CHAPTER VI.
COLEOLA AND NEHONESTO.
After slaying the Indian who had pursued her from the hunted Peoria’s cave home, Kate Blount continued her flight unmolested. She ran forward quite rapidly until her limbs grew weary, and her gait dwindled down to a fast walk. She had noted the ground over which she had passed a few brief hours before with Swamp Oak, and now knew that she was hurrying toward Cahokia creek.
Suddenly a chorus of wild yells burst upon her ears, and with a throbbing heart she ensconced herself in the top of a fallen tree, from whence she witnessed the conflict between the war-party, her father and friends.
She saw that the Indians did not seek the lives of the trio, and the countenances of the whites told her that they were going to fight to the death—that they, seeing their cause hopeless, would force the red-skins to slay them for self-preservation.
And well, too, she knew that her presence would change the tide of affairs, and to preserve the life of her father—preserve it, perhaps, for a fate worse than death by the tomahawk, she slew Big Fox-Fire, and became the avengers’ prisoner.
When the yell which announced Coleola’s appearance on the cliffs opposite the war-party, and Kate beheld the mad Snake Queen, a pallor flitted over her cheeks, and she glanced at her father, who was bound to a sapling scarce five feet away.
“An unpitying demoness has arrived upon the scene,” he said, returning her fearful look with one full of sadness. “Coleola can rule the passions of this band of red-skins, as supremely as the master the actions of his slave. Girl, expect no mercy at her hands; the bare sight of her has dissipated all my hopes of escape.”
While he spoke, the Snake Queen and her followers descended, and crossed the creek by wading.
Coleola’s dark orbs flashed fire when they fell upon her late captive, and scarcely had she emerged from the water, when with a panther-like yell she darted forward and halted before the fair white girl.
Her passion kept the Indians aloof, and with distended eyes they watched her wild, mad movements.
“The she white serpent crept from the hole in the ground and slew Segagi!” she hissed, and with a dextrous movement she uncoiled the serpents that encircled her neck, and thrust them forward until their forked tongues almost touched Kate’s face. “Yes,” she hissed, more fiendishly than ever, “in the great forest, a prey to the wolf and panther, lies Segagi, Coleola’s most trusted spy. And does the White Snake hope to boast of her shot, behind the walls of the great fort?”
She paused, expecting a reply, but the brave girl rewarded her with none, and striking her cheeks with the whip-like tails of the snakes she drew back a pace.
“The pale girl must talk to the Manitou!” she continued, “for Coleola’s snakes shall writhe in her bosom when the fair skin has been torn away.”
A shudder swept to the hearts of the captives at this terrible announcement. The face of Oliver Blount grew white as snow when he looked upon his daughter, and thought of the fate that the furious Snake Queen had marked out for her.
The leaders of the war-party did not attempt to interfere with the Delaware demoness; they feared her as they feared the evil spirits; and there were many who believed that she was the natural daughter of Watchemenetoc, for no one, not even the white-haired chiefs, could tell how and when she first appeared to the Delaware tribe.
From Kale Blount her eyes swept to the form of the wood Hercules, and a terrific yell pealed from her throat as she sprung before Doc Bell, and glared upon him with the ferocity of the whelp-robbed jungle tigress.
“Wal,” said the hunter, calmly, “I hup I see you. It’s been a long time since we’ve met. I b’lieve I war a prisoner in yer town then, and it fut’hermore occurs to me that I left that old sorcerer, Conestoga, whom you called yer husband, as dead as Indians ginerally become. Ye couldn’t keep Doc Bell in the ring, eh, Coleola!”
The Snake Queen remained unmoved until the hunter uttered the name of his victim. Then a cry of rage parted her lips and she stepped nearer, her eyes spitting their anger into Bell’s face. But, the old hunter finished his sentence undaunted, and returned her insane glare with a look of calmness.
He had raised her anger to the highest pitch attainable, and when he saw her long knife flash from beneath the tunic which habited her giant frame, he gave himself up for lost, and smiled upon the deadly blade.
With a muttered anathema the Snake Queen threw the steel aloft, seeing nothing but the slayer of her lord, forgetting, in her eagerness to drink his blood, the tortures she could inflict upon him; and contrary to her vengeful resolves, decreeing to him a comparatively painless death.
The rattlesnakes writhed around the tawny arm thrown aloft, and seemed intent upon reaching the blade held far above her head—the blade that trembled on the scent of death. For a second the mad-woman glared at the hunter without striking, and then she stepped back to deliver the blow with a tiger-like spring.
The Indians saw this, and held their breath. The other captives could not avert their eyes from the doom of the giant, their companion in misfortune.
“White dog, die!” shrieked Coleola, and like the panther darted upon her victim.
But the knife never reached the hunter’s heart; an arm as red as that of the would-be murderess’ interposed, and when she gazed upon the intruder, she beheld him planted as firmly as the oak between her and the hunter!
It was Nehonesto!
“The Snake Queen must reach the big man’s heart through Nehonesto’s,” he said, calmly returning the flash of the baffled woman’s eyes.
“He is Nehonesto’s brother, and Nehonesto will die for him. Now let Coleola strike! now let her throw her snakes upon the Ojibwa.”
A cry of rage welled from the Snake Queen’s throat, and she retreated several feet, tearing the snakes from her arm as she executed the movement. Her eyes were fixed upon Nehonesto; she saw no other form than his, and as she paused, with the rapidity of a flash of lighting one of the rattlers went hissing through the air!
The Ojibwa saw it, but did not move. He merely threw his knife arm before his face, and flung the serpent aside with a dexterity that drew a shout of applause from the red spectators. He flung the snake away with all his strength, and with a shriek of horror he saw it wrap itself around the throat of the trader’s daughter!
A shout of triumph cleft the air;—it came from Coleola’s throat; and the second snake had left her arm when Nehonesto darted toward our heroine!
He griped the immense serpent—immense for a rattlesnake—with his bare hands, and tore it from its dreadful embrace, with such fury that it snapped in twain, leaving the tail dangling from his hand, while the hideous head clung by the fangs to Kate Blount’s cheek!
At the sight of the maiden’s peril a cry of horror burst from the throats of the Indians, and even Coleola forsook her station, and, with many others, sprung forward.
The white girl’s head had dropped upon her bosom, and the pallor of death shrouded her face. Instantly Nehonesto’s knife severed her bonds, and when the red-men crowded around the spot, he had lowered her to the ground, and was holding the mouth of his leathern flask to her colorless lips.
Pity instantly took the place of vengeance, and upon every face, save that of Coleola’s, that sweet angel sat enthroned.
Kate Blount was conscious, and she drank deeply of the contents of the Ojibwa’s flask. She knew that whisky counteracted the effects of the poison of the rattlesnake in the human system, and she felt its effects ere the flask was drained.
“The Lone Dove of the pale-faces will not tread the dark wood,” said Nehonesto, noting with a smile the effect of the fire-water. “She will live—live to become Nehonesto’s captive.”
“No! no!” cried Coleola, at this, “the White Snake lives to die—to be skinned alive by the blunt knife of Coleola. She caught her in the Swamp Oak’s cave, but she fled like the hunted fox, while Coleola sought the red dog that stole her child many moons ago. But ah! Coleola caught her child, and from her mouth she has plucked her lying tongue.”
As she finished, Nehonesto rose to his feet, and faced the chief—the leader of the war-band.
“Chiefs, decide between Nehonesto and Coleola,” he said. “He claims the pale flower, and the giant hunter. Shall they die by the knife of a mad-woman—they and their brethren,” and he glanced at the trader and Somerville—“or shall they become the captives of Nehonesto, the War Eagle of the Ojibwas?”
A fateful silence followed the Indian’s speech, and the chiefs addressed looked into each other’s faces.
“Decide for Coleola!” cried the Snake Queen, “or the plagues of Watchemenetoc shall fall upon the red-men like rain-drops, and of all this band not one shall sleep in the lodges again.”
The cheeks of the sachems paled at this, and trembling at the dreadful threat, the warriors shrunk from the demoness, shouting:
“Give the pale-faces to Coleola, and let her skin them, else we fall like blades of grass in the country of the Peorias.”
The chiefs were dismayed, and the captives and Nehonesto read in their terror-stricken faces the decision. Suddenly Odatha stepped forward to announce the decision, but before his lips parted, a shrill cry burst upon the ears of all, and, turning, they discovered a solitary Indian running toward them, along the Cahokia’s bank.
He wore the habiliments of a Piankishaw warrior, and paused all breathless in the circle of red-men that surrounded the white captives.
Then he was recognized.
“Why comes the Little Coon alone to the war eagles of the Illinois?” demanded Odatha.
“He comes from the Yellow Bloodhound,” answered the new arrival, glancing around upon the prisoners with mingled surprise and triumph. “He ran before his people who are coming up the deep creek in canoes. They seek what Odatha has found,” and again his eyes fell upon the captives.
Odatha understood the sentence.
“Yes, Odatha has found the pale-faces,” said that worthy. “Why trails the Yellow Bloodhound them?”
“They slew Segowatha.”
The Ottawa caught the runner’s arm and shot him a look of blank astonishment, while the other chiefs and warriors contracted the circle with exclamations of disbelief and wonder.
“Yes, the pale-faced girl or the Peoria dog, Swamp Oak, slew Segowatha. The Yellow Bloodhound fell beneath the dog’s knife, but he leads his band upon the trail again. They have sworn by the Manitou to tear the pale-faces’ hearts from them; and let the arm raised to tear the white snakes away drop before they come. Like a whirlwind, they can not be stopped.”
He paused, and, glancing at Nehonesto and Coleola Odatha spoke.
“We must not thwart the Yellow Bloodhound,” he said. “He is a mighty whirlwind, and when he comes the pale-faces must become his—that he may avenge, according to his oath, the death of Segowatha. Coleola—”
He reverted his eyes to the mad red-woman, but with her remaining snake she was forcing a path through the throng of braves, and her warriors were following in her wake.
She heard herself addressed, but she did not pause, and when Odatha sprung forward to arrest her progress that he might tell her what he wished, one of her braves pushed him back, and, transfixed with irresolution, he beheld her swim the creek and climb the cliffs on the opposite bank.
“When the Yellow Bloodhound comes, Coleola tarries not,” she cried, looking down upon the war band; “but had Odatha given the pale-faced girl and the big hunter to her, she would have stayed and faced the dog whose throat she longs to cut. Between Coleola and the Yellow Bloodhound flows the river of darkness, and some day or some night she meets him on the bank, and then the yelp of the dog will be heard for the last time. Coleola goes, but she will come again, and the plagues of the Manitou shall fall upon Odatha and his red snakes. The whites shall yet be Coleola’s; they shall not be skinned by the Yellow Bloodhound. Whoever slays one of Coleola’s braves shall fall before her, and the she White Snake shot Segagi! Odatha, forget nothing that has fallen from Coleola’s lips. Snakes, into the dark woods. Away!”
As she uttered the last word, she shook her snake at the mute spectators, and, whirling on her heel, sprung from sight.
“Then the pale-faces are the Yellow Bloodhound’s?” said Nehonesto, addressing Odatha.
“Odatha has spoken,” was the reply, and Nehonesto, with a determined expression, turned to Kate again.
She had almost entirely recovered from the serpent bite, and under Nehonesto’s protection was permitted to pillow her head upon her father’s breast.
“Kate, Kate, thank God you yet live, despite the machinations of our enemies,” said the old man, bowing his head to receive his daughter’s kiss. “I know now that He watches over us.”
“Yes, father, but whose arm will interpose between us and the knife of the Yellow Bloodhound?” asked Kate.
Despite his hopings, Oliver Blount groaned.
“Oh, Heavenly Father, why does such a fiend as Jules Bardue curse the earth? Oh, that Swamp Oak’s knife had reached his heart.”
If curses could kill, the Yellow Bloodhound, as the creole was styled by his adopted tribe, would have fallen dead long before the opening of our story, for the old trader had cursed him as man had never before cursed his fellow.
As the moments passed, the Indians grew impatient for the arrival of Segowatha’s Avengers. The captives had been taken from the trees that they might not afford marks for Coleola’s rifles, for the savages feared that the Snake Queen would steal back, and satiate her vengeance by dispatching the whites from the cliffs.
“All together once more,” said Doc Bell, despite the savage looks of their guards, “an’ I’m gettin’ anxious myself to see that ar’ Bloodhound.”
“We die when he comes!” said Somerville; “but we’ll die like men.”
“That’s talkin’, boy; but we ain’t dead yit,” said the giant, with a faint smile. “We didn’t die when Coleola came, and I’d sooner meet the Yellow Bloodhound than she—yes, by a long shot. We’ve got one true friend in this pack of devils, an’ ye’ve seen a sample ov his nerve. Nehonesto is the only member ov the moon-scar band that I’ve see’d fur four years, and I war thinkin’ erbout others awhile ago. Five ov us—four Injuns an’ me—formed that band on the Saginaw six years ago—afore I see’d you, boy—an’ a part ov our oath was to die if need be for one another. An’ I tell you Nehonesto is jest ready to die for us. Look how that cursed Little Coon watches him; the little Ojibwa suspects his giant brother, which is bad fur us. I’d like to know where we’ll be to-morrow.”
“In eternity, perhaps,” said Oliver Blount, who had listened attentively to the giant’s words.
“Mebbe so,” said Bell; “but I’ve never been thar yet. I don’t care fur my old self. My anxiety is fur your gal—your Kate, Oll.”
“And my Kate, too,” murmured Bob Somerville, inaudibly.
“Fear not for me,” cried the trader’s daughter. “I want my fate to be yours. I can die like a woman.”
“But the Bloodhound won’t kill you, Kate,” said the giant. “He reserves you for a fate worse than death.”
A fearful determination overspread Kate Blount’s face, and, through clenched teeth, she hissed:
“Never!”