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Authors: The Spirit of the Border

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BOOK: Zane Grey
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Two of the braves had been hurt in the brief struggle, one having a
badly wrenched shoulder and the other a broken arm. So much for the
hunter's power in that single moment of action.

The loft was searched, and found to be empty. Then the excitement
died away, and the braves settled themselves down for the night. The
injured ones bore their hurts with characteristic stoicism; if they
did not sleep, both remained quiet and not a sigh escaped them.

The wind changed during the night, the storm abated, and when
daylight came the sky was cloudless. The first rays of the sun shone
in the open door, lighting up the interior of the cabin.

A sleepy Indian who had acted as guard stretched his limbs and
yawned. He looked for the prisoner, and saw him sitting up in the
corner. One arm was free, and the other nearly so. He had almost
untied the thongs which bound him; a few moments more and he would
have been free.

"Ugh!" exclaimed the young brave, awakening his chief and pointing
to the hunter.

The chief glanced at his prisoner; then looked more closely, and
with one spring was on his feet, a drawn tomahawk in his hand. A
short, shrill yell issued from his lips. Roused by that clarion
call, the young braves jumped up, trembling in eager excitement. The
chief's summons had been the sharp war-cry of the Delawares.

He manifested as intense emotion as could possibly have been
betrayed by a matured, experienced chieftain, and pointing to the
hunter, he spoke a single word.

*

At noonday the Indians entered the fields of corn which marked the
outskirts of the Delaware encampment.

"Kol-loo—kol-loo—kol-loo."

The long signal, heralding the return of the party with important
news, pealed throughout the quiet valley; and scarcely had the
echoes died away when from the village came answering shouts.

Once beyond the aisles of waving corn the hunter saw over the
shoulders of his captors the home of the redmen. A grassy plain,
sloping gradually from the woody hill to a winding stream, was
brightly beautiful with chestnut trees and long, well-formed lines
of lodges. Many-hued blankets hung fluttering in the sun, and rising
lazily were curling columns of blue smoke. The scene was picturesque
and reposeful; the vivid hues suggesting the Indians love of color
and ornament; the absence of life and stir, his languorous habit of
sleeping away the hot noonday hours.

The loud whoops, however, changed the quiet encampment into a scene
of animation. Children ran from the wigwams, maidens and braves
dashed here and there, squaws awakened from their slumber, and many
a doughty warrior rose from his rest in the shade. French fur
traders came curiously from their lodges, and renegades hurriedly
left their blankets, roused to instant action by the well-known
summons.

The hunter, led down the lane toward the approaching crowd,
presented a calm and fearless demeanor. When the Indians surrounded
him one prolonged, furious yell rent the air, and then followed an
extraordinary demonstration of fierce delight. The young brave's
staccato yell, the maiden's scream, the old squaw's screech, and the
deep war-cry of the warriors intermingled in a fearful discordance.

Often had this hunter heard the name which the Indian called him; he
had been there before, a prisoner; he had run the gauntlet down the
lane; he had been bound to a stake in front of the lodge where his
captors were now leading him. He knew the chief, Wingenund, sachem
of the Delawares. Since that time, now five years ago, when
Wingenund had tortured him, they had been bitterest foes.

If the hunter heard the hoarse cries, or the words hissed into his
ears; if he saw the fiery glances of hatred, and sudden giving way
to ungovernable rage, unusual to the Indian nature; if he felt in
their fierce exultation the hopelessness of succor or mercy, he gave
not the slightest sign.

"Atelang! Atelang! Atelang!" rang out the strange Indian name.

The French traders, like real savages, ran along with the
procession, their feathers waving, their paint shining, their faces
expressive of as much excitement as the Indians' as they cried aloud
in 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 of
the chieftain standing in front of his principal men. Well he knew
them all. There were the crafty Pipe, and his savage comrade, the
Half King; there was Shingiss, who wore on his forehead a scar—the
mark of the hunter's bullet; there were Kotoxen, the Lynx, and
Misseppa, the Source, and Winstonah, the War-cloud, chiefs of
sagacity and renown. Three renegades completed the circle; and these
three traitors represented a power which had for ten years left an
awful, bloody trail over the country. Simon Girty, the so-called
White Indian, with his keen, authoritative face turned expectantly;
Elliott, the Tory deserter, from Fort Pitt, a wiry, spider-like
little man; and last, the gaunt and gaudily arrayed form of the
demon of the frontier—Jim Girty.

The procession halted before this group, and two brawny braves
pushed the hunter forward. Simon Girty's face betrayed satisfaction;
Elliott's shifty eyes snapped, and the dark, repulsive face of the
other Girty exhibited an exultant joy. These desperadoes had feared
this hunter.

Wingenund, with a majestic wave of his arm, silenced the yelling
horde of frenzied savages and stepped before the captive.

The deadly foes were once again face to face. The chieftain's lofty
figure and dark, sleek head, now bare of plumes, towered over the
other Indians, but he was not obliged to lower his gaze in order to
look straight into the hunter's eyes.

Verily this hunter merited the respect which shone in the great
chieftain's glance. Like a mountain-ash he stood, straight and
strong, his magnificent frame tapering wedge-like from his broad
shoulders. The bulging line of his thick neck, the deep chest, the
knotty contour of his bared forearm, and the full curves of his
legs—all denoted a wonderful muscular development.

The power expressed in this man's body seemed intensified in his
features. His face was white and cold, his jaw square and set; his
coal-black eyes glittered with almost a superhuman fire. And his
hair, 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 it
been combed out, must have reached his knees.

One long moment Wingenund stood facing his foe, and then over the
multitude 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 Indian
populace. The children ran fearfully by; the braves gazed long at
the great foe of their race; the warriors passed in gloomy silence.
The savages' tricks of torture, all their diabolical ingenuity of
inflicting pain was suppressed, awaiting the hour of sunrise when
this hated Long Knife was to die.

Only one person offered an insult to the prisoner; he was a man of
his own color. Jim Girty stopped before him, his yellowish eyes
lighted by a tigerish glare, his lips curled in a snarl, and from
between them issuing the odor of the fir traders' vile rum.

"You'll soon be feed fer the buzzards," he croaked, in his hoarse
voice. He had so often strewed the plains with human flesh for the
carrion birds that the thought had a deep fascination for him. "D'ye
hear, scalp-hunter? Feed for buzzards!" He deliberately spat in the
hunter'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 that
flaming glance. Wild horses could not have dragged him to face this
man had he been free. Even now a chill crept over Girty. For a
moment he was enthralled by a mysterious fear, half paralyzed by a
foreshadowing of what would be this hunter's vengeance. Then he
shook 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 once
more on the prisoner.

His fierce impetuosity took him a step too far. The hunter's arms
and waist were fastened, but his feet were free. His powerful leg
was raised suddenly; his foot struck Girty in the pit of the
stomach. The renegade dropped limp and gasping. The braves carried
him away, his gaudy feathers trailing, his long arms hanging
inertly, and his face distorted with agony.

The maidens of the tribe, however, showed for the prisoner an
interest that had in it something of veiled sympathy. Indian girls
were always fascinated by white men. Many records of Indian maidens'
kindness, of love, of heroism for white prisoners brighten the dark
pages of frontier history. These girls walked past the hunter,
averting their eyes when within his range of vision, but stealing
many 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 all
turned away, she looked at him with her soft, dark eyes. She was a
young girl, whose delicate beauty bloomed fresh and sweet as that of
a wild rose. Her costume, fringed, beaded, and exquisitely wrought
with fanciful design, betrayed her rank, she was Wingenund's
daughter. The hunter had seen her when she was a child, and he
recognized her now. He knew that the beauty of Aola, of Whispering
Winds Among the Leaves, had been sung from the Ohio to the Great
Lakes.

Often she passed him that afternoon. At sunset, as the braves untied
him and led him away, he once more caught the full, intense gaze of
her lovely eyes.

That night as he lay securely bound in the corner of a lodge, and
the long hours wore slowly away, he strained at his stout bonds, and
in his mind revolved different plans of escape. It was not in this
man's nature to despair; while he had life he would fight. From time
to time he expanded his muscles, striving to loosen the wet buckskin
thongs.

The dark hours slowly passed, no sound coming to him save the
distant bark of a dog and the monotonous tread of his guard; a dim
grayness pervaded the lodge. Dawn was close at hand—his hour was
nearly come.

Suddenly his hearing, trained to a most acute sensibility, caught a
faint sound, almost inaudible. It came from without on the other
side of the lodge. There it was again, a slight tearing sound, such
as 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 the
skins. In the dim grayness he saw a bright blade moving carefully
upward through the deer-hide. Then a long knife was pushed into the
opening; a small, brown hand grasped the hilt. Another little hand
followed and felt of the wall and floor, reaching out with groping
fingers.

The, hunter rolled again so that his back was against the wall and
his wrists in front of the opening. He felt the little hand on his
arm; then it slipped down to his wrists. The contact of cold steel
set a tremor of joy through his heart. The pressure of his bonds
relaxed, ceased; his arms were free. He turned to find the
long-bladed knife on the ground. The little hands were gone.

In a tinkling he rose unbound, armed, desperate. In another second
an Indian warrior lay upon the ground in his death-throes, while a
fleeing form vanished in the gray morning mist.

Chapter VII
*

Joe felt the heavy lethargy rise from him like the removal of a
blanket; his eyes became clear, and he saw the trees and the forest
gloom; slowly he realized his actual position.

He was a prisoner, lying helpless among his sleeping captors.
Silvertip and the guard had fled into the woods, frightened by the
appalling moan which they believed sounded their death-knell. And
Joe believed he might have fled himself had he been free. What could
have caused that sound? He fought off the numbing chill that once
again began to creep over him. He was wide-awake now; his head was
clear, and he resolved to retain his senses. He told himself there
could be nothing supernatural in that wind, or wail, or whatever it
was, which had risen murmuring from out the forest-depths.

Yet, despite his reasoning, Joe could not allay his fears. That
thrilling cry haunted him. The frantic flight of an Indian
brave—nay, of a cunning, experienced chief—was not to be lightly
considered. The savages were at home in these untracked wilds.
Trained from infancy to scent danger and to fight when they had an
equal chance they surely would not run without good cause.

Joe knew that something moved under those dark trees. He had no idea
what. It might be the fretting night wind, or a stealthy, prowling,
soft-footed beast, or a savage alien to these wild Indians, and
wilder than they by far. The chirp of a bird awoke the stillness.
Night had given way to morning. Welcoming the light that was chasing
away the gloom, Joe raised his head with a deep sigh of relief. As
he did so he saw a bush move; then a shadow seemed to sink into the
ground. He had seen an object lighter than the trees, darker than
the gray background. Again, that strange sense of the nearness of
something thrilled him.

Moments, passed—to him long as hours. He saw a tall fern waver and
tremble. A rabbit, or perhaps a snake, had brushed it. Other ferns
moved, their tops agitated, perhaps, by a faint breeze. No; that
wavering line came straight toward him; it could not be the wind; it
marked the course of a creeping, noiseless thing. It must be a
panther crawling nearer and nearer.

Joe opened his lips to awaken his captors, but could not speak; it
was as if his heart had stopped beating. Twenty feet away the ferns
were parted to disclose a white, gleaming face, with eyes that
seemingly glittered. Brawny shoulders were upraised, and then a
tall, powerful man stood revealed. Lightly he stepped over the
leaves into the little glade. He bent over the sleeping Indians.
Once, twice, three times a long blade swung high. One brave
shuddered another gave a sobbing gasp, and the third moved two
fingers—thus they passed from life to death.

BOOK: Zane Grey
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