the guard, and release the prisoners without awakening the savages. If that

plan failed, he was to rush into the glade, and in the excitement make off
with one of the captives.

He lay there waiting, listening, wrought up to the intensest pitch of fierce
passion. Every nerve was alert, every tendon strung, and every muscle strained

ready for the leap.
Only the faint rustling of leaves, the low swish of swaying branches, the soft

murmur of falling water, and over all the sigh of the night wind, proved to
him that this picture was not an evil dream. His gaze sought the quiet

figures, lingered hopefully on the captives, menacingly on the sleeping
savages, and glowered over the gaudily arrayed form. His glance sought the

upright guard, as he stood a dark blot against the gray stone. He saw the
Indian's plume, a single feather waving silver-white. Then it became riveted

on the bubbling, refulgent spring. The pool was round, perhaps five feet
across, and shone like a burnished shield. It mirrored the moon, the twinkling

stars, the spectre trees.
An unaccountable horror suddenly swept over the watching man. His hair stood

straight up; a sensation as of cold stole chillingly over him. Whether it was
the climax of this long night's excitement, or anticipation of the bloody

struggle soon to come, he knew not. Did this boiling spring, shimmering in the
sliver moon-rays, hold in its murky depths a secret? Did these lonesome,

shadowing trees, with their sad drooping branches, harbor a mystery? If a
future tragedy was to be enacted here in this quiet glade, could the murmuring

water or leaves whisper its portent? No; they were only silent, only
unintelligible with nature's mystery.

The waiting man cursed himself for a craven coward; he fought back the
benumbing sense; he steeled his heart. Was this his vaunted willingness to

share the Avenger's danger? His strong spirit rose up in arms; once more he
was brave and fierce.

He fastened a piercing gaze on the plumed guard. The Indian's lounging posture
against the rock was the same as it had been before, yet now it seemed to have

a kind of strained attention. The savage's head was poised, like that of a
listening deer. The wary Indian scented danger.

A faint moan breathed low above the sound of gently splashing water somewhere
beyond the glade.

"Woo-o-oo."
The guard's figure stiffened, and became rigidly erect; his blanket slowly

slid to his feet.
"Ah-oo-o," sighed the soft breeze in the tree tops.

Louder then, with a deep wail, a moan arose out of the dark gray shadows,
swelled thrilling on the still air, and died away mournfully.

"Um-m-mmwoo-o-o-o!"
The sentinel's form melted into the shade. He was gone like a phantom.

Another Indian rose quickly, and glanced furtively around the glade. He bent
over a comrade and shook him. Instantly the second Indian was on his feet.

Scarcely had he gained a standingposture when an object, bounding like a dark
ball, shot out of the thicket and hurled both warriors to the earth. A

moonbeam glinted upon something bright. It flashed again on a swift, sweeping
circle. A short, choking yell aroused the other savages. Up they sprang,

alarmed, confused.
The shadow-form darted among them. It moved with inconceivable rapidity; it

became a monster. Terrible was the convulsive conflict. Dull blows, the click
of steel, angry shouts, agonized yells, and thrashing, wrestling sounds

mingled together and half drowned by an awful roar like that of a mad bull.
The strife ceased as suddenly as it had begun. Warriors lay still on the

grass; others writhed in agony. For an instant a fleeting shadow crossed the
open lane leading out of the glade; then it vanished.

Three savages had sprung toward their rifles. A blinding flash, a loud report
burst from the thicketoverhead. The foremostsavage sank lifelessly. The

others were intercepted by a giant shadow with brandished rifle. The watcher
on the knoll had entered the glade. He stood before the stacked rifles and

swung his heavy gun. Crash! An Indian went down before that sweep, but rose
again. The savages backed away from this threatening figure, and circled

around it.
The noise of the other conflict ceased. More savages joined the three who

glided to and fro before their desperate foe. They closed in upon him, only to
be beaten back. One savage threw a glittering knife, another hurled a stone, a

third flung his tomahawk, which struck fire from the swinging rifle.
He held them at bay. While they had no firearms he was master of the

situation. With every sweep of his arms he brought the long rifle down and
knocked a flint from the firelock of an enemy's weapon. Soon the Indians' guns

were useless. Slowly then he began to edge away from the stone, toward the,
opening where he had seen the fleeting form vanish.

His intention was to make a dash for life, for he had heard a noise behind the
rock, and remembered the guard. He saw the savages glance behind him, and

anticipated danger from that direction, but he must not turn. A second there
might be fatal. He backed defiantly along the rock until he gained its outer

edge. But too late! The Indians glided before him, now behind him; he was
surrounded. He turned around and around, with the ever-circling rifle whirling

in the faces of the baffled foe.
Once opposite the lane leading from the glade he changed his tactics, and

plunged with fierce impetuosity into the midst of the painted throng. Then
began a fearfulconflict. The Indians fell before the sweep of his powerful

arms; but grappled with him from the ground. He literally plowed his way
through the struggling mass, warding off an hundred vicious blows. Savage

after savage he flung off, until at last he had a clear path before him.
Freedom lay beyond that shiny path. Into it he bounded.

As he left the glade the plumed guard stepped from behind a tree near the
entrance of the path, and cast his tomahawk.

A white, glittering flash, it flew after the fleeing runner; its aim was true.
Suddenly the moonlight path darkened in the runner's sight; he saw a million

flashing stars; a terrible pain assailed him; he sank slowly, slowly down;
then all was darkness.

Chapter XVII.
Joe awoke as from a fearsome nightmare. Returning consciousness brought a

vague idea that he had been dreaming of clashing weapons, of yelling savages,
of a conflict in which he had been clutched by sinewy fingers. An acute pain

pulsed through his temples; a bloody mist glazed his eyes; a sore pressure
cramped his arms and legs. Surely he dreamed this distress, as well as the

fight. The red film cleared from his eyes. His wandering gaze showed the stern
reality.

The bright sun, making the dewdrops glisten on the leaves, lighted up a
tragedy. Near him lay an Indian whose vacant, sightless eyes were fixed in

death. Beyond lay four more savages, the peculiar, inert position of whose
limbs, the formlessness, as it were, as if they had been thrown from a great

height and never moved again, attested that here, too, life had been
extinguished. Joe took in only one detail--the cloven skull of the

nearest--when he turned away sickened. He remembered it all now. The advance,
the rush, the fight--all returned. He saw again Wetzel's shadowy form darting

like a demon into the whirl of conflict; he heard again that hoarse, booming
roar with which the Avenger accompanied his blows. Joe's gaze swept the glade,

but found no trace of the hunter.
He saw Silvertip and another Indian bathing a wound on Girty's head. The

renegade groaned and writhed in pain. Near him lay Kate, with white face and
closed eyes. She was unconscious, or dead. Jim sat crouched under a tree to

which he was tied.
"Joe, are you badly hurt?" asked the latter, in deep solicitude.

"No, I guess not; I don't know," answered Joe. "Is poor Kate dead?"
"No, she has fainted."

"Where's Nell?"
"Gone," replied Jim, lowering his voice, and glancing at the Indians. They

were too busy trying to bandage Girty's head to pay any attention to their
prisoners. "That whirlwind was Wetzel, wasn't it?"

"Yes; how'd you know?"
"I was awake last night. I had an oppressive feeling, perhaps a presentiment.

Anyway, I couldn't sleep. I heard that wind blow through the forest, and
thought my blood would freeze. The moan is the same as the night wind, the

same soft sigh, only louder and somehow pregnant with superhuman power. To
speak of it in broad daylight one seems superstitious, but to hear it in the

darkness of this lonely forest, it is fearful! I hope I am not a coward; I
certainly know I was deathly frightened. No wonder I was scared! Look at these

dead Indians, all killed in a moment. I heard the moan; I saw Silvertip
disappear, and the other two savages rise. Then something huge dropped from

the rock; a bright object seemed to circle round the savages; they uttered one
short yell, and sank to rise no more. Somehow at once I suspected that this