shadowy form, with its lightninglike movements, its glittering
hatchet, was
Wetzel. When he plunged into the midst of the other
savages I distinctly
recognized him, and saw that he had a
bundle, possibly his coat, wrapped round
his left arm, and his right hand held the glittering tomahawk. I saw him
strike that big Indian there, the one lying with split skull. His wonderful
daring and quickness seemed to make the
savages turn at
random. He broke
through the
circle, swung Nell under his arm, slashed at my bonds as he passed
by, and then was gone as he had come. Not until after you were struck, and
Silvertip came up to me, was I aware my bonds were cut. Wetzel's
hatchet had
severed them; it even cut my side, which was bleeding. I was free to help, to
fight, and I did not know it. Fool that I am!"
"I made an awful mess of my part of the rescue," groaned Joe. "I wonder if the
savages know it was Wetzel."
"Do they? Well, I rather think so. Did you not hear them
scream that French
name? As far as I am able to judge, only two Indians were killed
instantly" target="_blank" title="ad.立即,立刻">
instantly.
The others died during the night. I had to sit here, tied and helpless,
listening as they groaned and called the name of their slayer, even in their
death-throes. Deathwind! They have named him well."
"I guess he nearly killed Girty."
"Evidently, but surely the evil one protects the renegade."
"Jim Girty's doomed,"
whispered Joe,
earnestly" target="_blank" title="ad.认真地;急切地">
earnestly. "He's as good as dead already.
I've lived with Wetzel, and know him. He told me Girty had murdered a settler,
a
feeble old man, who lived near Fort Henry with his son. The
hunter has sworn
to kill the renegade; but, mind you, he did not tell me that. I saw it in his
eyes. It wouldn't surprise me to see him jump out of these bushes at any
moment. I'm looking for it. If he knows there are only three left, he'll be
after them like a hound on a trail. Girty must hurry. Where's he
taking you?"
"To the Delaware town."
"I don't suppose the chiefs will let any harm
befall you; but Kate and I would
be better off dead. If we can only delay the march, Wetzel will surely
return."
"Hush! Girty's up."
The renegade staggered to an
upright position, and leaned on the Shawnee's
arm. Evidently he had not been
seriously injured, only stunned. Covered with
blood from a
swollen, gashed lump on his
temple, he certainly presented a
savage appearance.
"Where's the yellow-haired lass?" he demanded, pushing away Silvertip's
friendly arm. He glared around the glade. The Shawnee addressed him briefly,
whereupon he raged to and fro under the tree, cursing with foam-flecked lips,
and
actually howling with baffled rage. His fury was so great that he became
suddenly weak, and was compelled to sit down.
"She's safe, you villainous renegade!" cried Joe.
"Hush, Joe! Do not anger him. It can do no good," interposed Jim.
"Why not? We couldn't be worse off," answered Joe.
"I'll git her, I'll git her agin," panted Girty. "I'll keep her, an' she'll
love me."
The
spectacle of this perverted
wretchspeaking as if he had been cheated out
of love was so
remarkable, so
pitiful, so
monstrous, that for a moment Joe was
dumbfounded.
"Bah! You white-livered murderer!" Joe hissed. He well knew it was not wise to
give way to his
passion; but he could not help it. This beast in human guise,
whining for love, maddened him. "Any white woman on earth would die a thousand
deaths and burn for a million years afterward rather than love you!"
"I'll see you killed at the stake, beggin' fer mercy, an' be feed fer
buzzards," croaked the renegade.
"Then kill me now, or you may slip up on one of your cherished
buzzard-feasts," cried Joe, with glinting eye and taunting voice. "Then go
sneaking back to your hole like a hyena, and stay there. Wetzel is on your
trail! He missed you last night; but it was because of the girl. He's after
you, Girty; he'll get you one of these days, and when he does--My God!---"
Nothing could be more revolting than that
swarthy, evil face turned pale with
fear. Girty's
visage was a
ghastly, livid white. So
earnest, so
intense was
Joe's voice, that it seemed to all as if Wetzel was about to dart into the
glade, with his avenging tomahawk uplifted to wreak an awful
vengeance on the
abductor. The renegade's white, craven heart contained no such thing as
courage. If he ever fought it was like a wolf, backed by numbers. The