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Betty Zane-Part26_Zane Gray(1872-1939)_English Literature(文学名著)-第2页

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both. He had resolved to die without a moan. He had determined to show



absolute indifference to his torture, which was the only way to appeal to the

savage nature, and if anything could, make the Indians show mercy. Or, if he



could taunt them into killing him at once he would be spared all the terrible

agony which they were in the habit of inflicting on their victims.



One handsome young brave twirled a glittering tomahawk which he threw from a

distance of ten, fifteen, and twenty feet and every time the sharp blade of



the hatchet sank deep into the stake within an inch of Isaac's head. With a

proud and disdainful look Isaac gazed straight before him and paid no heed to



his tormentor.

"Does the Indian boy think he can frighten a white warrior?" said Isaac



scornfully at length. "Let him go and earn his eagle plumes. The pale face

laughs at him."



The young brave understood the Huron language, for he gave a frightful yell

and cast his tomahawk again, this time shaving a lock of hair from Isaac's



head.

This was what Isaac had prayed for. He hoped that one of these glittering



hatchets would be propelled less skillfully than its predecessors and would

kill him instantly. But the enraged brave had no other opportunity to cast his



weapon, for the Indians jeered at him and pushed him from the line.

Other braves tried their proficiency in the art of throwing knives and



tomahawks, but their efforts called forth only words of derision from Isaac.

They left the weapons sticking in the post until round Isaac's head and



shoulders there was scarcely room for another.

"The White Eagle is tired of boys," cried Isaac to a chief dancing near. "What



has he done that he be made the plaything of children? Let him die the death

of a chief."



The maidens had long since desisted in their efforts to torment the prisoner.

Even the hardened old squaws had withdrawn. The prisoner's proud, handsome



face, his uprightbearing, his scorn for his enemies, his indifference to the

cuts and bruises, and red welts upon his clear white skin had won their



hearts.

Not so with the braves. Seeing that the pale face scorned all efforts to make



him flinch, the young brave turned to Big Tree. At a command from this chief

the Indians stopped their maneuvering round the post and formed a large



circle. In another moment a tall warrior appeared carrying an armful of

fagots.



In spite of his iron nerve Isaac shuddered with horror. He had anticipated

running the gauntlet, having his nails pulled out, powder and salt shot into



his flesh, being scalped alive and a host of other Indian tortures, but as he

had killed no members of this tribe he had not thought of being burned alive.



God, it was too horrible!

The Indians were now quiet. Their songs and dances would break out soon



enough. They piled fagot after fagot round Isaac's feet. The Indian warrior

knelt on the ground the steel clicked on the flint; a little shower of sparks



dropped on the pieces of punk and then--a tiny flame shot up, and slender

little column of blue smoke floated on the air.



Isaac dim his teeth hard and prayed with all his soul for a speedy death.

Simon Girty came hurriedly through the lines of waiting, watching Indians. He



had obtained permission to speak to the man of his own color.

"Zane, you made a brave stand. Any other time but this it might have saved



you. If you want I'll get word to your people." And then bending and placing

his mouth close to Isaac's ear, he whispered, "I did all I could for you, but



it must have been too late."

"Try and tell them at Ft. Henry," Isaac said simply.



There was a little cracking of dried wood and then a narrow tongue of red

flame darted up from the pile of fagots and licked at the buckskin fringe on



the prisoner's legging. At this supreme moment when the attention of all

centered on that motionless figure lashed to the stake, and when only the low



chanting of the death-song broke the stillness, a long, piercing yell rang out

on the quiet morning air. So strong, so sudden, so startling was the break in



that almost perfect calm that for a moment afterward there was a silence as of

death. All eyes turned to the ridge of rising ground whence that sound had



come. Now came the unmistakablethunder of horses' hoofs pounding furiously on

the rocky ground. A moment of paralyzed inaction ensued. The Indians stood



bewildered, petrified. Then on that ridge of rising ground stood, silhouetted

against the blue sky, a great black horse with arching neck and flying mane.



Astride him sat a plumed warrior, who waved his rifle high in the air. Again




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