by Zane Grey
Chapter VI.
One evening, several day previous to the capture of the brothers, asolitary hunter stopped before a deserted log cabin which stood onthe bank of a stream fifty miles or more inland from the Ohio River.It was rapidly growing dark; a fine, drizzling rain had set in, anda rising wind gave promise of a stormy night.
Although the hunter seemed familiar with his surroundings, he movedcautiously, and hesitated as if debating whether he should seek theprotection of this lonely hut, or remain all night under drippingtrees. Feeling of his hunting frock, he found that it was damp andslippery. This fact evidently decided him in favor of the cabin, forhe stooped his tall figure and went in. It was pitch dark inside;but having been there before, the absence of a light did not troublehim. He readily found the ladder leading to the loft, ascended it,and lay down to sleep.
During the night a noise awakened him. For a moment he heard nothingexcept the fall of the rain. Then came the hum of voices, followedby the soft tread of moccasined feet. He knew there was an Indiantown ten miles across the country, and believed some warriors,belated on a hunting trip, had sought the cabin for shelter.
The hunter lay perfectly quiet, awaiting developments. If theIndians had flint and steel, and struck a light, he was almostcertain to be discovered. He listened to their low conversation, andunderstood from the language that they were Delawares.
A moment later he heard the rustling of leaves and twigs,accompanied by the metallic click of steel against some hardsubstance. The noise was repeated, and then followed by a hissingsound, which he knew to be the burning of a powder on a piece of drywood, after which rays of light filtered through cracks of theunstable floor of the loft.
The man placed his eye to one of these crevices, and counted elevenIndians, all young braves, with the exception of the chief. TheIndians had been hunting; they had haunches of deer and buffalotongues, together with several packs of hides. Some of them busiedthemselves drying their weapons; others sat down listlessly, plainlyshowing their weariness, and two worked over the smouldering fire.The damp leaves and twigs burned faintly, yet there was enough tocause the hunter fear that he might be discovered. He believed hehad not much to worry about from the young braves, but the hawk-eyedchief was dangerous.
And he was right. Presently the stalwart chief heard, or saw, a dropof water fall from the loft. It came from the hunter's wet coat.Almost any one save an Indian scout would have fancied this camefrom the roof. As the chief's gaze roamed everywhere over theinterior of the cabin his expression was plainly distrustful. Hiseye searched the wet clay floor, but hardly could have discoveredanything there, because the hunter's moccasined tracks had beenobliterated by the footprints of the Indians. The chief's suspicionsseemed to be allayed.
But in truth this chief, with the wonderful sagacity natural toIndians, had observed matters which totally escaped the youngbraves, and, like a wily old fox, he waited to see which cub wouldprove the keenest. Not one of them, however, noted anything unusual.They sat around the fire, ate their meat and parched corn, andchatted volubly.
The chief arose and, walking to the ladder, ran his hand along oneof the rungs.
"Ugh!" he exclaimed.
Instantly he was surrounded by ten eager, bright-eyed braves. Heextended his open palm; it was smeared with wet clay like that underhis feet. Simultaneously with their muttered exclamations the bravesgrasped their weapons. They knew there was a foe above them. It wasa paleface, for an Indian would have revealed himself.
The hunter, seeing he was discovered, acted with the unerringjudgment and lightning-like rapidity of one long accustomed toperilous situations. Drawing his tomahawk and noiselessly steppingto the hole in the loft, he leaped into the midst of the astoundedIndians.
Rising from the floor like the rebound of a rubber ball, his longarm with the glittering hatchet made a wide sweep, and the youngbraves scattered like frightened sheep.
He made a dash for the door and, incredible as it may seem, hismovements were so quick he would have escaped from their very midstwithout a scratch but for one unforeseen circumstance. The clayfloor was wet and slippery; his feet were hardly in motion beforethey slipped from under him and he fell headlong.
With loud yells of triumph the band jumped upon him. There was aconvulsive, heaving motion of the struggling mass, one frightful cryof agony, and then hoarse commands. Three of the braves ran to theirpacks, from which they took cords of buckskin. So exceedinglypowerful was the hunter that six Indians were required to hold himwhile the others tied his hands and feet. Then, with grunts andchuckles of satisfaction, they threw him into a corner of the cabin.
Two of the braves had been hurt in the brief struggle, one having abadly wrenched shoulder and the other a broken arm. So much for thehunter's power in that single moment of action.
The loft was searched, and found to be empty. Then the excitementdied away, and the braves settled themselves down for the night. Theinjured ones bore their hurts with characteristic stoicism; if theydid not sleep, both remained quiet and not a sigh escaped them.
The wind changed during the night, the storm abated, and whendaylight came the sky was cloudless. The first rays of the sun shonein the open door, lighting up the interior of the cabin.
A sleepy Indian who had acted as guard stretched his limbs andyawned. He looked for the prisoner, and saw him sitting up in thecorner. One arm was free, and the other nearly so. He had almostuntied the thongs which bound him; a few moments more and he wouldhave been free.
"Ugh!" exclaimed the young brave, awakening his chief and pointingto the hunter.
The chief glanced at his prisoner; then looked more closely, andwith one spring was on his feet, a drawn tomahawk in his hand. Ashort, shrill yell issued from his lips. Roused by that clarioncall, the young braves jumped up, trembling in eager excitement. Thechief's summons had been the sharp war-cry of the Delawares.
He manifested as intense emotion as could possibly have beenbetrayed by a matured, experienced chieftain, and pointing to thehunter, he spoke a single word.
* * *
At noonday the Indians entered the fields of corn which marked theoutskirts of the Delaware encampment.
"Kol-loo--kol-loo--kol-loo."
The long signal, heralding the return of the party with importantnews, pealed throughout the quiet valley; and scarcely had theechoes died away when from the village came answering shouts.
Once beyond the aisles of waving corn the hunter saw over theshoulders of his captors the home of the redmen. A grassy plain,sloping gradually from the woody hill to a winding stream, wasbrightly beautiful with chestnut trees and long, well-formed linesof lodges. Many-hued blankets hung fluttering in the sun, and risinglazily were curling columns of blue smoke. The scene was picturesqueand reposeful; the vivid hues suggesting the Indians love of colorand ornament; the absence of life and stir, his languorous habit ofsleeping away the hot noonday hours.
The loud whoops, however, changed the quiet encampment into a sceneof animation. Children ran from the wigwams, maidens and bravesdashed here and there, squaws awakened from their slumber, and manya doughty warrior rose from his rest in the shade. French furtraders came curiously from their lodges, and renegades hurriedlyleft their blankets, roused to instant action by the well-knownsummons.
The hunter, led down the lane toward the approaching crowd,presented a calm and fearless demeanor. When the Indians surroundedhim one prolonged, furious yell rent the air, and then followed anextraordinary demonstration of fierce delight. The young brave'sstaccato yell, the maiden's scream, the old squaw's screech, and thedeep war-cry of the warriors intermingled in a fearful discordance.
Often had this hunter heard the name which the Indian called him; hehad been there before, a prisoner; he had run the gauntlet down thelane; he had been bound to a stake in front of the lodge where hiscaptors were now leading him. He knew the chief, Wingenund, sachemof the Delawares. Since that time, now five years ago, whenWingenund had tort
ured him, they had been bitterest foes.
If the hunter heard the hoarse cries, or the words hissed into hisears; if he saw the fiery glances of hatred, and sudden giving wayto ungovernable rage, unusual to the Indian nature; if he felt intheir fierce exultation the hopelessness of succor or mercy, he gavenot the slightest sign.
"Atelang! Atelang! Atelang!" rang out the strange Indian name.
The French traders, like real savages, ran along with theprocession, their feathers waving, their paint shining, their facesexpressive of as much excitement as the Indians' as they cried aloudin their native tongue:
"Le Vent de la Mort! Le Vent de la Mort! La Vent de la Mort!"
The hunter, while yet some paces distant, saw the lofty figure ofthe chieftain standing in front of his principal men. Well he knewthem all. There were the crafty Pipe, and his savage comrade, theHalf King; there was Shingiss, who wore on his forehead a scar--themark of the hunter's bullet; there were Kotoxen, the Lynx, andMisseppa, the Source, and Winstonah, the War-cloud, chiefs ofsagacity and renown. Three renegades completed the circle; and thesethree traitors represented a power which had for ten years left anawful, bloody trail over the country. Simon Girty, the so-calledWhite Indian, with his keen, authoritative face turned expectantly;Elliott, the Tory deserter, from Fort Pitt, a wiry, spider-likelittle man; and last, the gaunt and gaudily arrayed form of thedemon of the frontier--Jim Girty.
The procession halted before this group, and two brawny bravespushed the hunter forward. Simon Girty's face betrayed satisfaction;Elliott's shifty eyes snapped, and the dark, repulsive face of theother Girty exhibited an exultant joy. These desperadoes had fearedthis hunter.
Wingenund, with a majestic wave of his arm, silenced the yellinghorde of frenzied savages and stepped before the captive.
The deadly foes were once again face to face. The chieftain's loftyfigure and dark, sleek head, now bare of plumes, towered over theother Indians, but he was not obliged to lower his gaze in order tolook straight into the hunter's eyes.
Verily this hunter merited the respect which shone in the greatchieftain's glance. Like a mountain-ash he stood, straight andstrong, his magnificent frame tapering wedge-like from his broadshoulders. The bulging line of his thick neck, the deep chest, theknotty contour of his bared forearm, and the full curves of hislegs--all denoted a wonderful muscular development.
The power expressed in this man's body seemed intensified in hisfeatures. His face was white and cold, his jaw square and set; hiscoal-black eyes glittered with almost a superhuman fire. And hishair, darker than the wing of a crow, fell far below his shoulders;matted and tangled as it was, still it hung to his waist, and had itbeen combed out, must have reached his knees.
One long moment Wingenund stood facing his foe, and then over themultitude and through the valley rolled his sonorous voice:
"Deathwind dies at dawn!"
The hunter was tied to a tree and left in view of the Indianpopulace. The children ran fearfully by; the braves gazed long atthe great foe of their race; the warriors passed in gloomy silence.The savages' tricks of torture, all their diabolical ingenuity ofinflicting pain was suppressed, awaiting the hour of sunrise whenthis hated Long Knife was to die.
Only one person offered an insult to the prisoner; he was a man ofhis own color. Jim Girty stopped before him, his yellowish eyeslighted by a tigerish glare, his lips curled in a snarl, and frombetween them issuing the odor of the fir traders' vile rum.
"You'll soon be feed fer the buzzards," he croaked, in his hoarsevoice. He had so often strewed the plains with human flesh for thecarrion birds that the thought had a deep fascination for him. "D'yehear, scalp-hunter? Feed for buzzards!" He deliberately spat in thehunter's face. "D'ye hear?" he repeated.
There was no answer save that which glittered in the hunter's eye.But the renegade could not read it because he did not meet thatflaming glance. Wild horses could not have dragged him to face thisman had he been free. Even now a chill crept over Girty. For amoment he was enthralled by a mysterious fear, half paralyzed by aforeshadowing of what would be this hunter's vengeance. Then heshook off his craven fear. He was free; the hunter's doom was sure.His sharp face was again wreathed in a savage leer, and he spat oncemore on the prisoner.
His fierce impetuosity took him a step too far. The hunter's armsand waist were fastened, but his feet were free. His powerful legwas raised suddenly; his foot struck Girty in the pit of thestomach. The renegade dropped limp and gasping. The braves carriedhim away, his gaudy feathers trailing, his long arms hanginginertly, and his face distorted with agony.
The maidens of the tribe, however, showed for the prisoner aninterest that had in it something of veiled sympathy. Indian girlswere always fascinated by white men. Many records of Indian maidens'kindness, of love, of heroism for white prisoners brighten the darkpages of frontier history. These girls walked past the hunter,averting their eyes when within his range of vision, but stealingmany a sidelong glance at his impressive face and noble proportions.One of them, particularly, attracted the hunter's eye.
This was because, as she came by with her companions, while they allturned away, she looked at him with her soft, dark eyes. She was ayoung girl, whose delicate beauty bloomed fresh and sweet as that ofa wild rose. Her costume, fringed, beaded, and exquisitely wroughtwith fanciful design, betrayed her rank, she was Wingenund'sdaughter. The hunter had seen her when she was a child, and herecognized her now. He knew that the beauty of Aola, of WhisperingWinds Among the Leaves, had been sung from the Ohio to the GreatLakes.
Often she passed him that afternoon. At sunset, as the braves untiedhim and led him away, he once more caught the full, intense gaze ofher lovely eyes.
That night as he lay securely bound in the corner of a lodge, andthe long hours wore slowly away, he strained at his stout bonds, andin his mind revolved different plans of escape. It was not in thisman's nature to despair; while he had life he would fight. From timeto time he expanded his muscles, striving to loosen the wet buckskinthongs.
The dark hours slowly passed, no sound coming to him save thedistant bark of a dog and the monotonous tread of his guard; a dimgrayness pervaded the lodge. Dawn was close at hand--his hour wasnearly come.
Suddenly his hearing, trained to a most acute sensibility, caught afaint sound, almost inaudible. It came from without on the otherside of the lodge. There it was again, a slight tearing sound, suchas is caused by a knife when it cuts through soft material.
Some one was slitting the wall of the lodge.
The hunter rolled noiselessly over and over until he lay against theskins. In the dim grayness he saw a bright blade moving carefullyupward through the deer-hide. Then a long knife was pushed into theopening; a small, brown hand grasped the hilt. Another little handfollowed and felt of the wall and floor, reaching out with gropingfingers.
The, hunter rolled again so that his back was against the wall andhis wrists in front of the opening. He felt the little hand on hisarm; then it slipped down to his wrists. The contact of cold steelset a tremor of joy through his heart. The pressure of his bondsrelaxed, ceased; his arms were free. He turned to find thelong-bladed knife on the ground. The little hands were gone.
In a tinkling he rose unbound, armed, desperate. In another secondan Indian warrior lay upon the ground in his death-throes, while afleeing form vanished in the gray morning mist.
