酷兔英语

章节正文
文章总共2页
and as he looked at Wingenund his little, yellow eyes flared like flint. "Does



a wolf befriend Girty's captives? Chief you hev led me a hard chase."

Wingenund deigned no reply. He stood as he did so often, still and silent,



with folded arms, and a look that was haughty, unresponsive.

The Indians came forward into the glade, and one of them quickly bound Jim's



hands behind his back. The savages wore a wild, brutish look. A feverish

ferocity, very near akin to insanity, possessed them. They were not quiet a



moment, but ran here and there, for no apparent reason, except, possibly, to

keep in action with the raging fire in their hearts. The cleanliness which



characterized the normal Indian was absent in them; their scant buckskin dress

was bedraggled and stained. They were still drunk with rum and the lust for



blood. Murder gleamed from the glance of their eyes.

"Jake, come over here," said Girty to his renegade friend. "Ain't she a



prize?"

Girty and Deering stood before the poor, stricken girl, and gloated over her



fair beauty. She stood as when first transfixed by the horror from which she

had been fleeing. Her pale face was lowered, her hands clenched tightly in the



folds of her skirt.

Never before had two such coarse, cruel fiends as Deering and Girty encumbered



the earth. Even on the border, where the best men were bad, they were the

worst. Deering was yet drunk, but Girty had recovered somewhat from the



effects of the rum he had absorbed. The former rolled his big eyes and nodded

his shaggy head. He was passing judgment, from his point of view, on the fine



points of the girl.

"She cer'aintly is," he declared with a grin. "She's a little beauty. Beats



any I ever seen!"

Jim Girty stroked his sharp chin with dirty fingers. His yellow eyes, his



burnt saffron skin, his hooked nose, his thin lips--all his evil face seemed

to shine with an evil triumph. to look at him was painful. To have him gaze at



her was enough to drive any woman mad.

Dark stains spotted the bright frills of his gaudy dress, his buckskin coat



and leggins, and dotted his white eagle plumes. Dark stains, horribly

suggestive, covered him from head to foot. Blood stains! The innocent blood



of Christians crimsoned his renegade's body, and every dark red blotch cried

murder.



"Girl, I burned the Village of Peace to git you," growled Girty. "Come here!"

With a rude grasp that tore open her dress, exposing her beautiful white



shoulder and bosom, the ruffian pulled her toward him. His face was transfixed

with a fierce joy, a brutal passion.



Deering looked on with a drunken grin, while his renegade friend hugged the

almost dying girl. The Indians paced the glade with short strides like leashed



tigers. The young missionary lay on the moss with closed eyes. He could not

endure the sight of Nell in Girty's arms.



No one noticed Wingenund. He stood back a little, half screened by drooping

branches. Once again the chief's dark eyes gleamed, his head turned a trifle



aside, and, standing in the statuesque position habitual with him when

resting, he listened, as one who hears mysterious sounds. Suddenly his keen



glance was riveted on the ferns above the low cliff. He had seen their

graceful heads quivering. Then two blinding sheets of flame burst from the



ferns.

Spang! Spang!



The two rifle reports thundered through the glade. Two Indians staggered and

fell in their tracks--dead without a cry.



A huge yellow body, spread out like a panther in his spring, descended with a

crash upon Deering and Girty. The girl fell away from the renegade as he went



down with a shrillscreech, dragging Deering with him. Instantly began a

terrific, whirling, wrestling struggle.



A few feet farther down the cliff another yellow body came crashing down to

alight with a thud, to bound erect, to rush forward swift as a leaping deer.



The two remaining Indians had only time to draw their weapons before this

lithe, threatening form whirled upon them. Shrill cries, hoarse yells, the



clash of steel and dull blows mingled together. One savage went down, twisted

over, writhed and lay still. The other staggered, warded of lightninglike



blows until one passed under his guard, and crashed dully on his head. Then he

reeled, rose again, but only to have his skull cloven by a bloody tomahawk.



The victor darted toward the whirling mass.

"Lew, shake him loose! Let him go!" yelled Jonathan Zane, swinging his bloody



weapon.

High above Zane's cry, Deering's shouts and curses, Girty's shrieks of fear



and fury, above the noise of wrestling bodies and dull blows, rose a deep

booming roar.



It was Wetzel's awful cry of vengeance.

"Shake him loose," yelled Jonathan.






文章总共2页
文章标签:名著  

章节正文