the captives were secured with strong ropes, and thrown upon the ground near the fire, which the Indians had revived.
Young Webb watched the Indians narrowly, and all at once an expression of surprise crossed his face.
The Indian whom he had dispatched in the darkness was nowhere to be seen!
True he had not noticed him after kicking the fire into life but having struck him a terrible blow on the head with his tomahawk, he had bestowed no second thought upon him, for other and more eventful things demanded his attention.
Now the mystery of the missing body engrossed his every thought. If the savage was a Chippewa, and had recovered from the blow, why did he not make his appearance to his brethren? Why should he depart, when, from some darkened spot, he could shoot his foes, for the Destroyer also noticed that the rifle which he had knocked from his hands was missing also.
Two of the Indians were ransacking the cave, while the others sat by the fire guarding their helpless captives.
Silver Rifle possessed but little for the fiends to take. A rifle or two fell into their hands, and these they brought to their comrades, with many manifestations of delight.
All at once, while the savages were admiring {a} head-dress, which they had discovered, one of the {red-skins} groaned and staggered from the fire.
The captives caught sight of an arrow in his side as he wheeled.
The other savages turned as a rifle cracked, and a figure leaped from the ground with a cry of vengeance.
A second brought the new-comer to his foes, and before they could meet him, two sweeps of the rifle lowered them to the ground!
The impetuosity of the sudden attack could not be withstood.
The victor’s knife glittered over the prisoners for a moment, then they sprung erect, and recognized their liberator!
Had the dead arisen? After all, was not their rescuer but the ghost of one well known?
No; he was flesh and blood, for the gory furrow of the White Tiger’s tomahawk was visible near the temple.
The avenger snatched a brand from the fire, and resumed the search along the rocky shelves.
Silver Rifle and the Destroyer watched him in silence.
At last he turned away, with a cry of mingled disappointment and rage, and flung the torch on the ground.
“Silver Rifle’s ring gone again,” he said. “Ahdeek laid it there not long ’go. Somebody stole it. Him Ahdeek hunt now, an’ he speak not to Silver Rifle till he find it.”
Then, with a maddened glance at the rocks, and a farewell look at the late captives, the half-breed sprung over the dead Indians, and disappeared down the dark throat of the corridor!
“He is gone,” said Silver Rifle, recovering her self-possession. “Heaven speed him on his mission.”
“So say I, too, girl,” said the youth, and then his glance fell upon the slaughtered braves. “I hope these days of blood are drawing to a close. Oh, Heaven, are they not?”
The day had but an hour to live.
Already gray shadows were stealing among the trees, and from the lake there came the mutterings of a storm.
It was the evening that followed the morn upon which transpired the final scenes of the foregoing chapter.
A tall, middle-aged Indian stood beside a tree, around whose trunk lay the half-devoured carcasses of a dozen dogs. The limbs of some, the head and entrails of others were gone, and all presented a horrible sight to the chief.
If the features of the Indian were not recognizable in the dusk, the head-dress of gray owl-tails at once proclaimed him Hondurah.
He seemed to have taken a leap of twenty years in a single day, for he was looked upon now as the father of a traitress, not as the chief of the great North-western nation. Then he had punished several of the lying chiefs by stripping them of every insignia of rank, heedless of the vengeful scowls they gave him, seemingly not fearing the secret arrow of the future.
“I will go to my unfaithful spawn,” he cried, drowning the taunts of the derisive women. “I will show you that Hondurah can punish his child. I will not return until I can fling at your feet the black scalp of Clearwater.”
Then he plunged into the forest, and his first halt was that executed at the spot where the half-starved Indian dogs attacked Doc Cromer. Hondurah knew nothing of the assault; but he saw that a large number of the dogs had fallen before a knife, and for many minutes he searched the ground around the tree.
During this search he discovered that a party of six Indians had rushed upon the brutes, and, while framing other conclusions, he picked up a white man’s ear!
It was a terrible trophy, and the chief smiled grimly as he turned it over and over in his hand before wrapping it in buck-skin and depositing it in his medicine-bag.
“White man fight wild-dogs here,” he murmured to his satisfaction. “White man lose ear, Injuns take white man, but what do with ’im?”
Unable to answer the question to his satisfaction, the chief moved toward the lake, and presently encountered abundant evidences of the torture-post. A heap of blackened and burned boughs lay at the foot of a young tree, and an investigation revealed a lot of small charred bones.
“Indians burn pale-man here,” said the chief. “They save ’im from dogs and burn ’im here, for they ’fraid he git away if they take ’im to village.”
As he spoke, he knelt down and began to examine the bones, which proved to be those of animals, intent upon solving a certain inquiry to his satisfaction. He had laid his rifle beside the tree, nor did he dream of danger.
Suddenly he was roused by the snapping of a twig, and whirling instantly, he reached for his rifle, but, to his horror, found it missing.
Then, with a cry of defiance, he leaped to his feet, as two dark figures rounded neighboring trees and threw themselves upon him.
The assaulters were young, lithe, active Indians; but their features were concealed by fox-skin masks.
Hondurah’s knife and hatchet were wrested from him, and when he saw that he was completely overpowered, he ceased to struggle, and submitted as quietly as possible.
To his question, “Who binds Hondurah?” a low, sarcastic reply was given, and the chief saw he was in the hands of those who would not scruple to take his life.
They stripped his owl-feathers from his head, tore every insignia of chieftainship from his person, hastily bedaubed him, after the manner of a Green River Indian, with whom the Chippewas were at war, and secured his eyes with a blindfold.
Then through the wood they urged the chief, and, after two hours’ tramp, descended to the stormy lake shore, and filed into a cave whose mouth, so densely packed with young shrubbery, indigenous to the climate, was not visible at a distance of ten feet.
Hondurah could not get a word from his captors, who he felt were the young chiefs whom he had dishonored; but he held his peace, and did not venture to accuse one.
They conducted him a long distance underground, and at last halted in a place which seemed to be quite large.
Presently a torch was introduced, and when the light penetrated the apartment, several savages simultaneously shrunk back, and stared at the figure of a young Indian girl, asleep on the couch.
Hondurah knew that the warriors were excited, and his impatience to learn the cause of that excitement continually increased.
All at once a hand was laid on his arm.
“Hondurah stands over his grave,” said one of the masked Indians, in a disguised tone. “Who would he see before he dies?”
The answer came quickly:
“Clearwater.”
“And what would he do, then?”
“Kill her! She is a traitress!”
A moment later the skinny bandage fell from the chieftain’s eyes, and he beheld one of the masks pointing to the couch.
His eye followed the scarlet finger, and there, peacefully sleeping, unconscious of danger, lay his hunted daughter—Clearwater.
The eyes that peeped from the round holes in the masks were riveted upon the chief, who could scarcely credit his senses, as his expression indicated.
“Will Hondurah keep his word?” asked the spokesman of the conspirators, breaking the almost palpable silence that reigned throughout the cave.
“Yes.”
The word cut the air like a knife.
An instant later the right hand of the chief was free, and he accepted the long-bladed knife, which his liberator extended, without a word.
“We have guided Hondurah to Clearwater,” said the speaking mask. “He swore that she should pay the penalty of treason by his hand. Now let him rid the nation of a traitress—let Hondurah go to the Great Spirit with a word well kept on his hands.”
The masks drew back now, and with the knife firmly griped, and stern determination written on every lineament, the chief stepped toward his child, whose sleep was the deepest that ever fell to the lot of woman.
There was a smile on Clearwater’s face—a smile which told of a dream of peace, and once an expression of compassion swept over the father’s face, as he dropped on one knee beside her couch.
In that second, no doubt, he lived over eighteen years of the past, and a thousand times regretted the oath he had taken. He, himself, stood on the precipice of death; when he had slain his child, the conspirators would coolly take his life, as they had already informed him.
It was a thrilling tableau.
In the father’s moment of indecision he heard a half-suppressed mockery of applause.
He glanced upward.
The contemptuous curling of the red lips was enough for him.
Then he turned again and raised the knife; but bent forward and kissed Clearwater’s lips.
That kiss startled the girl; she moved and opened her eyes.
Hondurah bit his lip, and the blade shot upward for the death-blow.
“Hondurah keeps his word!” he cried. “He will die—”
A rifle-shot terminated the tableau!
Hondurah staggered to his feet, tore the mask from the face of the nearest Indian, and recognized one of the chiefs whom he had reduced.
The Indian pushed Hondurah off; but the red right arm executed a fearful sweep, and the knife cleft the conspirator’s heart!
Both Hondurah and the traitor were dead when they touched the ground, and the remaining masks, five in number, turned to fight the new foes, that sprung upon them like a brace of tigers.
The time taken up by Hondurah’s death-vengeance seemed but a minute, so rapidly did the several events follow each other, and Clearwater, bewildered to distraction, raised herself on her elbow, and watched the battle above her.
The deceiving braves whom Hondurah had punished had obeyed his injunction.
Accidentally discovering the cave that contained Clearwater, they at once redoubled their search for the vengeful father, who sought her and her half-breed lover, determined that he should keep his vow, and then fall himself for the dishonor he had heaped upon them.
Oagla spoke the truth when he said that Hondurah would rouse the whirlwind if he punished the young braves, and the whirlwind which he did call into existence was destroying, as the reader has just seen.
The torches that dropped from the hands of the savages at the opening of the unexpected attack, afforded light for the combatants, whose features were soon recognized by the Indian girl, too weak to rise and lend assistance.
The onset of the twain was as the onset of the long-concealed tiger—absolutely irresistible. Two Indians went down before the battle fairly commenced, and the remaining three tried to gain the mouth of the corridor. But in vain, for one of the new foes planted himself before the aperture, and with the aid of his confederate beat the red-men back.
“No quarter, girl!” he shouted to his helper, as he sprung forward with uplifted rifle; but the next moment the stock of the weapon was shivered against the roof of the cave, and the barrel flew from his hands.
Quick as thought he sprung forward to reclaim it, and as he stooped the tomahawk of the sole surviving savage descended upon his head, and the great red hand caught him before he could fall.
The Girl Trailer uttered a cry of horror at this, and flew to the White Tiger’s relief; but the savage held his prey before him as a shield, leaped backward into the corridor before she could strike, and disappeared in the gloom, like an arrow!
She followed, but soon paused, and returned to kneel over Clearwater, weak with fright and anxiety.
“Oh, Clearwater, I am so glad that you, at least, are left me,” she said, taking the hand of the red girl. “The White Tiger and Silver Rifle have parted for the last time!”
Clearwater sighed, and gently pressed the white girl’s hand.
“But we will not be alone long,” she said. “Ahdeek will return before two more sleeps.”
“When was he last here?” asked Silver Rifle, eagerly.
“One sleep ago,” was the reply. “He came back to see that Clearwater was comfortable. He placed meat and drink within reach, and kissed her before he left. Yes, he will come back soon with Silver Rifle’s ring.”
“I pray that he may; but tell me, girl, how you escaped the other night, and why I have believed Ahdeek dead.”
“The red man’s bullet did not strike Clearwater’s heart, and while they chased White Tiger and my white sister, he came where his dead bird lay, scalped the dead braves, and bore her here. Clearwater should live for Ahdeek, the Great Spirit says, and she is growing strong now, and she will soon be on her feet again. The young braves lied,” she resumed, after a long pause. “They say they burn Ahdeek; they ’fraid to tell Hondurah and the old men that they let the enemy escape. Ahdeek run faster than Chippewa—they no catch him, the swift young deer of Gitche Gumee.”
Thus, in a few words, was the escape of Ahdeek and Clearwater explained by the latter.
Silver Rifle listened attentively, and related the story of the battle in her cave, and Ahdeek’s bravery.
“Ahdeek had red gash on his face when he came back to Clearwater,” said the Indian girl; “but he no tell her where he got it. He say tomahawk made it; but never say that White Tiger held the bad hatchet.”
“Girl, we must prepare for defense,” said Silver Rifle, recurring to the present. “The Indian who escaped will not permit us to lie here long unmolested. I know the Chippewas—you know them, too. He will not return alone; but if he finds fellow-braves in the forest, he will step upon the back trail, and Ahdeek will find a bloody cave when he returns.”
Silver Rifle’s words, so full of startling logic, aroused the chief’s daughter.
“Silver Rifle load Indian guns, quick!” she said, commandingly. “Mossuit may return before we breathe six times, and he must meet bullets when he crawls through yon hole.”
The white girl sprung with alacrity to the task before her. She loaded the six rifles that lay scattered about the cave, and placed them within reach of her red sister.
Clearwater smiled as she examined the locks, and raised one of the weapons, to show Silver Rifle that she was strong enough to handle it.
“Do not excite yourself, Clearwater,” said the white girl. “Harbor your strength for the hour which shall demand it. I will return ere long, girl, and then we will wait for the arrival of Ahdeek.”
Selecting the best of the rifles—for her own true weapon still remained in the Indian village, and she hoped to recover it some day—she bade Clearwater good-by and plunged into the opening.
The way was dark, but as she had threaded it an hour before, with the Destroyer, she managed to elude many of the unseen dangers, and at length reached the lake-shore.
Death’s fateful silence brooded everywhere, but it was the silence that precedes the storm, and Silver Rifle listened keenly as she stood in the gloom, at the mouth of the passage.
“Shall I ascend to the forest?” she asked herself twice, and then answered in the affirmative by stepping forward.
The ascent of the bank was not difficult, and presently the daring girl crouched beneath the boughs of a tree, and strained her ears to catch the slightest sound.
Sue knew that Indians were abroad; the forests of Lake Superior were never rid of their presence, and she doubted not but that some red prowler would soon manifest himself near.
This thought still lingered in her mind, when a twig snapped and startled her.
It was the first sound that had greeted her ear since leaving the cave.
Was it brute or human?
A long silence followed the noise; then came the sound of a dozen feet.
Six Indians were filing through the woods directly toward the lake.
To rise and return now would be dangerous, for she could not conceal her footsteps from the keen ear of her foe, and, thinking of the peril that menaced Clearwater, she held her breath and resolved to lie still.
She hugged the tree, as the Indians approached, and saw six giant forms glide so near that she could have touched them with her hand!
They did not notice her, and she breathed freer.
Perhaps, after all, their destination was not the cave.
But she started, a moment later, for the savages had halted, and a voice fell upon her ear.
It was the voice of Mossuit, the red fiend who had escaped from the cave with the Destroyer in his arms.
Yes, their destination was the cave, and Mossuit, having disposed of the White Tiger somehow, was leading his brethren to vengeance and death.
The halt occupied but a minute of time, then the red-men moved on.
“They’re between me and Clearwater now,” groaned the girl, rising silently. “Heaven help my poor, weak sister, and grant me strength enough to aid her.”
With her last words, she griped her rifle with stern determination, and had taken a step toward the lake, when the sound of a single footstep greeted her ear.
It came from the south, and the owner thereof was on the trail of the Indians.
Quickly, then, Silver Rifle dropped earthward again, and waited for the trailer.
He was eager to come up with the savages, for his speed was considerable, and when Silver Rifle caught the outlines of his form, she quickly sprung to her feet, and the next moment thrust forth her hand.
It touched the trailer’s bare arm, and he stopped suddenly, like one shot, then stepped back a pace. Silver Rifle followed him.
“’Tis I,” she whispered, in a low tone.
A cautious ejaculation of surprise followed, and the next moment Silver Rifle and the plumed man stood face to face, with clasped hands.
“The red-men are near Clearwater,” he said, with fear.
“Ahdeek came upon them in the forest, and he saw them joined by a chief. He listened, and heard the new chief speak the name of Ahdeek’s love. How came Silver Rifle here?”
Three brief sentences told the disguised half-breed all.
He darted forward with a cry of mingled horror and vengeance.
They reached the lake-shore, over which brooded the silence of death.
Not a savage was to be seen, and the half-breed looked puzzled.
“They stationed no braves here,” he said; “perhaps, after all, they turned aside, for these bare rocks show no moccasin-steps. Girl, Ahdeek find something in woods.”
“My ring—my ring!” ejaculated Silver Rifle, starting forward as Ahdeek’s hand sought his medicine-pouch. “Give me the ring, chief, that I may read the mystery of my life.”
She trembled with emotion as she watched the hand withdrawn.
A moment later she caught the sparkle of precious stones in the starlight, and her fingers closed upon something cold.
Then she bent eagerly forward, and, with a startling cry, discovered that she griped a dead hand, lately severed from an arm, and that her ring glittered on one of the icy fingers!
Silver Rifle then did what nine-tenths of her sex would have done—dropped the dead member, and stared into Ahdeek’s face.
For the hand was that of a white man!
Ahdeek sprung to pick it up, and, as he stooped, four rifles flashed on the top of the cliff above them!
Silver Rifle, blinded by the flashes, started back; but the next moment she cocked her gun and sprung with Ahdeek, who, fortunately, had escaped injury, into the mouth of the cave!
“The Chips no shoot good,” smiled the half-breed, trying to catch a glimpse of their foes at the risk of his life. “They heard Ahdeek comin’ through the wood, so they wait for him on bank, an’ shoot at him; not to kill, but to hurt. But, Silver Rifle, where pale hand?”
“I have it, thank Heaven!” said the girl, in tones of satisfaction; “the ring is at last in my possession. Ahdeek, whose hand is it, and how came it in your power?”
“Ahdeek not tell pale girl story now,” was the half-breed’s response. “He say he find both in the wood—so he did; let that answer satisfy her now. He tell all by ’m by.”
The dead hand lay in the pouch that hung by our heroine’s side, and while they guarded the entrance to the cave, she tried to slip the ring from the icy finger. But her efforts were unrealized; the finger clung to the bauble; it pressed it tightly against the palm, and ceasing her labors, she looked up at Ahdeek, whose eyes met hers in the dim starlight.
“Hand hold to ring,” he said, with a faint smile. “Ahdeek take it off by ’m by. He find trapper’s girl at last. Pretty soon he go an’ dig up what Snowbeard buried.”
“What do you mean, chief?” said Silver Rifle, eagerly, excitedly. “Your words are clothed in mystery.”
“Light come by ’m by,” was the reply.
The girl was about to urge the half-breed to explain, when his hand fell lightly upon her arm. She knew the meaning of that touch and remained silent.
Their foes were moving.
For many minutes a dreadful suspense held the watchers in the mouth of the cave. Ahdeek crouched in the gloom, knife in hand, and rifle across his knee. Silver Rifle, too, was ready to encounter the Indians, who they knew were planning some devilish surprise.
The painful silence told this.
“Injun near now,” whispered Ahdeek, in the lowest of voices, and then he prepared for a spring.
Silver Rifle held her breath, for it was the decisive moment.
Looking from the cave, they could see the pretty stars that shone upon the lake.
Suddenly the celestial worlds were blotted from their vision.
A mass of humanity had leaped into the aperture.
Ahdeek met it near the entrance, and for several moments the noise of a desperate struggle resounded in the dark passage.
Then the shouts of victory cleft the close, hot air, tinctured with the odor of newly-spilled blood.
The cries were in the Chippewa language!
While Ahdeek was aware of the proximity of his foes, he was not wholly prepared for the tactics which they displayed. They knew that he and Silver Rifle were just beyond the threshold of the corridor, and had decided upon the action which inaugurated the attack. The advantages were with the assaulters, and in a brief time, which had cost the Indians two of their braves, the whites were overpowered and secured.
“Now,” cried Mossuit, elated with his triumph, “now we catch the traitress, and all shall die by the torture.”
Down the dark, grim corridor the captors went, bearing their prisoners, whose hands were lashed on their backs, and afforded no hopes of liberty.
“You best not touch Clearwater,” hissed Ahdeek, thinking only of the wounded girl, whom he had left on her couch of skins in the cave.
“She shall die!” was the response, “and that before the eyes of her yellow lover.”
“Who is not dead yet. Ahdeek swears that the brave who hurts Clearwater shall tread the long trail before the Manitou calls him home.”
The savages chuckled audibly over this threat, and examined the captives’ bonds to see that they were secure.
Suddenly they halted and placed their prisoners in the van.
This was upon the suggestion of Mossuit, who knew that loaded rifles lay within Clearwater’s reach, and that, if strong enough, she would drop the first red-man who showed his face in the cave. Therefore, he shielded himself and braves with those whom she would not slay.
This piece of strategy was successful, for, as Ahdeek came in sight of Clearwater, he saw a rifle drop from her fingers, and she sprung half erect with a low cry of mingled pain and terror.
Had the savages been in the advance, one or two would have fallen.
The Indians were delighted with the success of their plans.
“Clearwater go to woods,” said Mossuit, turning suddenly upon Ahdeek, whom they had permitted to kneel beside the couch. “Oagla trails the forest for the traitress, and Mossuit might cross his trail before the light comes.”
Ahdeek sprung to his feet with a look of resentment.
“Clearwater is still as weak as the young squirrel,” he said. “She can not walk a step.”
“Then she crawl. She must go into the woods with Mossuit. We can not tarry here. Mossuit has a prisoner in the woods, and he would see him now.”
Silver Rifle’s heart leaped for joy.
Mossuit’s prisoner was the White Tiger!
“Let me carry Clearwater, an’ she go,” said Ahdeek.
The Indians exchanged glances of horror.
“Ahdeek wants the Chippewas to untie his limbs, that he might run away in the big woods.”
“Liars!” was the thunderous response. “Is Ahdeek’s word worth nothing? Here, bind Clearwater on my back, an’ I’ll carry her with my hands still bound. If she leaves this hole in the ground it shall be on my person, not in the arms of an Indian.”
The half-breed was at once taken at his words. Clearwater was lifted from her couch, and, with more tenderness than the Indians usually exhibit to an enemy, lashed to her lover’s back.
A minute later the entire party were crawling through the gloomy passage again, and at length gained the forest above the lake.
Several hours had passed since the first combat in the cave, and the position of several stars told that it was near midnight.
From the lake came the hoarse mutterings of a storm, and the savages quickened their steps as they entered the city of ghostly trees.
Ahdeek, with his lovely burden, kept pace with them. He was a strong young fellow, who did not mind his load in the least, and often glanced with a smile at Silver Rifle, who kept at his side.
All at once, at the foot of a knoll, and on the brink of a sluggish forest stream, Mossuit halted. The rest of the party followed his example, and silence fell over all.
Presently the chief imitated the hoot of the little night-owl, and then moved forward.
There was no response to the cry, which was thrice repeated, and at last the chief returned.
“Come; Mossuit show braves something,” he said, in a hoarse, excited tone; and the party followed his leading.
Suddenly the chief stooped, and raised a dark object from the ground.
It was a dead Indian whose limbs were still warm.
The savages greeted the spectacle with ejaculations of horror, which increased in number and intensity when a second Chippewa, as dead as the first, was exposed to their view by the chief.
“White Tiger gone!” gasped Mossuit, burning with rage. “Mossuit bring him here from cave, and Indians promised to watch him well. But he too much for ’em. He kill ’em and go!”
And, in the silence of chagrin that followed, Silver Rifle uttered an inaudible “Thank heaven,” and an expression of satisfaction stole over Ahdeek’s face.
Several minutes were spent in hunting the Destroyer’s trail; but Mossuit could spare no warriors to pursue, and reluctantly turned away.
“We hunt him when three captives safe,” he said. “We cut his heart out, an’ make him eat it—the base white dog. Now, braves—”
He paused abruptly, for a cry, similar to the one which he had just repeated, floated through the forest, and after a brief interval the chief replied in a like noise.
Then, for several moments, a conversation was carried on by means of bird-calls, and at last footsteps came from a certain quarter of the black wood.
Mossuit turned to his warriors, with an announcement that Oagla and his trail-hunters were approaching.
The meeting of the bands was unexpected, but quite cordial, and when Oagla recognized the captives, he started forward, with a cry of joy, and grasped Mossuit’s hand again.
“They escape no more!” he said. “Now Hondurah can rid the Chippewas of a traitress.”
Mossuit shook his head.
“Hondurah is on his last trail,” he said.
“On the trail which leads to the happy hunting-grounds?”
Mossuit nodded.
“Who sent him thither?”
“Either Silver Rifle or the White Tiger!”
In the terrible suspense of calm that followed, Oagla turned upon our heroine.
“Who shot Hondurah?”
“Silver Rifle.”
A cry of rage burst from the red band, and the next moment a lithe young warrior leaped to Oagla’s side.
“There is the dog that stole the little talker!” he cried, pointing to Ahdeek. “He has given it to Silver Rifle. Oagla has sworn to make it talk to him. Make it talk now!”
Impulsively the chief stepped toward the girl, and in the light of a fire which several braves had kindled upon the forest meeting, the maiden shrunk back with blanched cheek and flashing eyes.
“Girl, give Oagla little talker!” demanded the chief.
“Unbind my hands, that I may do it,” was the reply. “What is it to Silver Rifle now? ’Tis near a spot which the Indian’s hand must not touch; but Silver Rifle will give it to him when she is free.”
Oagla smiled faintly, drew his knife, and, before Mossuit could interpose to prevent him, severed the girl’s bonds.
“Silver Rifle is Mossuit’s captive,” said that red worthy, stepping before Oagla.
“Oagla is a chief; Mossuit little more than a brave!” was the angry response, as the speaker, disdaining further words with his questioner, turned to the girl again.
“Give Oagla the little talker,” was the demand. “His blood’s hot now.”
Silver Rifle drew back an inch as the big Indian, with outstretched hand, stepped toward her as though he would crush her; but the next moment she leaped forward, and held his knife in her right hand.
Mossuit and his band applauded the lightning action, and, thus goaded to further madness, Oagla darted upon the girl!
Then Mossuit leaped forward and flung the giant aside.
“If Oagla wants blood—”
Mossuit was sent reeling from the giant, with whom he could not cope, and the challenge was broken.
Nor was it ever renewed, for in the second that followed, Oagla sprung upon the girl again, and staggered back with a crimson spot on the bosom of his hunting-frock.
And from the point of the knife which Silver Rifle griped, fresh, warm blood dropped and stained the leaves at her feet!
“I’ll defend the little talker to the death!” she cried, facing the savages, whose tomahawks shone and clashed scarce five feet away. “I have but paid Oagla for his indignity of other days. I scorn to fly now. I am the prisoner of Mossuit, and the Oaglan brave who touches me receives the blade damp with the blood of his chief!”
The avenging warriors shrunk from her flashing eyes, and the tableau was broken by Mossuit himself, who sprung into the gap, and declared that the path to Silver Rifle led over his dead body!
Sullen, but not silent, the braves eyed the chief whose wiles had encompassed Hondurah’s death; but not a movement was made, until the report of a rifle, discharged not thirty yards away, startled every one.
Silver Rifle reeled and fell into the arms of her red companion!
If she was dead, it was murder most foul!
It is, perhaps, necessary that the fate of Doc Cromer should be told here, and some mention made of Dorsey Webb, whose disappearance so excited Mossuit and his braves.
The trader found himself in the midst of the wild dogs, after dispatching their ferocious leader.
They sprung at him with the fury of famished wolves, and he struck right and left with deadly effect, until the sharp teeth pulled him to earth, and then, unable to resist any longer, he gave himself up for lost.
But at this juncture the sound of human yells rose above the yelps of the dogs, and a moment later a volley was poured indiscriminately into their ranks. With howls of pain the canines recoiled from their victim; then a few more shots sent them howling through the woods.
More dead than alive, Cromer was lifted from the ground by the rescuing Indians, who uttered cries of triumph when they recognized him.