CHAPTER VIII.
A BLOODY TROPHY.
SCARRED EAGLE well knew whence the shots came. The moment the Indians rushed from the lodge he glided from beneath the pile of skins, and quickly freed the limbs of Moorooine.
“Courage, girl,” he whispered. “I b’l’eve Brom’s saved. We must git out o’ this afore they come back!”
As he spoke he sprung from her side, and peering out saw the Indians yet rushing pell-mell toward the high bank of the river.
“Now’s our time—come!” he added, turning to the Indian girl.
She had started to her feet, filled with a new strength at the thought that Brom was saved and her own escape probable. But as Rhodan was about to glide out he caught a glimpse of a figure moving up from the left of the entrance. There was no time to ensconce himself under the pile of skins. Instead, he crouched close to the side of the lodge, and Moorooine sunk back to her former attitude.
They had barely time to do this when a savage entered hastily and stood beside the girl.
“Sporting Fawn too young to die,” he said. “If come to my lodge an’ be my squaw, take ’er dar now in canoe. Mus’ come quick!”
As he spoke he drew his knife, and bent low to cut her bonds. The sudden discovery that these were no longer upon her caused the fellow to straighten up in astonishment. He had no time to question her or even to glance around. A quick, powerful blow from behind laid him senseless. Moorooine again sprung to her feet, and the next moment was gliding across to the opposite row of huts after Scarred Eagle. The moment they were behind these they turned toward the north. But they had not gone more than twenty yards when, amid the general noise of alarm, they heard the ringing cry of the warrior whom they had just evaded.
It was lucky for them the fellow raised the cry, for it was answered by others whom in a moment more the fugitives would have met.
At the moment they were near a large square hut, and having no time to do better, crouched close beside it.
The Indians rushed past them, and were for a moment hid from view by an intervening lodge. The cry had recalled others from the vicinity of the subterranean passage, and these were heard rushing up.
“Must git in here if can—quick!” whispered the girl.
It was a desperate attempt; but more dangerous to remain still or attempt to run further. They crept rapidly forward, and at a moment when the backs of the startled Indians were toward them, darted inside.
“This council-house,” said the girl. “Mebbe not look here soon. Best hide up there!”
She hurriedly pointed overhead to rude beams laid across from side to side. Half the space was floored with small rough logs. The cabin had evidently been reared by some French trapper. With a lightning movement Scarred Eagle lifted her up, almost as soon as the suggestion was made, and as she obtained a footing he sprung up after her.
For the time they were safe. Words can give no idea of the excitement and confusion that now prevailed. It was frenzied. The last fifteen minutes had marked the death of Heavy Sleep and the renegade, the escape of Mace, the occurrence of the shots; and as a climax, some other deadly, unseen foe had snatched one from captivity on whom the savages had calculated to execute a terrible vengeance! No wonder these events, so rapidly succeeding each other, made them crazy with alarm and confusion.
Scarred Eagle and Moorooine lost not a second in moving close to the eaves of the roof and stretching themselves at length.
They heard the baffled savages darting around the outside of the cabin. Some of them entered it, but were evidently satisfied with the fact that no one was below, without thinking to look aloft. Others ran rapidly to the north, east and west, beating every spot that might for a moment conceal a fugitive.
Scarred Eagle was able to judge very nearly of the disposition of his enemies. He knew that at least half a dozen were after Mace. He little feared for the latter; but ever since the shots came, he feared that those at the retreat had unwittingly led the savages to suspect their hiding-place. In that case the capture of all would be only a question of time.
He realized the precarious situation of himself and the Indian girl: at any moment they might be discovered. Still there was a hope—a bare chance that they might remain there till night came. Pending that time there seemed not the least possible chance of escape, even should they remain undiscovered.
In half an hour it was fully light. Meantime, from the shouts and cries, Rhodan knew the searchers were still at work. On every side of the village the search had been keen and simultaneous. How would it end?
Through a crevice in the logs he managed, at last, to get a view of the ground near the subterranean passage. It was not occupied, and the fact cheered him. It was evident that the savages believed the daring authors of the shots had escaped down the banks of the river. Some were still absent on their trail, leaving the rest to look for the daring enemy who had liberated the Indian girl.
These soon returned to the center of the village. There was about a score of them in all. Their looks showed that their poor success was operating on their superstitious notions. Could it be possible they believed their last unknown enemy had escaped, and that they had given o’er the search?
This was the question Scarred Eagle asked himself. Moorooine had softly gained a position at his side, and was listening to the excited conversation going on but a little distance away.
“Good—very good!” she whispered, at length.
“What is it, gal?” inquired Scarred Eagle, anxiously.
“The canoe gone!” she answered, drawing a breath of relief.
“What canoe, Moorooine?”
“Mine. They s’pose we took an’ escaped!”
“Is that what they say—ar’ ye sure?”
“Yes; sure. We safe for more longer anyway. S’pose white friends safe too—all safe? Why s’pose White Fox safe?”
“I judge he is from what you told me an’ from what I noticed when I crept into the village. You said he got away but was drowned in the river.”
“Yes; seen ’im run—jump in, above the dark passage. Bad place—bad spirit lives there.”
“That’s one o’ the foolish notions of y’ur people, Moorooine; but Brom ain’t afraid o’ the place. I’ve gre’t hopes ’twas the means o’ savin’ him.”
He briefly explained the nature of the place to her, adding that he had no doubt the rangers were at that moment concealed there. She listened with great interest.
“Good,” she said. “They help us if can, then.”
“Thar’s jist a hope; but it’s a slim one,” said the scout. “If they take a notion to s’arch this place we’ll be lost, sartin. If we kin keep hid till night comes ag’in—eh, what’s hatchin’ now?”
They listened, Moorooine keeping her ear close to the crevice. Suddenly she turned her head and peeped out. She recognized the warrior whose proposition to save her an hour before had been so suddenly interrupted by Scarred Eagle.
The quick-witted Indian girl understood all at a glance. The fellow had not told of his own mishap, only that he had found the girl gone. He well knew she could not have got far away, and, failing to find her around the village, had a suspicion she was secreted somewhere within. The missing canoe did not satisfy him. He was now pointing toward the council-house, asking if the loft had been searched!
“No hope now, only for you!” whispered Moorooine, sadly.
She rose suddenly to her feet, and had taken one step forward, when Scarred Eagle, surmising her intent, pulled her back.
“No; not yit!” he said. “Ye’ve put y’ur life at stake once to git the boy safe, an’ you ain’t a-goin’ ter resk it for me, by throwin’ y’urself into their hands. Git down thar ag’in quicker!”
He fairly crowded her into the aperture, between the log-floor and the roof. Then, with steady agility, he darted past her, and established himself in a similar attitude. At that moment three or four Indians entered below, and one of them, assisted by the rest, seized the beam, and drew himself over it. The concealed borderer knew that several moments would elapse before the Indian’s gaze would become used to the gloom in the loft. Even then, he might not think it worth while to cross over, and look into the narrow space where they lay concealed.
But the savage did not wait. Urged by the impatient queries of those below, he at once stalked forward and glanced around. He must have seen that no lurkers were upon the floor, but a mere whim prompted him to advance toward the further side. A round, white object caught his eye, and as he bent toward it, something struck him in the forehead and face, causing him to start back with a howl of pain. He whirled rapidly, and grasping the beam, began to descend, pursued by dozens of yellow-jackets, which, not to be partial, pitched into his companions. In less than a minute, not only the loft, but the cabin was vacated, except by Scarred Eagle and the Indian girl. These two, lying quite still, cared little for the stings they themselves had received. Long after the Indians had left the spot, they remained in the same attitude, not only as a measure of safety, but to allow the disturbed hornets time to settle.
In an hour, Scarred Eagle cautiously rose, and Moorooine followed his example. They had not for a moment failed to hear sounds outside, coming from those who mourned their dead, or from those who kept coming in from a fruitless search.
“They no come here ag’in,” said the Indian girl, hopefully. “How do that?”
“We scouts l’arn to make use of sarcumstances that other ’uns wouldn’t notice,” replied Rhodan. “That nest was jest at my head, an’ ’twasn’t much work ter rile the little chaps. Ay; there comes more!”
The Indians began to come in fast, from the west and south. Three hours passed, and little took place in the village worthy of record. The concealed scout and his companion began to feel weak from their past terrible exertions. Hunger and thirst, too, tormented them. But there was nothing but to wait and watch in suspense. Scarred Eagle began to fear, and with reason, that those in the cave would be unable to assist them. Even if there were no new alarms, the camp would be too vigilant for them to escape that night. Meantime the warriors, whether successful or unsuccessful, would all be in, so that it would be madness for the rangers to attempt his liberation, even if they could know where he was.
They would probably suppose he had effected his escape, and search for him miles away. But he knew Brom would prosecute the search till death.
The sun was considerably past the meridian, when, from their look-out, they saw a number of Indians start up, and advance toward the forest on the south. A moment later, they heard sounds denoting an arrival.
“It’s plain all on ’em ain’t in yit,” whispered Scarred Eagle. “I don’t know what’s kep’ ’em so long, onless—ay, thar they come!”
A dozen or more came into view. They were greeted with yells of delight by those already in camp, who rushed forward to meet them. As they advanced into the center of the camp, Rhodan noticed they had a prisoner, and soon discovered it was Tim Devine. A pang of sorrow filled the breast of Scarred Eagle. He knew the faithful fellow had been taken, while endeavoring to draw the Indians off. His arms were closely pinioned behind, his hunting-frock was nearly torn off, and his face was covered with blood. What had become of his companion, Dan Hicks?
It was a silent query soon answered. The excited crowd thronged around, filling the air with gratified yells at the prospect of having one live victim for torture. As they swayed to and fro, jeering and buffeting the prisoner, one of them exhibited two bloody scalps of white men. One of these Rhodan recognized as that of poor Hicks; and the other—he feared, with a shudder, that it belonged to Ben Mace!