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
bloodyweapon.
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.