CHAPTER VII.
THE AVENGERS BAFFLED.
Night in the forest of the Illinois.
Not a star is missing in the azure canopy, and the notes of the nightingale tinkle musically in the freshening breeze.
The cry of the panther is not heard; the owl seems to be feasting himself upon some delicious morsel won by his prying eyes and sharp claws, for his hoot reëchoes not through the star-lit wood, nor does the frightful howl of the wolf, the terror of new countries, disturb the slumbers of nature.
But through the forests stalk the enemies of mankind, proving that “man is a human wolf.” The wily red-skin is abroad, either as Pontiac’s avenger, reddening his hatchet with the blood of his fellow-creature, or as the hunted Peoria, Kaskaskia or Cahokia, flying from the demons unchained by a barrel of English rum.
Not far from the scenes of our romance the war of extirpation had raged with terrible fury. Those English families that failed to shelter themselves in Cahokia or Fort Chartres had either been butchered by the crimson devils or were fugitives with no spot whereon to lay their heads safe from the tomahawk of the avengers.
Upon the night described above an Indian was pushing his way through the forest, and following the course of the famous Cahokia Creek, not far from its boundaries. His step proclaimed him young, and well versed in the tortuous ways of the wood, for in the dim light he avoided the dry twig or the decaying log that cracks beneath the foot, and leaped the treacherous root with the precision of one traveling in the broad light of day.
He was following no trail; on the contrary, he seemed careless regarding his whereabouts, but hurried on as though some unseen hand was leading him to a certain destination.
He reached a point at length where a rivulet debouches into the Cahokia, and there, for the first time in several hours, he halted.
“They are not far from the Peoria now,” he murmured, looking to the priming of the long barreled rifle he had trailed at his side. “Swamp Oak knows that the Yellow Bloodhound dares not carry the Lone Dove to the big bands of Pontiac’s mad dogs, for they would tear her to pieces, even as the wolf rends the lamb, for she slew Segowatha. All his big talks would not save the Lone Dove; the red-men of the north loved Segowatha too well. But—hist!”
The Peoria crouched at his self warning, and slunk into the shadow of a tree.
A footstep had fallen upon his ears, and presently a giant form appeared against the whitened side of a deadened oak. It was the form of a man, and a close look told the Indian that the person was the very one for whose whereabouts he was searching.
“Ha!” he muttered, “the Yellow Bloodhound is abroad—he has left his band, and stolen deeper in the forest for what? The wolf never roams the woods for nothing; the fox leaves his den to prey.”
For a minute the creole (for indeed the giant form belonged to Jules Bardue) exhibited himself to the lone watcher, and then disappeared as suddenly as he had come upon the stage.
He plunged into the mouth of the tributary above-mentioned, and waded to the opposite shore, followed, with the cunning of the wolf, by the Peoria youth, who never took his eyes from the form just visible in the dim starlight.
The Yellow Bloodhound did not dream of the snake-like form that crept on his trail, and when he disappeared over the brow of a thickly-wooded acclivity, a short distance from the Cahokia, an exclamation of satisfaction parted the Peoria’s lips, and, rising to his feet, he bounded forward.
The sight that greeted his vision when he gained the summit of the hill, elicited no manifestations of surprise, and, calmly leaning against a tree, he viewed the scenes that lay at his feet.
A fire was dying at the foot of the declivity, and its flickering light weirdly clothed a lot of recumbent Indians. They lay in all positions, unconscious of the proximity of a deadly foe, and Swamp Oak griped his tomahawk vengefully as he thought of their late deeds of revenge.
He saw the creole step over a sleeping chief, and speak a few words to a guard who leaned against a tree, with eyes fixed upon three white men lying bound upon the ground not far away.
“Watchemenetoc is abroad to-night,” muttered the Peoria, as his eyes swept the camp for a particular object. “Where is the Lone Dove? The Yellow Bloodhound bore her from Odatha’s war-braves, but she is not with him now. Has she taken her wing and left the lair of the wolf? No, no; she would not desert her parent.”
A puzzled expression appeared upon the Indian’s face. Kate Blount was not in the creole’s camp. Swamp Oak had witnessed the Bloodhound’s separation, late the preceding day, from the war-party, and with the three male prisoners he had taken the trader’s daughter. He declared that he intended to convey them to the large body of red avengers who were devastating the country round about Cahokia, and there, over the putrid corpse of Segowatha, flay them alive. The creole tried to induce Odatha to accompany him; but the chief refused, and again resumed his march for the doomed Peoria village.
Swamp Oak, whose thrilling adventures, since Coleola’s bloodthirsty murder in his cave-home, shall presently fall from his own lips, did not at once, after the separation of Segowatha’s Avengers and the war-party, throw himself upon the trail of the former; but had followed the latter for reasons best known to himself.
If he had followed the Yellow Bloodhound, he might have witnessed our heroine’s mysterious disappearance from the band, while now regarding her fate he was left in the dark.
The white captives were wide awake.
From the summit of the hill Swamp Oak could see the glitter of their eyes, as they regarded the Bloodhound and their guard conversing in low tones.
The remainder of the avenging band—twenty in number—were sound asleep, and presently the creole glided from the guard and dropped near the dying fire.
The Peoria was conscious now of the working of some deep plot: he read it in the renegade’s appearance in the woods; his conference with the guards, and his return to his blanketed couch, from whence he saw him casting sly glances at the sentinel.
Presently a wild cry pealed from the guard’s throat, and every Indian, roused from slumber, sprung instantly to their feet with drawn weapons! They rushed to the dusky sentinel, loudly demanding the cause of the startling cry; and he, appearing half-frightened to death slunk behind the Yellow Bloodhound, and pointed to the spot occupied by the captives.
One glance at the trio drew a wild yell from the Avengers, for they saw that Kate Blount was missing!
“Where is the she White Snake?” demanded the creole, fiercely, and he clutched the red guard’s throat, as though he would choke the life from his body.
“The wolf stole her while Ipigena leaned against the tree, and with closed eyes saw himself a boy again,” stammered the Indian.
Still clutching the Indian’s throat, the creole turned to the maddened crowd:
“The red dog has slept!” he said, “but we must not blame him. We have walked many miles through the forest, striking here and there the enemies of our race, and Ipigena must sleep, for he is weary. But, braves, the White Adder that stung Segowatha must not escape. Search the wood, for she is not far away. My eyes opened when the moon hung on yonder limb, and she was beside her father. Go, Avengers—Pontiac’s mad dogs—to the trail!”
An instant later the creole and Ipigena were alone.
“What does this mean?” asked Blount of his companions.
“It means simply that the most infernal deviltry is afoot,” answered the giant hunter. “I see through every bit of it now. That Injun who came an’ took Kate into the wood was nobody else but the Bloodhound, an’ that guard played sleepy to deceive us.”
“But why did he take Kate away from the midst of the band he rules?”
“He rules this lot of red cut-throats, but he don’t rule the band around Cahokia—not by a terrible sight. Why, Oll Blount, they’d tear yer gal to pieces on sight, an’ ther Yaller Bloodhound knows this. Tharfore, he’s hid her away with the knowledge ov half o’ the red skunks with him now. Thar be some here to whom he daren’t tell his plans. Segowatha’s sons is with him.”
“Will they not find Kate?”
The father’s words were closed in a fearful tone.
“No; Bardue ain’t the man to stow her away under a brush heap, an’ then turn twenty Injuns on her trail,” answered the giant; “my word for it, they won’t find yer gal, Oll. It ’pears to me thet thar’s caves around here.”
“Oh, God,” groaned the anxious parent, “now that my dear child is in the sole power of a fiend, protect her.”
“He’ll do it, Oll; he’ll do it,” said Doc Bell. “He’s helped me out o’ many a scrape; but the Injuns ar’ comin’ back, madder nor thunder. I told yer they wouldn’t find the gal.”
Sure enough the savages, with disappointed visages, and fierce scowls upon the captives, were returning from a fruitless search, and with wild yells that made the woods ring, they gathered around the Yellow Bloodhound, clamoring for a pale-face’s blood.
“Blood! blood!” yelled the son of Segowatha, a young and fierce-looking warrior; “my father’s spirit calls for the red tide of the white girl’s heart; but now that she has gone—now that Watchemenetoc has borne her away—the spirit that stands before Little Wolf points to the three pale men, saying, ‘Skin them! skin them and drink their blood to me in the hollow of your hands.’”
His words threw a majority of the band into a frenzy impossible to describe. They yelled “Blood! blood!” like demons, and danced about the captives before the Yellow Bloodhound could find his tongue.
“We have sworn to bring the pale-faces to the uncovered grave of Segowatha, there to tear out their hearts and drink their blood,” he said. “Shall that oath be broken?”
“Yes, yes,” shrieked the blood-mad avengers. “The Yellow Bloodhound must close his mouth against us. The prisoners must die.”
“Then let them die!” hissed Jules Bardue, and in a lower tone he added to the guard: “They might escape between here and the big band. But they’ll never find the girl, never!”
With bloodthirsty eagerness the savages, Ojibwas, Ottawas, Pottawatomies and Miamis, headed by Little Wolf, made preparations for the torture. A party brought a quantity of stones from the creek, and upon them the devils proceeded to blunt their knives, that the captives’ skin might be torn from their bodies with the most excruciating torture.
The giant looked calmly upon the devilish preliminaries, and a shudder stole to young Somerville’s heart. A sad expression wreathed the trader’s features, telling that he thought not of himself, but of his daughter.
“We’re in for it now, I guess,” muttered the hunter. “What! Bob, first? No! no! spare the boy; take me first. I’ve killed the most ov yer dog-devils. I’ve scalped full twenty ov yer chiefs!”
But the flayers paid no attention to the old hunter; they cut young Somerville’s bonds, and proceeded to strip his clothes from his body.
“What a pretty skin!” exclaimed a young brave, striking the scout’s breast with his knife. “Ha! the red blood comes; it flows like Segowatha’s flowed.”
He sunk the point of his knife beneath our hero’s skin, but no cry of pain followed the brutal action; and suddenly, stripped to the waist, the youth found himself jerked to his feet.
Two young braves held him, and amid the flourish of knives and shouts of vengeance, they turned to the death-tree.
“Shall I die without an effort for life?” muttered Somerville; “die when I might live to snatch Kate from the Bloodhound’s jaws? Never!”
As his lips grated the last word through clinched teeth, he hurled the two braves aside, and suddenly wheeling, dashed through the circle of knives, and soon disappeared in the somber recesses of the forest!
His action disturbed the would-be flayers; but they quickly dashed away in swift pursuit.
“You can’t catch Bob Somerville!” cried the giant hunter. “He’s the best runner in the Illinois, an’ with the thought ov bein’ skinned alive to grease his’ joints, he’ll be worse nor a streak o’ lightnin’.”
It was as the hunter had predicted. The scout’s pursuers soon returned empty-handed, and turned their fury upon him. The Yellow Bloodhound, incensed at the young man’s escape, now aided them; hitherto, for show, he had stood aloof.
A dozen fiends carried the giant to the tree, and the sinewy rope was passed around his neck.
But, as the son of Segowatha attempted to knot the cord, a rifle-shot rose above the vengeful yells, and, dropping the sinews, the young chief staggered from the tree with a dark spot between his little eyes.
With ghastly features the braves shrunk from the fatal flaying post, and the cowardly creole threw himself behind a tree.
A half-smothered cry burst from Doc Bell’s heart, and, as Little Wolf struck the ground, he darted from the stake. The affrighted red-skins drew back before him, and from the trembling hands of one he snatched a knife, burying it in the owner’s breast, with a backward thrust!
A single bound brought him to the spot where Oliver Blount lay.
He stooped over the trader, and when he rose erect again, a moment later, Oliver was at his side.
They bounded forward together, as a deafening peal of thunder broke over their heads! They looked up, and saw above a canopy of inky darkness!
“The Almighty’s with us!” exclaimed Blount, as they dashed away.
“They won’t foller now, Oll,” said Doc Bell; “but they’ll hunt us to the death yit. Wonder where Bob is?”
“And my child!” groaned the father, and a moment later he asked: “Where are we going?”
“To a hidin’-place, in course,” answered the giant, and clutching the trader’s hand he abruptly turned aside.