CHAPTER III.
A MOTHER’S VENGEANCE.
From a trap-door in the roof of the cottage, Swamp Oak, the young Peoria, had noted the approach of the delivering storm, and had hastened to communicate the joyful tidings to his beautiful fellow-prisoner. Well understanding the nature of the summer storms which broke over the forests of the Illinois, they were alert at once, and when the cloud did discharge its fury of wind and rain through the Stygian darkness, they were in the attic, and by the flashes of lightning, saw the awe-stricken guards desert their posts, just as the Peoria knew they would do.
The young red-skin then glided away to the edge of the broad eaves, followed by the girl, whom he lowered to the ground. Handing her the rifles, he sprung down. Then toward the trader’s boat the fugitives of the Illinois hurried.
Suddenly, when they were very near the creek, the Peoria paused, and griped Kate Blount’s arm.
“What is it, Swamp Oak?” questioned the girl, in a low whisper.
“The Yellow Chief,” was the reply, and then the Indian left her standing alone.
A flash of lightning had revealed to Swamp Oak the figure of the creole chief watching the boat, as though he were certain that the besieged would escape, in which event they would, of course, seek the boat.
Several minutes of silence followed the Peoria’s departure, and then the sounds of a desperate struggle were borne to the girl’s ears. In the gloom she stood and trembled for the safety of her ally, and when at last the lightning revealed the two men locked in each other’s arms, writhing and twisting like two panthers on the verge of Cahokia Creek, she sprung forward to put an end to the conflict. The electric light had told her that the Yellow Chief was uppermost, and Swamp Oak’s situation critical in the extreme.
A few bounds brought her to the spot; her rifle flew above her head to deal a death-blow to the coward who sought to destroy her happiness, when she saw him roll from the Indian and lie perfectly still on the bank.
“Ugh!” grunted the victorious Peoria, springing to his feet, and shaking himself after the manner of a dog emerging from the water. “The Yellow Chief is as strong as the buffalo; but he was no match for Swamp Oak.
“Come!” he said, stepping to the water, “we must fly, even as the wild geese fly from the gun of the white hunters.”
“But father and the others?” said Kate, involuntarily pausing beside the boat.
“They will come to the Lone Dove in time,” said the Swamp Oak; “she will nestle in her father’s bosom soon, and she will plait the young trader’s long hair before the death of another moon. Come!”
Thus reassured, Kate Blount stepped into the boat, and the next moment they were flying toward the head-waters of Cahokia creek.
“Why did you not fly to the fort, chief?” asked Kate, after a lengthy silence.
“The Red Avengers were between the fur man’s cabin and the English flag; and we must keep from them. Oh, my poor people!” and a sigh escaped the Indian’s breast. “Swamp Oak’s father is old; the evil spirits’ fiery arrows shoot along his bones, and like the wounded dove, he will fall an easy prey to the bad Indians’ tomahawks. But let them kill him,” and the young brave gritted his teeth; “yes, let them kill the old Peoria, and they shall unchain a devil fiercer than all the wolves in the country of the Illinois.”
Then the savage relapsed into silence, which was not broken till, an hour later, he ran the canoe to the secure cover of the fringed bank.
“Now where do we go, Swamp Oak?” demanded Kate, as they stepped upon the bank.
“The Lone Dove shall see,” answered the Indian, with a smile. “Did she never know that Swamp Oak had a squaw?”
“No, chief,” said the girl, in astonishment. “You never breathed a word to me about a Mrs. Swamp Oak.”
The youthful Indian smiled sadly, but proudly, and, having sunk the boat, led the way into the forest.
“Yes,” he said, in low tones, while he guided the trader’s daughter over the rough ground, “the Peoria has a squaw, as beautiful as the lilies of snow that kiss the lips of the great river (Mississippi). Many moons ago, Swamp Oak’s nation sent him to the lands of the Delawares to spy. He went with a fearless heart, for he wanted to win his first feathers. He wore the plumes and paint of an Ojibwa; he entered the lodges of the Delawares; he told them about the great lake where the Ojibwas live, and they believed him, for the Manitou closed their eyes to the fact that Swamp Oak was an Illinois.[1] Among the Delaware wigwams he met Ulalah, the daughter of Colealah, the gigantic Delaware prophetess, who wears a necklace of living snakes. He loved her star eyes, and when he left the Delawares, Ulalah walked at his side. He dared not take her to his people as his squaw—she a hated and accursed Delaware, so he brought her—here!”
The young white girl looked up into the Indian’s face, bewildered.
“Not here, Swamp Oak?”
“Here, Lone Dove.”
As the savage finished, he stooped and placed his ear to the ground. In this position he remained for some time, when, satisfied with his vigil, he stepped to a gigantic oak and thrust his arm into a dark aperture in its side.
Kate Blount watched him eagerly.
When Swamp Oak withdrew his arm, a portion of the tree swung open like a door, which unexpected action drew a cry of astonishment from the girl’s lips.
“So Swamp Oak and his squaw live in a tree?” she said, smiling at the novelty of the thought.
“No,” murmured the Indian, “they dwell below the tree. Come!”
He caught Kate’s arm and led her beyond the living threshold of his strange home; and she stood against the inner wall of the tree, while he closed the door and made it secure again.
Then he gently assisted her down a ladder formed of poles and sinews, and at last Kate found herself upon firm, stony ground, thirty feet below the roots of the tree.
In the gloom the Peoria paused, and a loud bird-call pealed from his lips.
It received no answer. He called again, and in the suspense that followed the cry, Kate felt a shudder flit over the red-skin’s tawny frame.
“Ulalah must sleep,” said Swamp Oak, in a tone full of uncertainty and fears. “Swamp Oak has not kissed her for ten sleeps, and she has grown weary waiting for him. We will awake her, Lone Dove. Come!”
The hand that stole to Kate Blount’s in the gloom trembled like the aspen, and a terrible presentiment of evil crept to her young heart. She could not shake the terror off, and she knew that Swamp Oak shared it with her.
“Ha!” suddenly exclaimed the Indian, in a somewhat joyous tone, “Ulalah still keeps the fire bright for Swamp Oak.”
He quickened his gait now, and presently the turning of a curve brought them into an apartment quite vividly relieved by a fire that burned in the center.
The chamber was fit for the banquet hall of an eastern king, and the trader’s daughter was struck with rapture and awe when her eyes fell upon the myriads of shining stalactites that hung pendent from the arched ceiling, and the walls that reflected back, with ten thousand beauties, the glow of the fire.
At first she thought the palace deserted; but when her eyes became accustomed to the light, she, simultaneously with the Peoria, beheld a figure upon a mat of doe skins, near the bright blaze.
With a light cry of “Ulalah!” Swamp Oak shot forward, and stooped, with his inborn gentleness, over the motionless body of his young wife.
But the next moment he started back with a cry that drove every vestige of color from Kate Blount’s face, and, with the eyes of a madman, he stared at the form on the doe-skins.
The trader’s daughter could not move. Horror glued her to the spot, and her eyes continually flitted between the mad Peoria and his Ulalah.
Suddenly Swamp Oak shot forward, and lifted the Delaware girl from the couch, and then without a word bore her to the trader’s child, and thrust the cold, expressionless face into hers.
“Dead! dead!” welled from Kate’s lips, in horrible accents, and while she spoke she could scarcely believe that the beautiful being embraced by the Indian was a corpse.
“Dead! dead!” shrieked Swamp Oak echoing the girl’s words with a voice that was a wail; and while the accents still quivered on his pale lips, he staggered back and dropped Ulalah upon the couch again.
“He’s mad!” muttered Kate Blount, involuntarily shrinking from the intense glare of the frenzied Indian’s eyes. “This deed of blood has sent reason from its throne. What is to follow God knows. Heaven protect me!”
The Peoria approached with an unnatural smile.
“Yes, the good spirits have taken Ulalah to their lodges,” he said, “and left the Lone Dove to be poor Swamp Oak’s squaw. Swamp Oak loved Ulalah; but when the winged spirits came for her, he kissed her, and let her go. Ha! ha! ha! the Lone Dove will be lone no longer. Why does she not greet the Swamp Oak? Come, we’ll strew the bridal-couch with flowers.”
But, with a shudder, Kate continued to retreat, and when at last, unable to retreat further, the demented Indian’s hand griped her arm, a fiendishly triumphant laugh came from a distant portion of the cave.
Instantly Swamp Oak dropped her arm, and wheeled with a crazy cry.
He turned in time to see a giantess burst from one of the corridors, leading from the further end of the chamber, and Kate Blount echoed the Indian’s cry of horror.
She at once recognized in the red ogress, the person of Coleola the prophetess of the Delawares, for around her neck writhed three snakes, pictures of horror.
Several warriors followed the red queen, and she threw a furtive glance upon Ulalah’s corpse as she sprung forward.
“Ha! ha! ha!” she laughed again, more discordantly than ever, pausing within a few feet of Swamp Oak, who regarded her with an expression utterly indescribable. “At last Coleola has tracked the child-stealer to his den. At last she has found her child—found her to punish her for following the Peoria dog into the woods. See!” and a knife flashed from beneath her tunic, “this blade is red with the blood of the ungrateful girl, and soon it shall drink the heart-gore of the red hound. For five sleeps we have waited for Swamp Oak, the traitor. Coleola led her braves from the Delaware village, saying: ‘We dye our knives in the hearts of the runaways or never return.’ Ha! ha! in the forest we saw a pair of eyes peeping from a tree! Ulalah watched for her red dog, and Coleola came instead of he.”
Again that hellish laugh broke from the murderess’ lips, and with eyes aflame with passion, she strode toward Swamp Oak, who did not seem to comprehend her intention. Kate Blount, still griping her rifle, shrunk nearer the wall, determined to brace herself against it, and sell her life as dearly as possible. While Coleola addressed Swamp Oak, her eyes had wandered to her, and Kate knew that she was doomed to die by some terrible mode of death.
Nearer and nearer the dazed Indian came the murderess, and her almost naked followers; when to Kate Blount’s surprise, Swamp Oak, with a terrific yell, dashed Coleola and her braves from his path as though they were stalks of corn; and, snatching up the corpse of his stolen wife, he disappeared in one of the corridors before the astonished spectators had recovered from their confusion.
Coleola and her followers darted after the madman, and Kate Blount was left alone. Then, with the instinct of self-preservation, she retreated back through the passage which a few minutes since she had traversed, and at last found herself in the tree. Around her all was gloom, and she fumbled about for the fastenings with the wildest heart that ever throbbed in maiden’s bosom.
Every moment was precious to her, and when she at last found the sinews and threw wide the door, she felt a foot on the ladder below!
She sprung from the tree into the day that was penetrating the Illinois forest, and heard the triumphant yell of the Indian behind her.
Impelled by her danger, she turned and beheld, rushing from the tree with uplifted hatchet, one of Coleola’s braves.
Instantly her rifle shot to her shoulder; she touched the trigger and the Delaware lay motionless on the leaves with a bullet in his brain!
Again, with a prayer to God for safety, the fugitive turned and rushed toward Cahokia Creek, loading her faithful rifle as she ran.
From childhood the trader’s daughter handled the weapons of the frontier, and about Sir William Johnson’s “lodge” there used to be no deadlier shot than the then little girl of fifteen!
In her hands the rifle was a dangerous thing!
[1] The Kaskaskias, Peorias and Cahokias were component tribes of the Illinois nation.