THE WOOD KING;

                                  OR,

                       DANIEL BOONE'S LAST TRAIL

                    A ROMANCE OF THE OSAGE COUNTRY.

                        BY JOS. E. BADGER, JR.,

                AUTHOR OF THE FOLLOWING POCKET NOVELS:
                       No. 59. THE TEXAS HAWKS.
                      No. 63. THE FLORIDA SCOUT.
                          No. 98. DUSKY DICK.
                           No. 101. REDLAW.
                       No. 105. THE INDIAN SPY.

                               NEW YORK:
                     BEADLE AND ADAMS, PUBLISHERS,
                        No. 98 WILLIAM STREET.

      Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1878, by
                           BEADLE AND ADAMS
      In the office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington.




                            THE WOOD KING.




                              CHAPTER I.

                    LIGHTFOOT AND THE WOOD VETERAN.


Crack--_crack!_

Though faint and far away, there could be no mistaking these sharp,
spiteful reports for other than the voice of rifles. The sound was no
uncommon one for that region, which is even yet noted for its quantity
of game; half a century since "the Osage Country" was truly a hunter's
paradise.

A man was crossing the Osage river, at a ford, and though near the
middle of the stream, the water barely reached his knees. As the twin
reports came echoing across the eastern forest, the hunter abruptly
paused, bending his head, listening intently.

The rifle-shots alone could scarcely have occasioned the surprise
written so plainly upon the man's features, since this was
hunting-ground common to all--red as well as white. He himself had
fired more than once that day.

But closely following the reports came a series of short, peculiar
yells--the cries so strongly resembling the yelping of a cur-dog when
in hot pursuit of a rabbit, that an Indian sends forth when closing
rapidly upon a fleeing foe.

The hunter could not mistake this sound, nor its full significance. For
nearly half a century it had been familiar to his ear. Many a time had
it rung out upon his own trail, as he fled for dear life through the
forests of the "dark and bloody ground."

"Thar's mischief afoot--can it be that the varmints have r'ailly took
to the war-path?" he muttered, glancing keenly around. "They're makin'
this way--it's the only ford for miles--reckon I'd better hunt cover!"

The alarm came from the point toward which the hunter's face had
been turned, and as he listened, the quick, sharp yells grew plainer
and more distinct. Turning, he rapidly retreated to the shore he had
recently left.

As he neared cover, it became evident that the hunter was white; though
his face was deeply bronzed, almost copper-hued, where the stout jean
trowsers had been rolled above his knees, the skin showed clear and
white.

Nearing cover, he turned and listened. All was still; the yells no
longer echoed through the forest. It seemed as though the deed was done.

Bending forward, the hunter was clearly revealed by the bright rays of
the noonday sun. That he was old, the long, snowy locks that fell below
his rude skin cap plainly evidenced. Yet the weight of years seemed to
sit lightly upon his frame. His step was light yet firm, his motions
quick and supple. The rude garb of gray jeans only half-concealed his
great muscular development. Altogether, he was what one might well term
an awkward customer to meet in a hand-to-hand struggle, despite his age.

"No, they hain't got him yet, whoever he is," muttered the veteran.

Upon the crest of a hill, full quarter of a mile beyond the river, his
keen glance detected the form of a human being. Only for a moment; then
the tree-tops hid him from view.

Scarcely had he disappeared, when the hill-top was again occupied, this
time by a full score of men, apparently the pursuers. Again the sharp,
yelping cries came to the veteran's ears.

"It's warm for a footrace, so I'd best take to cover. Lucky the cave's
handy."

Turning, the veteran hunter strode rapidly through the shallow water,
his bare feet leaving no impress upon the gravelly bed. Two score yards
above his position a dark opening appeared in the river-bank, that,
though low at the ford, here rose abruptly into a considerable hill.

Holding rifle and powder-horn above his head, the hunter suddenly sunk
down and swam rapidly into the opening. Just before the cave-mouth the
water was several yards in depth.

Pausing just within the entrance, the hunter turned his face toward the
eastern shore. He had not long to wait.

A man dashed through the undergrowth, sprung down the sandy bank,
and ran rapidly across the level bar, stumbling at the water's-edge,
falling at full length. From his cover, the hunter could see a
knife-blade flash in the sunlight, and then the fugitive cast from him
the severed part of an arrow that had pierced his leg.

Freed from this incumbrance, he arose and dashed through the shallow
water toward the western shore. But several precious moments had been
lost, and, with yells of vindictive exultation, nearly a score of
savages sprung out upon the river-bank.

The fugitive heard their cries, and glanced back over his shoulder.
He saw several of them with bended bows, and suddenly flung himself
forward at full length in the water, at this point about knee-deep.

His ruse was successful. The barbed shafts passed over his head,
burying themselves harmlessly in the sparkling water.

A loud voice from the bank gave utterance to several hasty words, and
as though in obedience to it, half a dozen braves sprung toward the
water, the remainder bending their bows ready for instant use in case
the fugitive should arise to continue his flight.

With eager interest the white hunter watched this scene, though his
countenance showed evident relief when he saw that the fugitive as
well as pursuers were Indians. Though far from being one of that class
termed Indian-haters, he bore the race little love, for they had dealt
his heart more than one crushing blow.

Even at that distance, he could distinguish peculiarities that marked
the pursuers as Osages, once the all-powerful rulers of that vast tract
of country. Whether or no the fugitive belonged to the same tribe,
he could not tell, owing to his so suddenly burying all but head and
shoulders in the water.

Eagerly he watched the result. He saw a sudden movement of the hunted
red-skin's arms. At the same moment the foremost savage flung aloft
his hands, and fell backward, a feathered shaft quivering deep in his
brain.

With yells of rage the Osages upon the bank let fly a shower of arrows,
while the others dashed into the shallow water. The hunter's heart beat
fast as he saw the fugitive disappear beneath the surface. He thought
him dead.

But not so. With his feet braced against the gravelly bed, he had
impelled his body through the water a full dozen yards, the arrows
falling harmlessly in his wake.

Again his arms rose--once more the sharp _twang_ of the bowstring
sounded. Again the death-yell of the Osage rung out upon the air--again
his comrades yelled furiously, and then the entire party sprung forward.

The fugitive rose to his feet and uttering a single cry, dashed toward
the western shore. It was a peculiar yell--the sharp, shrill war-cry of
the Kickapoos.

A little cry broke from the hunter's lips as he heard this defiant
shout. He recognized it--and more; he recognized the fugitive for a
true and tried friend!

A peculiar cry broke from his lips--low, yet clear and penetrating.
It met the ear of the Kickapoo, and he perceptibly faltered, casting
a swift glance along the now near shore. The Osages also heard the
signal, for they slackened their pace, seemingly fearful lest they
should be drawn into an ambush.

The hunter's fingers still lingered at his lips, his gaze roving over
the enemy. The odds were long--at least ten to one. It seemed as though
nothing but death could follow his attempt to aid the fugitive.

Yet the signal was uttered, and as with renewed life, the Kickapoo
dashed through the water toward the dark opening. He knew that there at
least one friend awaited him.

The Osage at this ford is narrow; but little if any over a hundred
yards in width. Then a very few moments carried the Kickapoo to the
edge of the deep pool before the cave entrance.

"Come in, chief," guardedly called out the old hunter, as the savage
sunk down into the water. "The varmints are bethinkin' themselves of
their we'pons ag'in. Down--down, chief!"

A volley of arrows shot toward the cave, but the Kickapoo quickly dove,
and the hunter was shielded by a point of rock. The missiles pattered
harmlessly around.

Then as the Osages splashed rapidly forward, the rifle of the hunter
spoke. For the third time within as many minutes a death-yell broke the
air, and the clear water was stained with the life-blood of an Osage
warrior.

With laughable celerity the survivors scattered and buried themselves
in the water, barely keeping their noses above the surface, dreading
a volley from the cave. Nor was their chagrin lessened by hearing the
taunting cry of the Kickapoo echo out from the dark opening in the bank.

A low, hearty laugh greeted the fugitive as he rose beside the old
hunter, who was now rapidly recharging his rifle. Driving home the
leathered bullet, the white man remarked:

"Well, chief, the varmints hunted you close. But why is it? The
Kickapoos and Osages have long been friends."

"Yeh--friends now--all but Lightfoot--he en'my. Osage dogs put dust
in Kickapoos' eyes. Mek all blind--mek dig up hatchet to strike the
painted post. Osage say blood is good--Kickapoo say take plenty white
scalps. Lightfoot he say _no_. Den Osage chief he say red dog go follow
his white master. Lightfoot is a chief--he is a man. The words were yet
hot on the lips of Huspah, when he died. See! his scalp is here," and
the Kickapoo fingered the ghastly trophy that hung at his girdle.

"You rubbed the chief out, then, when his braves were lookin' on?"
asked the old hunter, evidently understanding the dialect into which
the savage had unconsciously glided, though at first using imperfect
English.

Lightfoot rapidly recounted the events that had made him an outcast
and hunted fugitive, while the eyes of both kept close watch upon the
movements of the savages beyond.

The Pottawatomies, Iowas, Foxes, Sauks and Kickapoos were growing
uneasy at the constantly increasing strength of the white settlements,
more especially of that section then known as the "Boone's Lick
Country"--now Howard county. In 1812 a plot was formed for a general
uprising, but was discovered in time to be foiled. Since then there had
been occasional skirmishing, with slight losses upon either side. But
now--in the spring of 1814--another and more dangerous plot was formed.
As he listened to the words of the Kickapoo chief, Daniel Boone--for he
was the old hunter--felt that the crisis was at hand.

The chiefs of the different tribes had gathered at the Kickapoo
village, and at the council every voice but that of Lightfoot was
raised for war. His stubborn resistance raised the ire of Huspah,
the Osage, who called him a dog of the pale-faced invaders. The next
instant he fell dead, cloven to the chin by Lightfoot's tomahawk.

The council seemed transfixed with surprise and horror at this bold
act, and untouched Lightfoot scalped his fallen enemy and darted from
the council-lodge, knowing that nothing but instant flight could save
him from a horrible and disgraceful death.

Pursuit was made, and for nearly a score miles the Kickapoo fled with
the avengers of blood treading close upon his heels. Twice he was
wounded, else he would have distanced his enemies, for the name he bore
had not been idly bestowed.

"It's unlucky our being cooped up here, just now," muttered Boone,
uneasily. "It's big news you've told me, chief, and the settlers don't
suspect thar danger. If the red-skins strike to-night, I'm dub'ous
this'll be a black day for us."

"Mebbe not strike so soon, now Huspah dead--so mus' choose 'nudder
chief to lead 'em."

"He was the head one, then?"

"Yeh."

A movement among the enemy now put a pause to the conversation. The
dark dots upon the river's surface were cautiously retreating toward
the further shore, in obedience to a peculiar signal from one of the
number, whose face, washed free of paint by the water, now showed white
and clear.

"He white Injun--Osage call him White Wolf," said Lightfoot, in answer
to a look of inquiry from Boone.

"Seth Grable!"

The words came hissingly through the tight-clenched teeth of the
old hunter, and a stern fire filled his eyes. Evidently he bore the
renegade little love.

His rifle was cocked and leveled, but as though suspecting some such
message, the white Indian took good care not to expose his precious
person. Creeping behind a sand ridge, he gained the woods in safety.

As the savages reached the forest, they uttered a loud yell, which was
echoed back from the western shore. Boone started and frowned. This
showed him the impossibility of carrying out the plan that was even
then shaping itself in his mind. The cave could not be left now. They
must wait until the friendly shadow of night settled over the earth.

But few words passed between the two scouts. Yet Boone was given ample
cause for anxiety, aside from his personal danger. Lightfoot believed
that an attack was to be made simultaneously upon all the white
settlements in the Osage Country. That very night might witness the
carnival of blood.

The hours rolled on, the sun steadily sunk in the west, until hidden
behind the tree-dotted hills, and the shadows darkened the surface
of the gently flowing river. Within the cave-mouth crouched the two
scouts, scarce breathing a word, their weapons ready for instant use,
their every sense fully upon the alert. Yet no sound from without told
of the proximity of foemen. All was silent save for the hum of insects,
the chirping of birds, the splash of some fish as it sportively leaped
into the air, or now and then the shrill, piercing scream of the great
hawk that slowly circled above the scene.

But then, like magic, all was changed.

The water swept boldly around the upper edge of the cave entrance--the
side where Lightfoot was stationed. The Indian suddenly uttered a sharp
hiss, bending his strong bow.

The water no longer flowed smoothly. Numerous bubbles dotted the
surface. The depths were discolored by sand and mud.

A dark object parted the surface, darting rapidly into the mouth of the
cave. The long hair, the draggled plumes, the dusky face were those of
an Osage.

The bow of the Kickapoo, bent nearly double, relaxed, the feathered
shaft sunk deep into the low brow of the savage. A stifled shriek--then
the body sunk below the surface, dyeing the water red with the tide of
life.

Like magic the space before the cave appeared filled with heads, as the
maddened Osages swam rapidly forward, clutching their knives, their
tomahawks, thirsting for the blood of their daring enemies.

Loud and reverberating the Wood King's rifle spoke, sounding the
death-knell of the foremost savage, who sprung half out of the water,
casting a long, glittering blade full at the hunter's heart. It was a
dying effort, and the weapon scarce penetrated the thick woolen frock.

Lightfoot plied his bow rapidly, crouching back upon the shelf, sending
unseen death in swift succession into the crowded mass of his foes.
With knife in either hand, Boone stood in the water waist-deep, beating
back the desperate Osages with the strength and vigor of renewed youth.

Though brief, the struggle was desperate and bloody. The Osages fought
against more than mortal foes. The water whirled swiftly round in
the strong eddy before the cave. Fighting with this, they gained a
foothold, only to be dashed back by the scouts, dead or wounded.

A few moments thus--then, as by one accord, the Osages sunk down
beneath the water's surface and vanished from their enemies' sight.
That this was no subtle ruse, the yells of baffled rage, that soon
afterward arose from below, plainly told.

"You're safe, chief?" hastily uttered Boone, emerging from the water,
panting heavily.

"Yeh--me all right. You hurt?"

"No--only a scratch. But come--this is our time. We must git out o'
here afore the varmints screw their courage up for another lick."

Lightfoot grunted, without speaking, but the Wood King understood him,
and smiled quietly. He knew the cave secrets better than the Kickapoo
did.

"Easy, chief. I know a way out that they never dream of. 'Tis no true
scout that runs his head into a hole with only one opening. Give me the
end of your bow--so. Now follow me carefully."

Grasping one end of the bow, Boone retreated into the cave, proceeding
with the confidence of one knowing every inch of the ground to be
traversed. For a few yards the floor continued level and smooth; then
there came an abrupt ascent, over what seemed irregular steps cut in
the hard clay. This, however, was the work of nature, not that of man.

Boone paused, with a grim chuckle. As Lightfoot gained his side, the
veteran said:

"Look up--what do you see?"

The Kickapoo obeyed. Far above his head shone a faint light, partially
intercepted by gently waving leaves. A dimly twinkling star told him
the truth. Then a cloud shot over this gleam.

"Fix yourself for a tough climb, chief. It's up the inside of a tree we
must go. You'll need all your hands and feet," cried Boone, securing
his rifle upon his back.

Lightfoot now understood all. Boone had not sought shelter in the cave
without knowing how he was to get out of it. And yet this den had often
been explored by himself. How had he missed noting this strange passage?

Easily explained. A month or more previously Boone had shot a
wild-turkey as it sat upon the tree. It lodged, and, aided by the
thickly-clustering grape-vines that shrouded the gnarled trunk, he
ascended for his game. It had fallen into the hollow. Aided by a supple
vine, he descended into the shell. The bottom gave way beneath his
feet, precipitating him into the cave. Thus the discovery was made that
was now to open to them the road to freedom once more.

Carefully feeling around, Boone soon secured the severed end of the
grape-vine, and then began the ascent. This was difficult, since the
hollow of the tree was barely large enough to admit the passage of a
human body, and little assistance could be given by the feet, since the
knees could only be bent a trifle.

Still, though age and sorrow had sapped his strength, the Wood King
raised himself to the top of the trunk, where he clung, panting and
exhausted, shaking the vine as a signal to Lightfoot. As the vine
tightened Boone peered keenly downward.

Though the tree-top had been broken off at some thirty feet from the
ground, its limbs were still vigorous, rising far above the stub,
thickly covered with leaves and twigs. Parting them, Boone gazed
downward and around, as well as the increasing gloom would permit.

The hill was nearly bare of trees, with but scant underbrush, a notable
exception to the larger hills that rose around, in this respect, since
they were densely wooded.

All was still below. Boone could hear nothing to rouse his suspicions,
and he believed that their trail was as yet unobstructed.

Beyond a doubt the Osages were ignorant of this unique passage, and so
would only think of guarding the cave by the river side. It was but
natural to think that, under cover of the darkness, the two scouts
would endeavor to escape there by swimming and diving, and their whole
attention would be turned toward frustrating this.

Thus Boone reasoned, and events proved that he was right.

Lightfoot completed the ascent easily, and then Boone led the way down
the matted mass of grape-vines, using every caution to avoid making any
noise that might alarm the Osages. Five minutes later the scouts stood
side by side at the foot of the tree.

"Come," muttered Boone, "we must strike out for our friends. They don't
dream of the danger brewin'."

"Mus' go tell Yellow-hair fust," doggedly replied Lightfoot.

Yellow-hair, as the Kickapoo called her, was the only daughter of
Edward Mordaunt, who, on one of his hunting-trips, had found the
Kickapoo senseless, almost dead, beside the body of a panther. With a
kindness almost foreign to the borderer in general, Mordaunt carried
the savage to his cabin, where Edith and her mother nursed him back
to life. By this act of kindness they gained his undying gratitude,
and it was mainly his love for them that induced him to fight against
the Indian uprising, since they too were numbered among those to be
massacred.

"Mordaunt has bin the Osages' fri'nd--surely they won't hurt him?"

"Injun don't know fri'nd now--only see white scalp. Kill, sure--all but
Yellow-hair. White Wolf say she be his squaw!"

"The black-hearted devil! But never mind. The time 'll come when he'll
stand afore my rifle, an' then he won't need no more squaws," gritted
Boone, with an anger that he rarely displayed.

"No--his scalp Lightfoot's," doggedly replied the Kickapoo.

Boone made no reply, but crouching low down, glided noiselessly down
the hillside furthest from the river, followed by the chief. Reaching
the bottom, they entered a narrow valley, intending to round the large
hill before again taking to the water. The settlements were, for the
most part, upon the other side of the Osage.

The sky was partially obscured by broken clouds, driving here and
there in angry confusion, betokening a storm. An occasional flash of
lightning would herald the deep rumbling of thunder, and quicken the
footsteps of the scouts.

Half an hour after emerging from the hollow tree, the bank of the
Osage was reached, and with his rifle secured upon a log, which he
impelled before him, Boone swam the river, with Lightfoot beside him.
Scarce pausing for breath, they plunged into the forest, heading for
Mordaunt's cabin.

"Hooh!" suddenly uttered Lightfoot, pausing and bending his ear as the
fresh breeze bore the sound of voices faintly to him.

"The varmints have found out we've gone," and Boone laughed grimly.

"Lose us, den t'ink oders--tek scalp now, _sure_. White Wolf t'ink
'bout Yellow-hair, now," muttered Lightfoot, uneasily.

"Lead on, chief. I'm old, but I can stand a little brush, I reckon, 'f
pushed," retorted Boone.

The two scouts pushed on through the tangled forest at a pace truly
marvelous, considering the gloom. And for full an hour they advanced
without pausing, until the edge of a small clearing was reached, near
the center of which stood a small, rude log-cabin.

"They've gone to bed," muttered Boone, vexedly, for time was precious
now; an hour lost or gained might be either life or death to them all.

Edward Mordaunt's voice rung out sharply in answer to Boone's hail,
demanding who was there, but a word from the old scout quickly set his
fears at rest. The scouts entered, barring the door behind them.

"Wake the women, Ed, an' tell 'em to make haste. You've got to make
tracks for a safer spot than this. Do it--you kin take my word for
it--I'll explain while they're riggin' up," hastily uttered the Wood
King.

Mordaunt obeyed without question, for he had long known the old hunter.
Yet he could scarcely believe that his peril was so great, for he had
ever treated the Osages with kindness. Still he was not foolhardy
enough to close his eyes to the truth.

He hastily prepared his arms and ammunition, with a small bundle of
food. While thus occupied, the inner door opened and two women emerged;
mother and daughter.

Lightfoot glided forward and knelt before them, bowing his proud head,
a softened light filling his eyes. He seemed about to speak, but then
suddenly turned his head.

A rapid footstep sounded just without the door, and then a loud rap
followed. Once, twice--then a clear voice shouting:

"Up--up, and away! The heathen come with fire and sword--they thirst
for blood! Away--flee, while yet there is time!"

Another thundering knock, then the footfalls rapidly retreated, dying
away in the night.




                              CHAPTER II.

                         THE WOODLAND TRAGEDY.


"The crazy man!" cried Boone.

"The Hermit!" echoed Mordaunt.

Lightfoot stood silent, though making a rapid sign with his thumb, that
might have represented a cross. An uneasy expression rested upon his
strongly-marked features.

"It comes in good time," muttered Boone, drawing a long breath, "be he
devil or white man. The red-skins be afoot an' may be upon us at any
minnit. All ready?"

"But is not this running blindly upon danger--is there not more safety
here behind these walls than out in the open woods?"

"No--you stay here, the sun of to-morrow will never shine for you.
How long could you keep the varmints out? One shove from a stout pair
of shoulders an' down goes the door. You see now the truth of my
words--none but a fool thrusts his scalp into the hands of a Injun."

"But the Osages seemed pleased at my confidence in them. Never an angry
word has passed between us!"

"And Seth Grable?"

Mordaunt started. This was a danger he had overlooked. He knew that the
half-wild hunter was now a bitter enemy, who had sworn revenge.

Grable had made his mark, deep and bloody, on the pages of Missouri's
border history. With Indian blood in his veins--some say a
half-breed--he united the worst passions of both races, without the
slightest of their virtues. Yet, with at least half a dozen Indian
squaws, he had demanded the hand of Edith Mordaunt, as the price of
his protection and friendship. Losing sight of prudence, the settler
administered a thorough thrashing, ending by kicking the half-breed off
his clearing.

"True, old man--but what are your plans?"

"First, we'll strike out for Caughlands. With them we kin hold our
own ag'in' the varmints, bein' as the cabin is strong. 'Twon't be long
afore my boy, Nathan, 'll hear of the fuss, an' then the varmints 'll
have to hunt their holes."

"They suspect nothing. Abel was here this evening."

"Oh, boys will be boys, 'specially when there's gals in the same box.
But, never mind, Edith," and Boone turned to the blushing maiden,
"Abie's a good lad, an' you might go further an' fare wuss."

"Too much talk," sharply interposed Lightfoot, who had been fidgeting
uneasily for several moments.

"Right, chief. You know the trail--lead the way. Ed an' I'll see to the
women."

First extinguishing the dim light, the party cautiously emerged from
the cabin, closing the door behind them. Gliding across the clearing,
they entered the forest. The trail led over a tolerably level tract of
ground, densely wooded, the hills being small and widely scattered.

The storm threatened to break at any moment. The leaden masses of
clouds had united, shutting out the stars and moon. All below was
dark--an intense, almost palpable gloom. As the fugitives threaded the
forest in single file along the narrow trail, though keeping within
arm's-length, the keenest eye could do no more than dimly distinguish
the figure immediately before it.

As though endowed with cat-like vision, Lightfoot led the way, without
faltering or once seeming at a loss. Even Boone felt a sense of wonder
at his skill.

"That sound--what is it?" abruptly asked Edith, her voice sounding
strained and unnatural.

"'Tis the varmints giving tongue--they've found the empty nest, but
what they lotted most on gittin' has slipped 'em."

"Dey know trail, too, plenty well. Foller fast--Osage got long legs,"
muttered Lightfoot.

"Yes, we'll have to run for it now. They kin tell to a dot how long
we've been gone, an' 'll be sure we've made tracks for Caughlands.
They'll try to cut us off, an' 'f they do, our case 'll be desp'rit.
Ed, help your wife--I'll look to the little 'un. Chief, lead on--quick
time."

The alarm no longer came to the ears of the fugitives. All was still
save for their own footsteps and the wailing of the storm-wind through
the forest tree-tops.

The rage of the Osages had momentarily broken bonds, at the second
disappointment of that night, but was quickly subdued. Their resolve
deepened, their hatred and thirst for blood grew more intense. A few
sharp, quick commands; then they marched in silence. They entered upon
the trail that was to end only in death.

"See! the storm is breaking away," panted Mrs. Mordaunt, and the
fugitives paused for a moment to regain breath. "The moon is--"

"'Tis a black moon for us!" groaned the settler, his teeth strongly
gritting. "The devils have fired our cabin--now, indeed, we are
homeless!"

"Easy, man--a log-cabin is easy raised where timber is so plenty as
hereabouts. Thank the Lord that your heads have still got their nat'ral
kivering," gravely added Boone.

Lightfoot now arose from his prostrate position upon the ground and
muttered a few words in Boone's ear. The veteran seemed agitated, and
well he might be.

The Kickapoo said that he had heard suspicious sounds coming from the
direction they were pursuing; barely audible yells and indistinct
reports of firearms. Making due allowance for the dense forest, he
believed these sounds came from Caughlands--from the cabin where they
had expected to find a secure refuge.

No other dwelling was near. If the Indians had in reality attacked
that, what hope was left the fugitives? Incumbered by helpless women,
what could the borderers do? The prospect was dark.

Again Lightfoot led the way along the winding, intricate trail. By
following its bends and curves the distance was lengthened, yet no
other course could be followed with safety, while feeble women were of
the party. The surrounding country was difficult, almost impassable in
the darkness, save by the narrow trail.

Once more the guide paused, this time upon the crest of a considerable
elevation. No need to ask why--the reason lay plain before them.

Over a mile distant was where stood the Caughland cabin. The spot was
plainly indicated now. Only for the surrounding trees, the sturdy log
walls might have been distinguished by the fugitives.

A momentarily increasing glow illumined the dark forest, mounting up
toward the heavens. The blazon of death and destruction. The dread
signet of the fire-fiend.

"My God! them too!" groaned Mordaunt.

Edith turned ghastly pale and seemed about to faint. The loving arms
of her mother stole around her waist. She knew the sickening fear that
filled her daughter's heart.

"The sign's mighty black, I must say, but mebbe 'tis better'n we think.
Mebbe the cabin got afire by accident. Anyhow, we mustn't stop here.
If the reds _is_ at work down thar, we've got to pass by 'em. Our only
show is to get to the settlements beyond the Blue."

"True. Courage, mother, and you, Edith. Be brave now, and we may
escape. But if not, then we will die together!"

"Don't talk about dyin', man, while you've breath enough left to draw a
pipe," impatiently muttered Boone. "Foller us, now, an' remember that a
false step may end all. It's no fool of a game that we've got to play."

Lightfoot gave a grunt of displeasure, then led the way down the
hillside. Taciturn himself, he saw little use in so many words.

Cautiously parting the bushes that almost met above the trail, he
searched the level. A few hundred yards further on he paused, and again
spoke to the old hunter in the Kickapoo dialect.

"What's the matter now?" anxiously asked Mordaunt.

"Nothin'; the chief thinks it's best that he should go on ahead to spy
out the truth. As it is, we're goin' blindfold. We'll wait here ontil
he comes back."

"But is it safe?"

"Nothin's safe when the varmints is up an' ragin' for white blood. But
come--we may as well take to kiver."

Boone turned aside from the trail and sought a level space where the
undergrowth was tolerably dense, though the trees were few. Here he
stationed the trio, then crouched down beneath a bush nearer the trail.

Lightfoot had disappeared like some phantom shape, melting away
amidst the gloom. He no longer followed the trail; even without the
unmistakable guide in the broad glare of light, he well knew the
position of the forest cabin. Toward this he was now pressing with the
speed, the silence, the dexterity of a serpent.

He had nearly gained the edge of the Caughland clearing, when he
suddenly paused. From behind there uprose a shrill, exultant yell from
a full score of throats. It was the cry of the Osages, and proceeded
from the crest of the hill near which he had parted from the white
fugitives.

Almost as an echo the yell was returned, this time from the clearing in
front. There was a slight--almost imperceptible difference in the cry,
that told Lightfoot this was part of another tribe--Pottawatomies.

For a moment he hesitated as if about to return to his friends, but
then turned and glided rapidly onward. He stood upon the edge of the
lighted clearing, gazing out upon a wild, peculiar scene.

A massive log-cabin and stable were in flames, burning furiously, yet
the huge logs stubbornly resisted their doom. Around were grouped a
number of human figures, over a score in number. The firelight shone
redly over their almost nude bodies. The dull bronze color--the streaks
of paint--the brilliantly dyed plumes--all proclaimed the untamed
savage.

Other forms was there, lying prone upon the ground. Some clad in light,
flowing garments, some nude; some of both races--the white and the red.

The latter were ranged together, their limbs straightened and composed.
The pale-faces lay as they had fallen, mutilated almost beyond
recognition. The red flame cast a flickering light over the bare, gory
skulls. They had been scalped.

As Lightfoot took in this scene, one of the Indians threw back his head
and uttered a long, peculiar cry--the eldritch screech of the panther.
At this a truly startling change came over the Kickapoo.

His face became convulsed with what seemed fury and deadly hatred--his
eyes scintillated, glowing with a venomous fire. He snatched an arrow
from the quiver at his back, and then the tough bow was bent until the
flint-head fairly touched its back.

The Pottawatomie still stood with one hand to his lips, the yell yet
reverberating through the forest, when the taut string relaxed--a
sharp _twang_ smote upon their ears, drowned by a dull _thud_ as the
feathered shaft quivered deep in the naked breast of Leaping Panther,
war-chief of the Pottawatomies.

The giant form reeled, then stood grandly erect, with tightly-clenched
fists raised on high. Wild and clear, piercing as that of the beast
after which he was named, the Leaping Panther breathed forth his life
in one defiant war-cry--then sunk to the ground, dead!

Until then, the braves had stood motionless as though petrified. But as
their chief fell in death, they darted aside, each seeking some cover
where the bright flames would not betray them to the fatal aim of the
hidden foe.

Lightfoot glided away from the spot. Now that the deed was done, he
realized the folly of which he had been guilty, while other lives
depended upon his skill and prudence. True, he had slain a deadly
enemy, had kept a solemn oath, but by so doing he had increased the
danger threatening those for whom he would lay down his life without
a regret. The arrow that had carried death to the Pottawatomie, like
all the others in his quiver, was a marked one. A single glance would
declare the hand that had sent the death missile. He would be sought
for until killed; though it might be years hence, still the search
would never cease while he breathed or a Pottawatomie lived to carry on
the hunt of death.

For himself alone it would matter little. He was an outcast--his own
tribe had outlawed him; the Osages had sworn his death--this made but
one more peril to fight against. But Yellow-hair? He almost cursed the
arm that sent the death-shaft upon its mission.

Another cry came from the clearing. Lightfoot paused to listen. An
answer came from the hill. Then still others--signals, directions for
the movements of each party.

Lightfoot smiled grimly as he read them. To spread out and beat every
inch of ground--to capture the audacious murderer _alive_ at any cost.
Thus he interpreted the signals.

It gave him an idea--bold, desperate, generous. He would yet save
Yellow-hair, even though it might be at the cost of his own life. Yet
to do so, he must gain speech with Boone.

Rapidly he retraced his steps toward the spot where he had left
his friends, yet with a silence that was truly marvelous. Nobly he
sustained his _sobriquet_. The fall of the autumn leaf was scarcely
more silent than that of his moccasined feet.

All was still in the forest--not a sound broke the air save the wind
rustling among the tree-tops, or the creaking of some dead bough. The
dark, shrouded heaven lowered angrily, yet the storm held off as though
to gather force to annihilate the living puppets below.

Crouching down, Lightfoot listened. All was still. The hill loomed up
before him, dark and indistinct. His friends must be near.

A peculiar sound passed his lips--low but penetrating--the significant
_skir-r_ of the wood rattlesnake.

Like an echo a similar sound came from his right. The signal was heard
and understood. Boone replied to it in kind.

The next moment Lightfoot was beside him, having glided thither like
the serpent whose alarum he had usurped. Their heads close together, a
few rapid words passed between them.

Lightfoot divulged his plan by which he hoped to baffle the peril that
threatened them. It was desperate, but the only one. Alone the men
might have crept through the savage cordon; with the women, this was
simply impossible.

The Kickapoo turned and glided away, again heading toward the blazing
cabin. He used less caution now, for time was doubly precious. The
Osages, he knew, could not be many yards from the fugitives.

Gaining several hundred yards, he dashed forward at full speed,
running to avoid the trees, stumps and other obstacles by intuition,
for eyesight could avail him but little in such darkness. Again he
paused, and now uttered a signal. It was answered almost immediately,
from in front, to the left and right. His calculations were correct.
The time was at hand for his action, nor did he hesitate, though the
result could scarcely be other than death.

The bow he slung across his back. One hand clutched a knife, the other
a tomahawk. Then he glided forward, direct for the spot from which the
center signal had issued. His keen ear had not deceived him.

A tall, dimly outlined figure uprose before him, and uttered a few
hasty words in the Pottawatomie dialect. Lightfoot did not wait to
understand their meaning. Time was by far too precious.

With the ferocity of a maddened panther he leaped upon the savage,
dealing two swift, deadly blows as he did so. Down through flesh
and bone sunk the keen hatchet, scattering the skull like an
egg-shell--gritting against his breast-bone the long knife.

A husky, gasping sound broke from the stricken brave's lips; it could
scarce be called a death-yell. Yet it was heard--it and the furious
death-blows, as the quick, sharp exclamations evinced.

Plucking his weapons from their quivering sheath, Lightfoot raised his
voice in one loud, clear yell of taunting defiance as he spurned the
corpse from him, and plunged into the darkness beyond.

For a moment his enemies stood as if confounded. Something in this bold
defiance puzzled them. It seemed the act of a madman, or of one who had
some particular point in view that he so daringly invited pursuit.

Once more there came the sound of a brief struggle--again the outcast
uttered his shrill, taunting whoop. No longer hesitating, the
Pottawatomies dashed forward in hot pursuit.

Crouching down in their leafy covert, the fugitives waited and listened
in acute suspense, scarce daring to breathe. They knew that enemies,
deadly, vindictive and marvelously keen-sensed, were gathered around
them, thirsting for blood, each moment drawing the meshes of the web
closer. They knew this by the low, peculiar signals that quavered upon
the air with the passage of every few moments, now from one side, now
the other, drawing nearer and nearer as the savages carefully searched
the undergrowth.

Boone and Mordaunt listened painfully, their muscles strung, their
weapons in readiness for use when the fatal moment should arrive. They
listened for some sound from Lightfoot. Would he be in time? Or if so,
would the enemy all be deceived?

The suspense was fearfully trying, but fortunately did not last long.
Crouching there, the fugitives heard the loud yell of Lightfoot, as he
sprung away from his first victim.

The women shuddered as the cry echoed by, reverberating from the hills,
roaring through the tree-tops, strangely blending with the first
howlings of the tempest. Could it be human--the voice of a fiend?

Yes--Boone recognized it without difficulty. Just then it sounded like
music in his ears.

Other ears caught the sound, and with little cries the Osage warriors
sprung to their feet, bending forward, eagerly listening. They too
recognized the voice of the tribeless outcast!

Crouching there, the fugitives could distinguish the outlines of more
than one savage foe, so near had they crept. Will they pass on? 'Tis a
moment of horrible suspense.

Again the defiant cry of the Kickapoo sounds forth the death-knell of
a Pottawatomie, and then, with wild yells, the Osages leap forward, an
intense yearning scorching their hearts.

Boone suddenly flattens his muscular figure to the earth, but the
effort is useless. A dark figure bounds through the air, crashing
through the frail bush, alighting fairly between the broad shoulders of
the Wood King.

One of the Osages had blindly leaped upon Boone's back. A quick,
writhing movement, and the savage is hurled head-foremost to the
ground. And then a grip of iron is fastened upon his throat. A bright
blade hisses through the air and buries its length in the Indian's back.

Stricken to death, the savage struggles and writhes convulsively, with
what seems more than mortal strength. The hunter's fingers contract
like the claw of an eagle, and the heavy knife once more buries itself
in the quivering flesh.

With one frantic effort the savage frees his throat and gives utterance
to a maniacal shriek of death-agony. Then, as though satisfied that his
death would speedily be avenged, he lay motionless at the feet of the
old scout, dead!

"Hist! for your lives! Don't stir a peg!" hissed the Wood King, as
Mordaunt partially arose.

The death-shriek of the Osage had reached the ears of his comrades, and
they paused, startled, alarmed. All was still now, save the far-away
yells of the Pottawatomies, as they darted away in pursuit of Lightfoot.

The fugitives' hearts beat high. They prayed that the savages might
pass on, lured by the thrilling chorus beyond. But this was not to be.

Several of the braves turned and cautiously retraced their steps,
signaling each other constantly. Boone placed his lips close to
Mordaunt's ear, muttering:

"If they find us, give 'em the best you've got. Tell the women to slip
off through the bushes at the fust yell--not afore. Speak sharp, so
they'll mind."

Mordaunt obeyed. Half-paralyzed with terror the women promised to
follow his directions.

Boone clenched his teeth. He saw that discovery was inevitable. Already
he could distinguish several dusky figures gradually nearing their
covert, and, knowing the advantage of dealing the first blow, signed to
Mordaunt to follow his example.

The long rifle sprung to his shoulder, being cocked at the same moment.
Then it spoke, the bright flash illumining the spot for yards around,
also revealing full half a score crouching savages. A death-yell was
blended with the report--followed by another, as the settler's rifle
vomited forth its contents.

"Scatter now!" hissed Boone, rolling rapidly aside, barely escaping
several bullets and arrows that tore the ground beneath the bushes.

His further words were drowned by the angry yells of the infuriated
Osages, as they sprung forward, thirsting for blood.

A horrible scene then transpired in the gloom. A ferocious _melée_--a
struggle for life or death.

Twice the savages reeled back from before the pale-faces, but again
they surged forward, their number constantly augmenting. One, two,
three minutes of deadly strife. Then Edward Mordaunt sunk down upon
the pile of dead savages, his skull cloven in twain. A shriek of agony
burst from the wife as she witnessed his fall, and, forgetful of self,
she tottered forward with outstretched arms as though to protect him. A
blow--a groan--husband and wife united, never more to part!

Edith shrieked as an Indian seized her, with uplifted hatchet. A dark
form sprung between--the Osage fell dead. Strong arms carried her a
few steps, then relaxed their grasp. A momentary flash of lightning
revealed to her the convulsed features of Lightfoot--then she saw no
more; she had swooned.




                             CHAPTER III.

                          THE CHIEF'S PERIL.


The face upon which Edith Mordaunt's eyes fell during the momentary
glare of the lightning, was indeed that of Lightfoot, the Kickapoo
outcast.

Even as his daring ruse seemed fully successful, he heard the double
report--the wild yell of angry vengeance that told of his friends'
discovery by the Osage braves. He knew that Yellow-hair was in peril
most imminent, and the knowledge nearly crazed him.

Like a madman he turned abruptly and rushed back toward the spot
where he had left his friends, caring nothing for the risk he himself
run--thinking only of _her_. Bewildered by this new alarm, taken by
surprise by the desperate rush of the outlawed chief, the Pottawatomies
allowed their enemy to slip through their fingers, when the game was
fairly their own.

Halting for nothing, Lightfoot dashed on at top speed, fearing lest
he should be too late. He sprung into the little opening with drawn
hatchet and knife.

He heard Edith shriek, and thus guided, he sprung to her side. A brawny
Osage stood bending her head backward by the long hair, a blood-stained
tomahawk brandished on high.

With a fierce, grating snarl, Lightfoot leaped at his throat. Then
followed a swift stroke--the savage writhed in death-agonies at the
feet of the Kickapoo.

"Lightfoot save you, or die!" muttered the chief, as he gathered the
trembling form to his broad breast.

He sprung forward a few steps, then faltered, his eyes dazzled,
blinded by the unusually vivid flash of lightning that shed around the
brightness of noonday.

A dark form leaped before him--a heavy weapon fell with a dull
_thud_ full upon the unprotected head, and Lightfoot sunk lifeless
to the ground. Edith shrieked faintly as she recognized the stricken
form--then, with a dim sense of being tight clasped by strong arms to a
broad breast, her senses reeled and she fainted.

And Boone, the Wood King?

He fought bravely, desperately, with the strength, skill and activity
of renewed youth. He struggled on while a gleam of hope remained--until
he alone of that little band of fugitives was left upon his feet. All
were down--either dead, dying, or senseless.

Then he thought of his own safety. Flight, instant and speedy, alone
could save him, before the scattered Osages could fairly surround him.

Calling into play every muscle of his stout frame, he sprung forward,
swinging the long, heavy rifle before him. Two savages fell before its
tremendous sweep, and an opening was made.

Through this Boone darted, striking down, broken and helpless, the arm
that was raised to stay his flight. Then a wild thrill ran through his
veins as he realized that all his foes were behind him--and a single
exultant yell broke from his lips as he darted away through the
forest, entering upon a stern, desperate race for freedom, if not life.

His shout told the Osages all, and they dashed after him with yells
of horrible rage, that not even the deafening peal of thunder could
entirely drown.

At least the defiant cry of the Wood King was productive of one good
result, whatever might be its effect otherwise. Lightfoot was just
staggering to his feet, when Boone broke away, and drawn off by the
cry, the Osages passed him without notice.

Still confused by the heavy blow that had felled him to the ground,
Lightfoot supported himself by a bush, and stared around him. The storm
was beginning to rage, the lightning-flashes followed each other in
rapid succession, lighting up a soul-harrowing scene.

A glimpse of a woman's garments roused Lightfoot from his half-stupor,
and with an inarticulate cry he sprung forward and sunk to his knees.
Breathlessly he waited for the next gleam of lightning.

In that score of seconds he suffered the tortures of the damned. He
knew that he knelt beside the dead. His hand rested shudderingly upon
the shattered skull of a woman. He feared it was that of Yellow-hair.

The character of Lightfoot may seem exaggerated--overdrawn, but not
so. True, he was an Indian among a thousand, but such a being really
lived and breathed. Edith Mordaunt had, by her tender care and skillful
nursing, brought him safely out from the very shadow of death. He owed
his life to her. He was ready to repay the debt; for her sake he had
renounced his tribe, his people, his faith--for her he had become an
outcast. He would have died to spare her one moment's pang. And now he
believed he was kneeling beside her dead and mangled body.

The flash of lightning came, and a cry of joy broke from the Indian's
lips. The blood-stained hair beneath his hand was gray--almost white:
that of Mrs. Mordaunt.

His cry was echoed by that of another being--faint and rattling. As the
lightning died away, he turned quickly toward the point from whence it
proceeded. All was intensely dark: he could distinguish nothing.

Again the lightning cast a brilliant glow over the scene, and revealed
to Lightfoot his peril. Only a few yards distant an Osage crouched low
to the ground, a bent bow in his hands, the barbed shaft pointed full
at his heart.

This much he saw, and then the glow died out. At the same moment a
faint _twang_ met his ear, and a burning pain seemed tearing deep to
his very heart.

With an angry snarl he sprung forward, grappling with the Osage. It was
an unresisting enemy. Not a quiver or a moan followed the knife-thrust.
With the loosing of the arrow, the spirit of the Osage brave had fled
to its happy hunting-grounds. True to his teaching, his last act was to
deal the enemy a blow.

Lightfoot felt at his breast A few drops of blood stained his fingers,
but the arrow was gone. He probed the wound--it was but a trifle. The
strength of the dying brave had not equaled his determination.

The Kickapoo arose, and by the quick-following flashes of lightning
carefully scrutinized the spot. To his joy he found nothing of
Edith--because by that he knew that she still lived.

In the alternate gloom and brightness he glided around, stooping
momentarily over each one of the dead savages. He was an Indian. He
knew how to strike his living enemies sorest. On the morrow the Osage
tribe would wail over their scalpless dead.

Standing erect, he flung back his head as though bidding defiance to
the lightning's shaft, the thunder's bolt, as the long-pent-up storm
broke in all its fury. The wild, thrilling scalp-cry of the Kickapoos
resounded through the hills and forest--then the outcast chief turned
and disappeared in the darkness.

And now the flashes came less frequent, the thunder-peals less heavy;
the rain falls in torrents, as though eager to wipe out forever the
evidences of crime and bloodshed that stained the earth's fair surface.

Believing himself the only survivor, and knowing that his only hope of
escape with life was in speedy flight, Boone darted away through the
forest, closely followed by united Osage and Pottawatomie braves. In
that darkness, only relieved by the dazzling flashes of lightning that
left all in even denser gloom than before, by force of contrast, flight
was not only difficult but dangerous.

Yet the veteran ranger, thoroughly skilled in the craft that had been
the study of his life, wound his way through the tree-trunks growing
so thickly around, over fallen timber and other obstacles, with truly
marvelous celerity and ease. But after him came others equally as
expert, fired by a burning thirst for vengeance upon the one who had
that night dealt them such a bitter blow.

Boone had already shaped the details of a plan by which he hoped to
escape his pursuers, and now bent every energy of his body to the first
point: that of gaining a few yards greater lead. With this purpose he
dashed ahead at a dangerous pace, though knowing that a single misstep
might end in his death or capture.

At this point the storm broke in all its fury and in it the scout
recognized a truly welcome ally. The rain fell in torrents, pattering
loudly upon the tree-tops, that soon began to shed their watery load
upon the undergrowth beneath their boughs.

A few moments later Boone suddenly paused, pressing close to the
gnarled trunk of a huge tree that had been momentarily revealed by the
glare of lightning. Here, holding his breath, trying to still the loud
throbbings of his heart, he stood with knife tight clenched in his
hand, to await the result of his ruse.

One, two, half a dozen savages dash by, running with hushed voices now,
for they dread losing their prey, since the tempest so nearly drowns
his footfalls. Then others pass by panting, losing hope with each step.

A minute passes--then a wild yell comes from beyond the point toward
which the savages had chased a phantom. They had missed their prey.
Boone smiled grimly.

"Yelp on, ye blood-thirsty curs--yelp on till your throats split with
hate an' fury. The trail's broken--the nose of a true-bred hound
couldn't splice it now," muttered the Wood King.

Rapidly gliding a few yards to the right, Boone paused beneath a
broad-spreading elm tree, and clutching the ivy vines that shrouded
its trunk, clambered up to the limbs. When nearly a score feet from the
ground he paused, and crouching down upon the gnarled limb, listened
intently.

Numerous signals filled the air, the voices of birds and beasts, but
the veteran smiled contemptuously at the frail disguise, perfect as the
imitations were. On such a night not even the panther ventured from
its den, still less the feathered tribe. He knew that the savages were
beating the forest for him, knowing that he had put some such ruse in
operation as the one described.

"Let them hunt--an owl couldn't spy me out here in the night, an'
I reckon they'll tire of it afore day," muttered Boone, carefully
shielding the lock of his rifle from the rain-drops.

More then once during that long night he could hear the cat-like
footsteps of the savages, as they prowled about hoping to light upon
some trace of their enemy. But then all grew still, save the dull,
monotonous patter of the rain-drops upon the already saturated leaves.

Gradually the old hunter yielded to his fatigue, and leaning back
against the gnarled tree-trunk, slept on peacefully and calmly as
though in a bed beneath a hospitable roof. And when he awoke, the
new day had dawned, the sun-rays were just tinging the crests of the
tallest trees.

The storm was over, and the fresh-washed face of Nature appeared doubly
beautiful. The feathered denizens of the forest were in full voice, and
for a moment the Wood King lay listening, half-dreamily, for the moment
forgetful of the dread events of the past night.

But then he remembered all; once more he was the stern wood-ranger.
Listening intently, his keen eyes roved over every foot of ground
visible from his perch. A rapidly-flitting bird--a pair of playful gray
squirrels met his gaze; nothing human--nothing of the savages who had
hunted him so hard the night just past.

Noiselessly he turned and forced the wiping-stick into his rifle. The
barrel had dried during the night. Then he loaded it carefully, packing
powder into the vent, priming it and then scraping the flint. He knew
that his life might depend upon the fidelity of his rifle.

With the lightness of the velvet-footed panther, Boone dropped to the
ground, thumb upon hammer, finger touching the trigger, and glared
around. But his suspicions were unfounded. No enemy was near. They had
abandoned the search in despair, knowing that, their blows begun, there
could be no rest for them while a single pale-face drew breath in the
Osage country. Night and day they must labor, or a fearful retribution
would overtake them.

Cautiously, with ready rifle, Boone retraced his steps toward the
opening that had been the scene of death. He had no hope of finding any
of his friends alive, yet he could not restrain the impulse that urged
him on.

He stood upon the edge of the opening. The scene of the massacre was
marked by the snarling, scuffling forms of half a dozen wolves. As the
hunter strode forward, they slunk away, howling lugubriously.

Stout-hearted, iron-willed though he was, Boone felt a thrill of
horror creep over his frame as he gazed down upon the torn and
trampled ground. A few tattered fragments of clothing--a number of
bare, dismembered bones, nothing more. The four-footed scavengers had
completed the work of their brother wolves in human form. This was all
that was left of the true-hearted settler and his wife. The hunter
turned pale even through the deep sun-dye, and fierce words gritted
through his tight-clenched teeth.

"May God's curse rest upon the black-hearted devils, until every
mother's son o' them is like these poor critters! To think that only
yest'day they was all well an' hearty, an' little Edith--ha!"

He paused abruptly in his mutterings and glanced hurriedly
around--almost wildly. Could it be? Only _two_ skulls were
visible--only two! Then where were the others? Those of Edith and
Lightfoot?

"Kin it be they got off? Sure I saw 'em both fall!"

With heart throbbing painfully the old scout reached the vicinity,
fearing the worst--scarce daring to hope.

Then he paused, glancing quickly toward the forest. The sound of
footsteps rustling among the undergrowth caught his ear, and he
crouched down behind a scrubby bush, with rifle cocked in readiness for
use.

A human figure stepped into view, followed by another. Boone sprung to
his feet, for he recognized them. They were white men--settlers.

"Fosdick--an' you, Kingsley, is all well at the settlements?" eagerly
cried Boone, springing forward.

"Yas--but thar's b'en black work 'mong the outlyin' cabins, it seems.
So much fer trustin' the red devils too fur--ef all 'd 'a' be'n o' my
mind, this wouldn't 'a' happened, fer lack o' hands to do it with,"
growled the burly borderer.

In cooler blood, though, even Fosdick was forced to admit that _all_
the Indians were not bad, since to timely information given by several,
the "Boone's Lick Settlement" was saved from almost entire massacre,
and the insurrection nipped in the bud; only a few of the more isolated
cabins were destroyed and the settlers killed.

"How did you chaince to hear of this so soon?"

"Abe Dare brung us word--"

"Abe Dare--then the varmints didn't kill him 'th the rest?" echoed
Boone, in astonishment.

"No--he's thar by the cabin--or rather what _was_ the cabin, 'th some
o' the boys, a-pickin' up the old folks."

Boone hastened to the spot, and found the truth had been told. Here
too the four-footed wolves had been at their horrible feast. Around
the still smoldering ruins the bones of the ill-fated settlers were
scattered.

The hunter found Abel Dare pale and stony--sadly changed by that
night's events. Boone wondered if he yet knew all, but feared to put
the question that would decide his doubts.

From the talk of the settlers he learned how it came that Dare had
escaped the massacre of his adopted parents, for the young man spoke
never a word. Pale and icy stern he worked on, hollowing out a rude
grave to contain all that remained on earth of his loved ones.

That evening Abel Dare had visited the Mordaunt cabin, for Edith
was his promised wife. On his return home he met the little son of
a neighbor, going in quest of assistance. By an awkward fall his
father had broken a leg. Abel returned with the boy, and by that act
of kindness, in all probability escaped death. The fracture was a
simple one, and he managed to set it. Scarcely had he succeeded, when
the little boy spoke of a bright light over the hill-top. Its position
roused Dare's fears--he believed it to be from his own clearing. At
top speed he hastened there--but too late. The tragedy was over. His
friends had rushed forth from the blazing pile, only to meet death at
the hands of the demoniac savages. He could see their ghastly bodies
lying in the full glare of the fire, with the yelling, exultant fiends
dancing around in mad glee.

His rifle sprung to his shoulder, and the hammer fell; but with a
simple _click_. In his mad race through the forest the flint had fallen
out. This discovery recalled his senses. The savages numbered over
a score; to attack them now would but insure his own death--and he
resolved to live _for vengeance_. With this thought uppermost in his
mind, he turned and hastened at top speed for the settlements, never
faltering once on the long trail, his muscles nerved by the sight he
had just witnessed. He found the settlement greatly excited. Some
friendly Indians had betrayed the plot for its destruction. Yet half a
dozen men answered his appeal, for the most part single men, hunters
and scouts--the ones who were now with him.

In silence Boone listened to the plans--if such they could be
called--of the scouts. They swore vengeance upon the tribe of
Pottawatomies in general. An Indian was an Indian to them; whether
their hands had shed _this_ blood mattered not. "A life for a
life"--true border law--this was their creed.

"An' thar drops number one!" snarled Jim Fosdick, throwing up his
rifle, as a dusky form stepped out into the clearing and advanced
toward them.

"Stop!" cried Boone, knocking up the weapon, sending the ragged bullet
hissing over the tree-tops. "That's a true fri'nd--hurt him, an' you
must deal 'th _me_!"

"He's a Injun," muttered the scout, sullenly.

"But his heart's white; he resked his life last night to save the
Mordaunts--"

"What--what did you say, old man?" cried Abel Dare, rousing from his
apathy, his face flushing, his eyes glowing like living coals.

"Be cool, boy; 'tain't so bad but it might be wuss," muttered Boone,
uneasily, beckoning for the Indian to approach, for Lightfoot had
started toward cover at his unceremonious reception. "I don't
think--that is, I hope the gal is alive."

Abel Dare sunk to the ground in a nerveless heap, with a groan of
heart-rending despair. This new blow, following so closely what he had
already undergone, broke down his forced composure, and he wept like
a child. Boone motioned the men aside. He knew that it was better so;
these tears might ease the over-tasked brain, and keep it from utterly
giving way.

By his directions, the scouts gathered the remains of Mordaunt and
his wife together, and placed them in a shallow grave, while he and
Lightfoot searched the vicinity in the faint hope of finding some
trace of Edith. But their efforts were unavailing. The heavy rain had
obliterated all footprints.

Boone closely questioned the Kickapoo, but instead of throwing any
light upon the subject, his statement rendered the uncertainty still
deeper.

On recovering his senses, he had followed on after the Indians who were
hunting for Boone, mingling with them in the darkness without fear of
discovery. He soon learned that Edith was not with them, but neither
was the White Wolf, Seth Grable. Still hoping to learn something
of her--and resolving to free her, if need be, at the cost of his
life--Lightfoot kept near the savages, even after they abandoned their
hunt for Boone. They returned to the opening, to find their own dead
_scalped_. Their rage and shame were delicious morsels to the Kickapoo.
Carrying these to the hill, they hid the bodies in a gully, then set
forth on their mission of blood. Knowing that Edith would not be taken
upon such a tramp, Lightfoot left them and searched elsewhere; but all
in vain. He could find no trace of either her or Grable.

"But we _will_ find her, if alive--I swear to it!" and then the two men
crossed palms; in each other's eyes they read the same resolve.

At this moment Abel Dare came up, ghastly pale, his eyes glowing like
those of a madman's. In husky tones he called upon the men to follow
him--that he would lead them to strike a blow for vengeance. The scouts
seemed to catch the infection--they cheered wildly and then followed
the lead of the half-crazed man.

Only Boone and Lightfoot held back. Yet they did not expostulate. They
knew how useless that would be.




                              CHAPTER IV.

                          THE OSAGE VILLAGE.


Boone seemed perplexed and ill at ease. For some minutes he watched
Lightfoot as he quartered the opening like a hound searching for a lost
scent; but then a signal called the Kickapoo to his side. With a few
low words, Boone turned and retraced the route they had followed the
night before in their flight from the Osages.

The clearing that once contained the happy and peaceful home of
Mordaunt, was gained. A heap of black, unsightly ruins was all that was
now left.

Making a circuit of the clearing, the scouts knew that no human being
had been there since the rain ceased. Boone frowned, though he had
scarcely dared hope for a different result.

Pausing beneath the shelter of a tree, the scouts consulted on
their future course. Blind as the trail was, neither one dreamed of
abandoning the search until they should either rescue Edith or obtain
proof of her death.

A sudden recollection caused Lightfoot's eyes to glisten--his hopes to
rise. He believed he possessed a clue by which the broken trail might
be regained.

Several times mention has been made of Seth Grable, a mongrel renegade,
also that he boasted the possession of several squaws. Lightfoot
knew that one at least of these lived apart from her tribe and was
frequently visited by the White Wolf at her little cabin in a snug
valley beside the Osage. By mere accident Lightfoot had made this
discovery, while out hunting, and now as he recalled the lone and
well-hidden refuge, he believed Edith would be concealed there by the
renegade until the storm blew over.

"The idee's wuth a trial, anyhow," said Boone, in a thoughtful tone.
"'T any rate, we kin find whar the varmints crossed the river. Lead on."

Lightfoot glided forward, with Boone steadily tramping at his heels.
The distance was considerable, and the sun was high in the heavens
before the valley was reached. Cautiously the scouts crept toward
the little vine-covered cabin, though there was little need of their
precautions, for the nest was empty. The rain-softened earth around
retained no trace of feet--the cabin had evidently been deserted before
the storm.

The scouts looked at each other in silence. Their disappointment
was great. Another hope was gone. Would the broken trail ever be
united--the lost one found?

In dogged silence they headed up-stream. Across the river, stood the
village of the Osages, yet miles distant. If Edith had not been taken
there, they knew not what to think.

For nearly an hour they pressed on, closely scrutinizing the
river-bank, so as not to overlook any trail. Then both scouts paused
abruptly.

Now, as on the fatal night just past, the sound of firearms and human
voices raised in anger came to their ears from the direction they
were following. A moment Boone hearkened, then muttered, as he sprung
forward:

"It's the boys--they've run ag'in' a nest of the varmints. Come, chief,
we must lend 'em a hand."

The two scouts dashed forward along the river-bank at full speed,
the sounds of the conflict growing plainer and more distinct, now at
no great distance. Reaching the summit of a small hill, the scouts
momentarily paused.

Below them were the combatants--a number of Pottawatomies and the
white settlers who had followed the reckless lead of Abel Dare. A true
bush-fight was in progress. Each man closely hugged his tree, stump or
log, carefully shielding himself, while keen to take advantage of any
false move of his adversary.

Yet Boone's brow darkened as he took in the situation at a glance.
He saw that his friends were in really great peril--that they were
outnumbered, that the Pottawatomies were gradually spreading out so
as to command front and both flanks, where they could pick off the
settlers at their leisure.

He glanced into Lightfoot's face. The answer to his unspoken question
was plainly written upon the Kickapoo's face. He too saw the peril
and was eager to baffle it, though more from hatred to the tribe of
Pottawatomies, than love for the hardly-bested white hunters.

The distance was too great for Lightfoot to use his bow with effect,
and it was necessary for the success of their plans that the savages
should be terrified as well as surprised. Fifty yards below was a dense
clump of bushes, and toward this Lightfoot glided, trusting that, even
if observed, his features would not be recognized. Boone remained upon
the hill. His rifle easily commanded the enemy's position.

Reaching the cover, Lightfoot quickly fitted an arrow to the bow, and
loosing it at the back of an exposed Pottawatomie, sent forth his
shrill, fear-inspiring war-cry. Almost simultaneously the rifle of the
Wood King spoke, and his full, deep voice sent encouragement to the
hearts of the settlers.

Amazed, bewildered by this sudden and deadly attack in their rear,
the Pottawatomies leaped to their feet, glaring wildly around.
_Crack--crack--crack!_ Then hastily reloaded rifles from among the
settlers were discharged--like a shaft of light another arrow sped from
Lightfoot's covert, rankling deep in the very heart of a battle-scarred
warrior.

With a loud cheer Boone broke cover, dashing down the hill. The
settlers answer him--so does Lightfoot. The Pottawatomies believe
themselves surrounded and outnumbered. With cries of dismay they turn
and flee, leaving their dead and dying behind them.

They are not pursued far. The settlers have learned a lesson in
prudence that they will not soon forget. One of their number is dead,
another at his last gasp, while scarcely one of the others but bears
some token of the struggle. Yet the savages had suffered far more
severely, since, in all, nine dead bodies marked the accuracy of the
pale-faces' aim.

Boone drew aside with Abel Dare, who seemed far more like his usual
self, though still fitful and wild in both actions and speech. In a
few words Boone heard all he had to tell. No trail had been found
or any adventure met with until they stood face to face with the
Pottawatomies, when, without stopping to calculate the chances, the
settlers began the fight.

At this moment Jim Fosdick advanced, evidently as spokesman of the
party. He said they had accomplished what they set out to do--dealt a
blow at the enemy and secured more than scalp for scalp. That their
duty now was to help protect the settlements.

Abel Dare began a testy reply, but Boone checked him.

"They're right, lad, though you mayn't think so just now. Every man's
arms is needed thar, for thar the varmints will strike the heaviest
licks. It's right--don't say any thing ag'in' thar goin'."

"And you, too! So be it--I will work alone. Though all the rest abandon
you, Edith, I will save you, or die! For _you_ don't think those devils
murdered her, do you?" he wildly added, imploringly gazing into the
face of the old hunter.

"No, I don't. Never mind my reasons just now. But see--I b'lieve she's
alive; that I kin find her--an' I've swore that I'll git her away from
the varmints if mortal man kin do it," quietly replied Boone.

"Then you ain't goin' back with us?"

"No, Jim; the chief an' I have other work on hand."

"And I--I go too."

"You'd better go back with the boys, Abel. We two kin do all that's
needed, 'specially as sarcumvention must come into play."

"I _will_ go--if not with you, then alone," doggedly added Dare, his
black eyes gleaming.

"All right--you shall go."

A few more words were spoken and then the party separated, the settlers
carrying with them the bodies of their friends, to bury them in some
spot where the savages would not be likely to unearth them for the sake
of their scalps. The three scouts continued up the river-bank, shortly
after, crossing at the ford previously mentioned.

At mid-afternoon they paused, and composed themselves to rest, snugly
ensconced in a dense thicket that covered the summit of a hill
overlooking the Osage village. They needed rest, and could do nothing
until the shades of night fell upon the earth.

But few words were wasted in idle speech. During their tramp the
subject had been sufficiently discussed, and each perfectly understood
the part allotted to himself. Their search for Edith was to begin at
this point, since it was the village of that portion of the Osage tribe
to which Seth Garble had allied himself. Since the captive was not at
his own private cabin, she must be here.

Boone and Dare lay down beneath the cooling foliage and were speedily
sound asleep. Lightfoot, though his eyes had been sleepless for at
least forty-eight hours, remained at his post overlooking the village,
seemingly as tireless as though a mere machine.

The village seemed unusually lively and bustling, though, as he could
see, the crowd consisted mainly of squaws and pappooses, with a few
able-bodied warriors--probably a score, in all. Through his watch, he
saw nothing of Grable or Edith. Yet there was nothing in that to be
wondered at.

The sun had long disappeared when Lightfoot touched Boone and Dare, as
a signal that the time was at hand for their work to begin. The sky was
clear and cloudless, the stars twinkled brightly though the moon had
not yet risen.

"It's all understood, then," said Boone, with an uneasy glance at Abel.
"The chief is to enter the village an' find out whether the gal is in
there or no. We're to wait for him outside."

"Yes--but it seems to me a coward part to play," muttered Dare,
fingering the knife at his belt.

"It's _policy_. The chief is of thar own color, understands the lingo
as well as his own tongue. He kin go unsuspected whar we'd be found out
at a glimpse. You must see it's for the best; an', mind ye, Abel, you
mustn't strike in out o' turn, or we'll leave you to do the job in your
own way."

Dare grumbled something about its being hard to be forced to remain
idle while others worked, but agreed to obey. Then the trio cautiously
glided down the hillside and neared the outskirts of the Indian village.

This was a permanent place of habitation, where the Osages had lived
for many years, and was of a substantial nature. The village was
pitched amidst hills, to protect it from the cold winds of winter,
close to a creek that wound through the valley, only a few hundred
yards from the forest that furnished them with fuel for their meals.
Most of the huts were built of mud, with bark roofs--a few were of
stone rudely held up with clay mortar. Beyond the huts rose a stout,
commodious horse-corral, with boundaries defined by high walls of
timber, fallen trees dragged into place, strengthened by stakes planted
firmly in the ground.

At the edge of the clearing Lightfoot left his comrades, and glided
out from the trees. Crouching low down in the gloom, he glided rapidly
toward the corral, then partially skirting the village.

Gaining the wall, he paused to reconnoiter. The village was all
alive. A number of fires burned brightly. The savages were hastening
to and fro, or gathered in little knots, gossiping. There seemed
little likelihood of their settling down for the night. To enter the
lighted street was almost certain discovery, and that meant death to
the Kickapoo, now. Yet he did not hesitate long. A quick gesture, and
he was changed. A moment's fumbling altered his scalp-lock into that
of a Fox. His form seemed to sink into itself, becoming less tall,
more squat. In the grotesquely distorted features, one could scarcely
recognize the handsome Kickapoo chief.

A moment later and he was within the lighted village, stalking
leisurely along, brushing shoulders with his most deadly enemies,
unsuspected. Yet, though he had almost completed the circuit of the
village, passing within earshot of each group of gossips, lingering
near each cabin, Lightfoot gained no knowledge of the one he sought.
Could it be that she was not in the village?

He paused beside one of the cabins and listened intently. The sound
of low voices reached his ear, though but indistinctly. There seemed
something familiar in the tones of one of the speakers that sent a
thrill through his veins. With bated breath Lightfoot hearkened.

The voices ceased, and the chief heard a light footstep. Mechanically
he started erect, but instead of seeking cover, he stood out in the
full glow of the firelight, once more Lightfoot, the handsome war-chief
of the Kickapoos. The footsteps came nearer--a light form turned the
corner of the cabin, then paused, with a faint exclamation of surprise.
Only for a moment; then the plump form was clasped tightly to the
breast of the Indian scout, as he drew back into the deeper shadow.

Lightfoot forgot his mission, the peril he ran, every thing save the
presence of the Indian maiden who yielded herself so freely to his warm
embrace. Forgetful of all else, he poured soft words into her ears, for
the moment acting like a true lover, no longer the cool, calculating
warrior.

Feather-Cloud was the daughter of a Kickapoo sub-chief. She had won
Lightfoot's love a year since, but the opposition of our friend
to the tribal alliance prejudiced the old chief against him. That
Feather-Cloud was now on a visit to some friends among the Osages, is
all that need be said.

Though Lightfoot knew it not, jealous eyes were upon him. The rapturous
meeting with Feather-Cloud had been witnessed by a young warrior, who
was now creeping closer, his ear strained to catch their words. And he
soon heard enough to know that an enemy had entered the village of his
people.

The Kickapoo's first intimation of danger was in a shrill yell that
rung out close behind him, and then a heavy form precipitated itself
full upon his back. Staggered by the rude awaking as much as the shock,
Lightfoot reeled and fell to the ground.

But his surprise was only momentary. Scarce had he touched the ground
when all his faculties returned.

The Osage clutched his throat with suffocating force, his yell of alarm
ringing through the village with startling distinctness, only to be
taken up by a score of throats as the warriors sprung in a body toward
the spot.

The sinewy hands of Lightfoot rose and clutched the throat of his
antagonist, his fingers almost meeting in the yielding flesh, while
the bones fairly seemed to give way beneath the enormous pressure.
Quivering in every fiber, the Osage relaxed his grasp, and casting his
enemy from him like a child, the Kickapoo sprung upon his feet, knife
and tomahawk flashing in his nervous grip.

Not a moment too soon. From every quarter came the Osage warriors.
Behind them flocked the squaws and children. All were yelling in
confused chorus. It seemed a scene from Pandemonium.

Uttering his thrilling war-cry, the outcast chief leaped forward,
without awaiting the onset. With a motion rapid as thought, the heavy
tomahawk fell; when it rose again it was stained a bright-red hue, and
ruby drops fell from the once untarnished blade. Again and again it
descended, now drinking the life-blood of an Osage, now parrying some
deadly blow aimed at its wielder's life.

It was a thrilling sight to see that one man struggling against such
fearful odds--fighting for liberty, for life! To see the blood-stained
weapons flash in the weird flickering of the camp-fires; to hear the
fatal blow, the half-stifled exclamation, as some keen weapon pierced
the sensitive flesh; to see here a human form fall to the earth,
perchance to rise no more, or else struggle to his feet and again
plunge into the _melée_.

Fiercely, desperately Lightfoot fought, now out in the full glow of
the firelight. At first his life had been aimed at, and despite his
wondrous skill and celerity, more than one weapon had tasted his blood.
But then the name of the outcast was echoed from lip to lip, and the
cry arose to capture him for the torture-post.

Choosing rather to die at once, Lightfoot sprung upon the Osages with
desperate fury, dealing his blows with lightning rapidity, leaving
behind and around him a swath of dead and wounded. With superhuman
strength, he slowly pressed through the cordon, and then, with one
triumphant whoop, he cut down the last warrior that barred his road to
freedom, and darted forward toward the friendly forest, where, once it
was gained, he would be comparatively safe.

But even in the moment of triumph he was foiled. A boy flung himself in
the way, clasping the Kickapoo's legs with all his members--even biting
at them like a bull-dog.

Lightfoot fell heavily to the ground. Before he could arise, or regain
the blood-stained weapons that were torn from his grasp by the fall,
half a score Osages were upon his back.

A confused struggle--then Lightfoot was lifted up, bound hand and foot.
The Osage yell of triumph rung out loud and clear.

Lightfoot smiled grimly as he glanced around. He had carved his name
in broad and deep letters upon their ranks. Their victory had been a
costly one.

At this moment a cry came from the forest. The Osages answered it.
A few minutes later, a considerable body of Indians--both Osages
and Pottawatomies--entered the village. One approached and spat in
Lightfoot's face. It was the White Wolf--Seth Grable.

Making no reply, the Kickapoo glanced quickly around. A ferocious fire
filled his eye as he caught a glimpse of a white woman being led into a
cabin. In the firelight, her hair, floating loosely over her shoulder,
shone with a golden gleam.

The savages gathered together, and the White Wolf addressed them in
hot, forcible words. Others followed him, the majority supporting his
argument.

Lightfoot listened to them, his features composed and cold. Though
his life swung in the balance, he appeared to take no interest in the
matter.

Grable called for the outcast's immediate death--his death by the
fire-torture. In answer to those who advocated delay until the
entire tribe were assembled, he pointed out the great esteem--almost
adoration--in which Lightfoot had been held by his tribe before his
recent sentence, and hinted that the Kickapoos might interfere to save
him, when the Osages who had fallen by the traitor's hand must go
unavenged.

This argument carried the day, and in the blood-thirsty yells of the
savages Lightfoot read his doom.

The warriors who held him now securely bound him to a post, then
hastened off to assist in the preparations for the torture. Lightfoot
strained at his bonds with all the strength of his mighty muscles, but
in vain. The bonds were too stout to break, too well applied to slip or
come untied.

He saw the Osages collecting fuel and placing it round a post, at a
little distance from where he was bound. Escape seemed impossible.

A figure shrouded in a blanket glided past him, a fold of the garment
touching his person. Instinctively he glanced up. The figure abruptly
turned and repassed him, uttering two words:

"_Be ready._"

The glance from a bright eye explained the meaning to the captive. The
figure was that of Feather-Cloud. She was working for his life.

As though suspecting something of the kind, two braves came and stood
beside him, watching the growing of the death-pile. The respite was
rapidly shortening. Would Feather-Cloud be able to carry out her plan?

As this thought flashed through his mind, Lightfoot felt a gentle touch
upon his arms where they passed around the post behind him. He was
answered. The Indian maiden was even then at work, unsuspected by the
warriors who stood by, within arm's-length.

Lightfoot felt the bonds yield upon his feet, then upon his hands and
arms. Something cold and firm was slipped between his fingers. One hand
clutched the haft of a knife, the other that of a tomahawk.

The lips of Feather-Cloud touched his hands, and then she glided away.
The time had come for action!

Like lightning the double blow fell--death-stricken, the Osage
braves reeled back, uttering their quavering death-yells. Shrill and
triumphant rung out the war-cry of the Kickapoo as he turned and darted
toward the forest.

He was nearly clear of the village before the Osages recovered from
their surprise. The pursuit was made, swift and instant.

From before the fugitive two bright flashes illumine the scene--two
sharp reports break the air, and the pursuers falter as the
death-missiles break their ranks.

But only for a moment--then they once more dart forward in deadly
pursuit.




                              CHAPTER V.

                         SURROUNDED BY DEATH.


A shrill yell of exultation burst front Lightfoot's lips as he heard
the death-shrieks behind him, and right deftly did he improve the
advantage given him by the momentary hesitation of his pursuers,
darting forward with the speed of a well-conditioned race-horse. It
needed not the clear voice that shouted encouragement to him from out
the gloom, to tell him who were the daring marksmen. Lightfoot knew
that Boone and Dare had ventured from the forest in order to create a
diversion in his favor.

But the savages quickly recovered from the confusion these shots had
thrown them into, and knowing--if only from there coming no other
reports--the number of the enemy, rushed forward with augmented fury.
Side by side the three scouts entered the woods; close after them the
Indians, yelling like very fiends.

"Sep'rate--we'll meet you at the cave--by the river, chief," jerkingly
uttered Boone.

No reply was made, but Lightfoot abruptly veered to the left, while
Boone and Dare ran on side by side. All thought of caution was
abandoned. The pursuers were too close for the fugitives to attempt
dodging, or trying to lessen the noise of their crashing footsteps. So
close were they that, when Lightfoot turned aside, the pursuers also
divided, resolved to win their prey by stern, desperate racing.

For nearly a mile Lightfoot held his vantage with comparative ease,
thridding the tangled forest with the skill and ease that none but a
thorough woodsman can ever hope to attain. After that, he came upon
smoother traveling, breaking from the wood out upon a level, grassy
tract of open ground, fully a mile in width.

The race, thus far, had not breathed the iron-limbed scout, though
thoroughly warming him up, removing the soreness he had begun to feel
from his wounds and bruises. And now as he entered the open, a clear,
exultant cry broke from his lips, and inhaling a deep draught of the
cool night-air, he bounded away over the level space with the litheness
and agility of a deer.

With answering yells the Osages followed, straining every nerve to
overtake Lightfoot before he should reach the further side. Swift of
foot were they--some of them of wide renown--yet, foot by foot, the
outcast chief left them behind.

Over two hundred yards in advance, Lightfoot plunged into the forest
again, uttering a taunting cry that half-crazed his pursuers. It seemed
as though his escape was fully assured--even the Osage braves began to
despair of overtaking him.

And yet, even in the moment of his seeming triumph, an accident
occurred that threatened to prove fatal to Lightfoot. He had not run
fifty yards after leaving the open when his foot struck a stub or
projecting root, hurling him violently against a log. He lay as he had
fallen, motionless, senseless, as if dead.

No longer yelling, but listening eagerly for the sound of footfalls,
the savages rushed on, knowing that, by pausing to hearken, their last
hope of overtaking the fugitive would be banished. On they dashed,
scrambling over the fallen tree brushing unconsciously past their
senseless foe, even casting a shower of decaying leaves upon his body,
so narrowly did they miss him.

For fully an hour Lightfoot lay there, like one dead. But then
consciousness gradually returned, and he struggled to a sitting
posture, still clutching the limb that had broken short in his hand
when he fell. Slowly recollection came to him, and he recalled the
events of that night; but clearer than all these, a golden-haired woman
stood out before his mental vision, appealing to him for assistance.

This thought seemed to put new life into his veins, and he sprung
lightly to his feet. His brain throbbed violently, and he glided to the
edge of the open ground, and peered keenly forth. Not a living soul was
to be seen. The moon now shone clear and brightly. A stiff breeze was
blowing. After a swift glance around, Lightfoot glided out from the
shadow, and began recrossing the natural meadow.

_He was returning to the Osage village!_

It seemed a foolhardy act, but the chief firmly resolved to again enter
the village, to rescue Yellow-hair, if it lay in his power. He felt
assured that she was there--that the captive brought in by Seth Grable
was none other than Edith Mordaunt.

He was not acting without due reflection. The deed would be easier on
that night than any succeeding one, for several reasons. Nearly, if
not quite all of the braves had set forth in pursuit of himself and
friends. Even if not, they would scarce suspect a second attempt, after
the first having so nearly proven fatal. Nothing would be further from
their minds than that he would again venture into the village. For
these reasons Lightfoot resolved to make the attempt. He had vowed
eternal fidelity to Yellow-hair; he had abandoned his people because of
her--he would save her from the White Wolf's fangs, though it should
cost his life.

Across the meadow he glided. In this lay his greatest danger. It was
not likely that the Osages had yet given over searching for him. Were
any of them gazing out upon the meadow, they must see him.

Nearing the other side, he slackened his pace. When within arrow-shot,
he turned abruptly to the right, and ran at full speed for several
hundred yards, then darted into the woods. By this move he hoped to
escape any ambush that might have been laid for him. Yet no sound gave
token that such was the case, as he hastened on through the forest.

Ten minutes later he stood gazing out upon the Osage village. The fires
were still smoldering, a few forms could be seen, but the place was
very quiet. Evidently the warriors had not yet returned.

There seemed little fear of his being discovered, but Lightfoot feared
taking the time that must be consumed by crawling up to the log huts,
and, crouching low down, he glided along in a circuit that would bring
him up behind the corral. This he gained in safety, undiscovered, and
then crept toward the village in the shadow cast by the rude fence.

Though he could plainly distinguish several braves sitting behind
the smoldering fires, lazily smoking, Lightfoot gained the outer row
of lodges unseen, even by the wolfish dogs that skulked round the
village. Here he paused to locate more perfectly the cabin into which
he had seen the captive maiden hurried. A few moments sufficed for
this, but then a black frown corrugated his brow.

A fire smoldered before the cabin door. Beside it an Indian crouched;
one of the smokers he had before noticed. Fate seemed conspiring
against the bold Kickapoo, for while this guard remained on duty, he
could not hope to accomplish his aim.

Lightfoot glanced keenly around. Only one other form met his eye--that
of the second smoker. All others in the village appeared buried in
slumber.

A determined expression settled over Lightfoot's face. He had decided.
Too much had been dared to hesitate now. He might never again succeed
in entering the village. He dared not risk delay, lest the lamb should
be sacrificed to the lust of the wolf.

Prostrating himself, like a shadow he glided over the ground, nearing
the cabin he felt assured contained Yellow-hair. The progress of a
snake could not have been more noiseless. 'Twas the perfection of skill.

A moment more satisfied his doubts. In range with the guard, Lightfoot
saw that a cabin hid the smokers from each other. Could he silence the
one without attracting the attention of the other, he might succeed in
freeing the captive. The risk was very great, yet he resolved to dare
it.

At that moment he longed for his trusty bow. With it he could easily
dispose of both these braves, without alarming the sleepers. And now he
had only knife and tomahawk to depend upon.

Without alarm, he gained the cabin, then crawled to the corner. The
fire was but a few feet from the door. A single leap would place him
beside the drowsy guard. Yet he feared to risk it. A single cry--nay, a
gasp--a groan would be sufficient to arouse the other watch, and then a
whoop would alarm the sleepers. This Lightfoot reasoned as he silently
moved out from the shadow into the light, a bright blade gleaming in
his hand.

Slowly, silently, scarce perceptibly, a veritable shadow of death,
the Kickapoo lessened the distance separating him from the drowsy
sentinel. Nearer, still nearer until, with extended arm, he could have
driven the long blade to the haft between the savage's shoulders. Yet
the stroke was withheld.

Noiselessly Lightfoot drew himself together. Then his left arm was
gradually extended. The moment was at hand.

The eye could scarcely follow his motions. His left hand closed like a
seal upon the Indian's mouth, bearing him forcibly backward to meet the
deadly blow dealt by the free hand. A peculiar _gritting_ sound as the
keen blade was _pressed_ lower, was all.

And yet the sound met the ear of the second watcher, and Lightfoot
heard a suspicious grunt as he arose from beside the fire. Discovery
seemed inevitable, yet the Kickapoo did not seek safety in flight.

With a sudden movement he threw a corner of the dirty blanket over the
wound, then crouched low down behind the corpse, supporting it in a
lifelike position, peering out from beneath a corner of the blanket.
He saw the savage step round the corner of a cabin, then pause, as if
undecided. By the dim light he could not detect the blood that was
slowly soaking through the blanket.

"Did you call?" he demanded, presently.

"No--I coughed, nothing more," promptly replied Lightfoot, suiting the
action to the words.

As if satisfied, the Indian turned away. The Kickapoo smiled grimly.
Noiselessly he removed the well-filled quiver from the dead brave's
back, intending, with it and the bow that lay at his side, to prop
the body in a lifelike position to guard against suspicion, while he
attempted the release of Yellow-hair.

But a new danger threatened the scout. As he worked, a dark form was
gliding nearer and nearer, coming from behind, as though copying the
example set by the Kickapoo.

Then it darted forward with a malignant sound, half-yelp half-bark, its
long fangs closing upon the spy's shoulder. It was a dog--one of those
fierce, treacherous, slinking, skulking, wolfish curs that can only be
found among the Indians.

An involuntary cry broke from Lightfoot's lips as he felt this attack,
and he sprung to his feet, tearing the cur from its hold, crushing him
to the ground with a force that snapped its bones like pipe-stems. The
slain sentinel fell forward, the plumes and long hair igniting in the
flickering blaze, sending up a bright, crackling flame.

A cry came from beyond, and Lightfoot glanced up. An Osage brave stood
out in full view, evidently astounded by the scene. And then from the
surrounding cabins came an increasing bustle that showed Lightfoot his
peril.

Stooping, he caught up the bow and quiver. With wonderful adroitness
the loop was fixed and an arrow notched. But, with another whoop, the
Osage sprung behind the cabin.

Two cat-like bounds carried Lightfoot to its corner. The Indian was
hurriedly fitting an arrow to the string. 'Twas his last action in
life; a sharp twang--a shrill yell: the Osage lay struggling in death
agonies, transfixed by the feathered shaft, and Lightfoot darted away
toward the forest, with the speed of one who knew that life depended
upon his exertions.

The village was aroused by the alarm; warriors hastily snatched up the
nearest weapon and hastened into open air. The fires were smoldering,
but the moon shone brightly.

A lithe figure darted past them with the speed of thought. Was it
that of friend, or of an enemy? Not until Lightfoot had passed the
last cabin and rent the air with his shrill, taunting whoop, did they
suspect the truth. But then pursuit was immediate. Burning with rage,
they darted after the fleeing form. Twice that night had he bearded
them--he should not live to boast of it. Were the Osage braves dogs
that a degraded outcast should thus throw dirt in their faces? The
deadly, vindictive yells answered _no_!

On Lightfoot dashed, a feeling of contempt for his pursuers banishing
that of chagrin at his double failure. But gradually the fact of his
being in danger forced itself upon him. He could hear the loud tramp of
the Osages close at his heels as he dashed through the forest; could
hear others spreading out by degrees upon either side to guard against
his doubling upon them. Were these braves swifter than any he had
before encountered? No. The change was in himself.

He was weakened by long toil and little rest; by the loss of blood as
well. The arrow shot in the thigh of the day before; the numerous but
smaller hurts received in the furious _melée_ at the village; the gash
upon the head inflicted by his fall--all combined served to weaken his
frame, to render his muscles less elastic. Every energy was brought
into play, yet he ran heavily, with difficulty, far different from his
usual light, springy leap.

Still on he fled, running for life, with the yelping hunters close upon
his track. Through the forest, over the meadow, winding through steep
hills or crossing them direct as the nature of the ground demanded;
still on he fled, desperately holding his own, though unable to
increase his brief advantage.

Still on, until an anxious look overspreads his face. The Osages yell
with increased malignancy. The ground is comparatively open, now, and
Lightfoot can see the folly of attempting to diverge from a straight
course. The savages chase him in the shape of the new moon. Only in a
direct course can he hope to escape them. And yet before him lies a
trap. This knowledge calls up that look--this knowledge draws the yells
of exultation from the lips of his pursuers.

Clenching his teeth tightly, the Kickapoo sprung forward with increased
speed. Such a pace could not long be maintained, but he knows the end
is close at hand. His fingers tighten upon the bow--brings the quiver
round upon his breast. If the end is death, he will die as he lived--a
terror to his enemies.

Across an open tract, he turned and glanced back. The Osages yelled
loudly; they fancied him securely trapped. Sending back a yell of
defiance, Lightfoot darted up the abrupt slope, forcing his way through
the thicket of scrubby pines and cedars. Beyond this lay a few yards of
open ground; then came empty space.

Leaping out Lightfoot knelt down, an arrow fitted to the string,
another held between his teeth. Thus he waited the approach of the
Osages.

He crouched upon the very brink of a precipice, at whose base, nearly
one hundred feet below, roared the Osage river. Its surface was dark
now, wrapped with shadows of the cliff, but the Kickapoo well knew how
it looked as the sullen roaring came to his ears.

Plainly as though at midday he could see the swift current tearing
madly along, dashing itself into spray over the sharp, jagged crests
of scores of bowlders that had, from time to time, dropped from the
face of the cliff. The passage was not an easy one for a boat in
broad daylight; what then would be the fate of a swimmer in midnight
darkness--if one should leap down from the hight above?

The Osages came on boldly enough, though they knew that, at bay,
an awkward customer awaited them. But they had been sorely smitten
that night--they thirsted for this man's blood with a vengeance that
overpowered the fear of death.

As the first head showed above the thicket, the hunted outcast's bow
twanged loudly, and a muffled yell, as the head sunk down, told how
steady had been his nerves. Maddened to frenzy, the dead man's comrades
leaped out upon the open, resolved to end all by one desperate rush.
But another _twang_ mingled with their cries--another dusky form reeled
back, the death-yell dying out in his throat in a husky gurgle.

And then the hill was occupied by the Osages alone!

As he loosed the second death-winged arrow, Lightfoot turned and
boldly sprung over the precipice, his wild war-cry sounding strangely
thrilling as it soared up from the depths below. It ceased abruptly.
Then came a peculiar sound. Was it the sullen plunge of a body into the
water, or the dull _thud_ of a human form striking flatly upon some of
the jagged bowlders that pierced the waters surface?

These questions asked the Osages. But not long did their indecision
last. With eager cries they ran along upon the precipice-edge, making
for a point where the river-bank was low. Dead or alive they resolved
to recover the body of their terrible foe.

But Lightfoot was not dead. Besides the great distance, he had to run
the risk of falling upon some of the immense bowlders, which, in the
gloom, were invisible. Knowing this, he yet retained his presence of
mind, and, though expecting death to follow, leaped for life.

Straight down, feet foremost he descended, one hand clutching the arrow
in his quiver, though with arm pressed close to his side. Striking the
water with almost stunning force, he sunk until his feet struck bottom
with a force that doubled him up in a ball. But then he shot up,
springing half out of the water, half-stunned, bewildered, confused,
but alive!

With barely consciousness to keep afloat, he made no effort to avoid
the rocks. And perhaps 'twas as well, for the current carried him
through the perilous passage in safety, though more than once the
sharp, knife-like edges of the flinty rock cut through his skin.

Then the river-bed widened, and the stream flowed more quietly.
Lightfoot had partially recovered from the stunning shock, and now swam
rapidly on, hearing, above the sullen roar of the waters, the yells of
the Osages upon the bank above. He easily divined their purpose, but
felt little doubt but that he could balk it.

As the bank grew lower, he was forced to keep close in to the shore
to avoid the moonlighted space beyond, and the race was so close that
he could hear the rapid tread of the Osages as they rushed toward
this point. Still he passed the danger in safety, and then turning
upon his back he glanced back. Several Indians were already in the
water, eagerly looking for some trace of their enemy. Grimly smiling,
Lightfoot swam on, little heeding his aching bones.

Half a mile below, he reached the ford, mention of which has so
frequently been made in this story. As he stood erect in the shallow
water an acute pain ran through his left leg, and he fell forward. A
quick examination told him the truth. His ankle was badly sprained; so
severely that further flight was not to be thought of. To save his life
he could not have walked a half-mile.

Then Boone's parting words flashed upon his mind, naming the cave by
the river as the rendezvous. It was possible that his comrades were
even then awaiting his coming.

Sinking down in the water Lightfoot swam toward the entrance, uttering
as he did so a signal often made use of between himself and the Wood
King. But no reply came; again, with the same result. He knew then
that the old hunter had not arrived, and, despite his own danger, a
thrill of pain agitated his mind. He had learned to almost worship the
noble-hearted woodsman.

Swimming into the cavern, Lightfoot crawled up on the sandy beach,
half-fainting from pain and exhaustion. His labor that night had been
really Herculean.

But then he turned and peered out upon the river that lay half in
darkness, half-revealed by the silvery moonlight. He gave a start and
dashed the dripping hair from his eyes. Two black dots were visible
upon the surface. Then two human forms reared themselves upright,
standing in the shoal water. They were Indians--Osage warriors. Their
object was plain. They had swam down here to intercept their foe's
escape, if alive, to secure his scalp if his dead body should float
down the river.

Lightfoot frowned deeply and felt of his weapons, for the darkness
rendered eyesight useless. The bow was still strung, though the string
was somewhat lax, from being water-soaked. Rubbing this forcibly, he
succeeded in rendering it fit for use. The quiver still retained its
arrows; the girdle at his waist still supported the hatchet and knife
given him by the faithful Feather-Cloud. Again he smiled grimly. Though
crippled, he could yet make a stern fight for life.

But then a new thought struck him. He would avoid the fight if
possible; and the tree above offered him the means of hiding until all
search was over, as he believed.

Along the cave floor he crawled, reaching the hollow tree with
difficulty. Creeping inside, he loosened enough of the decayed wood to
cover up the entrance, then clutching the grape-vine, dragged himself
up to the mouth of the hollow. Ensconcing himself securely among the
dense boughs, he drew up the vine, coiling it beside him. And then,
utterly exhausted, he sunk into a sort of stupor, for it could scarcely
be called sleep.

This stupor lasted until the sun was up, and was then only broken by a
shout from below. Bewildered, half asleep, he listened. Voices come to
his ear up through the hollow tree. He knew then that the cave had been
searched while he slept, and that the enemy had discovered the passage
he had used. And then he saw what a fatal accident his sudden awaking
had caused.

His start had dislodged the coiled grape-vine, so that it fell down
into the hollow trunk. And now it became taut, jerking from side to
side as an Indian tried to drag himself up. Desperate, Lightfoot drew
his hatchet, and at one stroke severed the vine. A muffled yell came up
from below, then a heavy fall, followed by shrill cries of triumph as
the Osages discovered the cleanly severed vine. They had found their
prey.

Instinctively Lightfoot clutched his bow and started to descend the
outside of the tree. But a twinge of pain reminded him that escape by
flight was useless. And then a yell from the hillside below called his
attention to a number of Osages running up to surround the tree.

Coolly the Kickapoo waited until the savages were within a score
yards of the trunk, then his bow sent a feathered shaft deep into the
breast of the foremost brave. Startled, the survivors broke for cover,
but another missile overtook them, and Lightfoot yelled defiantly as
another victim was added to the heavy price demanded for his life.

For a time all was still. Not an Indian could be seen; not a missile
was discharged at the Kickapoo, though his position could be fairly
defined. Once their chiefs had doomed Lightfoot to the stake; now they
resolved that a similar death should be his.

A whiff of smoke came curling up the hollow shell. Lightfoot drew back.
The Osages yelled madly. The sport was fairly begun. How would it end?
How could it end but in the death of the hard-hunted outcast!

Thicker and more dense grew the smoke. A dull, sullen roaring was
audible as the flames entered the shell, eating greedily into the
rotten wood. The leaves began to shrivel and turn black. The intense
heat drew great beads of perspiration from the skin of the Kickapoo.
The forked flames shoot out of the hollow top. Still further back draws
the outcast, now fully exposed upon a limb. His hair begins to shrivel,
his flesh to crack. His torture is excruciating, yet he, with a defiant
shout, echoes back the yells of the Osages.




                              CHAPTER VI.

                         THE BOWLDER BULLETS.


Steadily Boone pressed on through the tangled forest, with the yells of
the Osage warriors ringing clearly in his ears, and something of the
fire of his younger days gleamed in his blue eyes and brought a flush
to his bronzed cheek, as he felt himself once more pitted against the
dusky heathen who had dealt him so many and bitter blows.

Close in his footsteps trod young Abel Dare, sullenly fleeing from the
enemies he longed to turn upon and rend in his furious hatred. But the
Wood King had gained a strange ascendancy over his mind, and he obeyed,
though with an ill grace.

At the time he had given the word to separate, Boone diverged slightly
to the right hand, bidding Dare follow him closely. And now they sped
forward over the tangled ground with all the speed possible, while the
Osages yelped like eager hounds close at his heels.

Thoroughly acquainted with the surrounding country, Boone sought to
direct his course so as to avoid a serious obstacle that lay before
them; but even under the best auspices it is difficult to keep a
straight course through a thick wood; little wonder then that their
rapid flight through the darkness caused him to err in his calculations.

Half an hour after leaving the Osage village, the veteran made this
discovery, and a feeling of anxiety agitated his mind, more for the
young man, who trusted in his skill and experience, than for himself.
As was the case with Lightfoot, a few hours later, he was running
headlong into a trap. Nor could he hope to shun it by turning aside.
The pursuers were too near for that.

Then a cry burst from his lips. Like a revelation, there flashed upon
him a scene from the past: a deep, narrow gorge, yet too wide for man
to cross it by leaping--a hunter standing upon the verge, peering
downward, supporting himself by a stout grape-vine that dangled from
the horizontal limb of the gnarled elm tree. By its aid an active man
could cross the ravine.

Calling upon Dare to increase his exertions, Boone darted forward with
the speed of a hunted deer through the now less dense forest. The trees
grew less thickly, the ground more broken, strewn with flinty bowlders.
Through the clear moonlight could be seen distant hills rising
darkly, with their covering of trees, or bleak and bare, their rocky
summits scarce affording subsistence for a scant growth of shriveled,
prematurely-growing grass.

True to his latter calculation, the Wood King reached the gorge at a
point only a few steps from the vine-wreathed elm tree, and then one
stroke of his keen knife severed the pendent grape-vine close to its
root. Clutching this, he ran back a few paces, crying out to Dare as he
did so:

"Watch me, lad--then foller. Ketch the vine as it comes back."

Then springing from the ground, he shot swiftly through the air, across
the dark ravine, safely making the further side, whence he hurled back
the novel rope. The yells of the Osages came more clear--their heavy
tramp smote his ear, and Dare did not hesitate for a moment. Clutching
the vine, he too was safely landed on the other side, where Boone was
hurriedly driving home a well-battered bullet.

"What shall we do with this?" muttered Dare, still holding the vine.

"Let it go. 'Tain't long enough to tie, an' we cain't break it off. We
kin keep 'em from crossin' with our rifles. Take to kiver, an' load
up--for life!" hastily replied the Wood King, kneeling down in the
shade cast by a huge bowlder, adroitly priming his rifle as he spoke.

With loud cries, the Osages rushed forward, but then paused, their
tones altering greatly. Where were their anticipated victims? the
swaying grape-vine answered, and so did the rifle of the old hunter.

Sharply, with a spiteful cadence, rung out its voice, the bright flame
leaping half-way across the ravine, dazzling the eyes of the Osages;
the eyes of all but one--and he sunk down in death, the blood gushing
from a perforated skull. For a moment the savages stood amazed; then
turned and sought cover. But before the friendly bowlders were gained,
though so near at hand, the rifle of the young settler was discharged,
and a second savage fell at full length, sorely wounded. A single cry
of agony, then he silently dragged his maimed body over the rocky
ground, seeking to gain cover.

"Now's our chance," said Abel, as he poured the wonderful black grains
into his rifle. "We can get to a safe distance before they think of
crossing."

"Easy, lad," and Boone laughed silently. "Thar's plenty of time afore
us. The varmints won't ventur' to cross over as long's they think two
sech rifles as our'n is ready to dispute their passage, so we may as
well get a little more breath while we kin. There--hear them yelp!"
he added, as two or three subdued cries came from the opposite side.
"The fools--do they think to blind the eyes of one who has known them a
lifetime? Poor fools--they're sadly out."

"What do you mean?" quickly asked Abel Dare.

"This: they're yellin' there to make us think they're very busy
hatchin' some plan to git at us, and so keep us still a-watchin' to
drive 'em back when they try to cross. Now, though layin' bets is not
my natur', I'd stake my scalp ag'inst that of any red heathen among
'em, that the biggest part of the lot has gone round the ravine so's to
take us unbeknown in the rear," quietly replied the veteran woodsman.

"Then why stay here, losing precious time that--"

"As I told you, to git ready for another hard tramp. It's full half a
mile to the nearest end or crossin'-place, an' the ground is mighty
rough. But we'll go now."

As he spoke, Boone raised his rifle and fired at one of the bowlders
beyond, though none of the savages were visible. Taunting yells greeted
this shot, but he knew that his object was gained. The Osages would
believe that the scouts had resolved to defend the pass, and so would
make no attempt at crossing until their friends completed the surround.
And this, Boone felt, would give them ample time to reach safety.

Loading his rifle, as he proceeded, Boone led the way over the rocks,
after crawling stealthily until beyond view of the ravine. Abel,
comparatively inexperienced in such matters chafed restlessly at
the deliberate motions of the old hunter but knew the uselessness of
remonstrating. Thus they proceeded for fully half an hour, when from
the direction of the ravine, there came, borne upon the brisk breeze,
angry yells of rage and disappointment. The Osages had discovered the
flight of their enemies.

"Now, lad, sence we've got our new wind, mebbe it'd be as well to do
a little more tall travelin', for we've a long trail afore us to the
place I told the chief we'd meet him at," said Boone, breaking into a
trot.

For half a mile more Abel kept close at the veteran's heels, but then
his foot slipped, and in recovering his balance, the knife dropped
from his belt. A little incident, but one that was fated to produce
important changes in the lives of both the scouts.

Picking up the weapon, Abel thrust it securely into his belt, then
resumed his course. Boone had not heard the slip, and now Abel just
caught a glimpse of his form as he passed around a huge bowlder. When
Abel gained this point, Boone had disappeared around another. Expecting
with every moment to overtake the hunter, Dare pressed on through
the broken country. The trail was winding and intricate, one among a
hundred others, though this fact the young settler was hardly aware of,
since the moon was already paling before the approach of day, and a
dim, uncertain light shrouded the earth, revealing outlines vague and
indistinct.

For several minutes Abel Dare pressed on with as great speed as was
practicable under the circumstances; still nothing was to be seen or
heard of Boone. Then pausing, he called aloud, gently at first, then
louder; but only the mocking echoes answered back. Where could the
hunter be?

For a few minutes Dare deliberated whether or no he should retrace his
steps and try to rejoin his friend; but he felt by no means sure that
he _could_ do this, so many passages and trails seemed winding through
this rocky tract. And then, too, he knew that the Osages would be
searching for the fugitives. To return would be to rush into their arms.

"No, I'll go on," he at length muttered, decisively. "This tract can
not extend much further, and once in the open ground, I can easily
manage to rejoin Boone. If not, then I'll strike for the settlements
and try to raise enough men to set poor, darling Edith free, whether or
no!"

Acting upon this resolve, Abel Dare turned his face toward the north,
and pressed on at a rapid gait, all-unconscious of the danger that was
rapidly nearing him--that, in fact, he was advancing to meet.

For an hour more he toiled on. The broken, rocky tract was left behind
him. The ground was now almost like a rolling prairie, thinly wooded
save in the deeper valleys where some small creek, sluggishly wound
its way. The sun had risen, clear and bright. The wind had nearly died
away. The day was lovely, inspiriting, and despite his weary limbs, his
hunger, the young settler pursued his way with a free, springy step.

He had seen nothing of Boone, though he had searched keenly, had
halloed, once even discharging his rifle, but all without the result
wished for. Not daring to waste further time in the hope of finding
him, Dare turned his face toward the quite distant settlement, eager to
put into operation his plans for the rescue of Edith. For that she was
still alive and a captive, he firmly believed, from the reasonings of
the old hunter.

His mind was filled with such thoughts, when, upon the ridge of a
considerable hill, Abel abruptly paused. Upon his left, fully half a
mile distant, his keen glance detected a score human figures, crossing
the hill in an opposite direction to that followed by himself. For this
reason he had not discovered them before.

Quick as thought Abel flung himself flat upon the ground, but he was
too late to avoid observation. He saw the human figures turn toward
him, gesticulating violently. Even as he lay they could see him, for
the grass was short and scanty.

Whatever doubts he might have entertained as to their identity, were
quickly solved. The bright sun shone clearly upon them. Even at that
distance he could distinguish the long flowing hair, the plumed beads,
the bronze, naked forms; all telling of savages, and consequently
enemies.

Feeling assured that naught save another horrible, heart-sickening
flight could avail him here, Abel partially arose and cast a swift
glance behind him. In that direction, if any, must he flee, for in his
present jaded state he would need all the advantage he possessed.

Fully two miles away a considerable-sized hill arose from the level
ground around. Though its crest was densely crowned with trees, the
sides and base were bare of vegetation, an uneven, dirty grayish cast.
Around its base lay scattered a number of bowlders that must be, to
be so distinctly visible at that distance, of large size. The thought
flashed upon Dare that if he could not find a secure covert there,
at least he could gain a position from whence he could sell his life
dearly.

He had time for no more than one glance and its accompanying thought.
Though in silence, the Indians rapidly advanced along the ridge toward
him. Leaping to his feet, Abel turned and darted away at full speed,
casting a quick glance over his shoulder as he did so. That showed him
the savages bounding forward in hot pursuit, while their yells came
slowly to his ears.

With eyes fixed upon the goal, Dare ran, as he had never ran before,
along the gradually-descending ridge. The turf was smooth, springy,
free from all obstacles. A more favorable spot for a race could not
have been picked out. And yet Abel knew that the savages were gaining
upon him, though slowly. The difference in the occasional yells plainly
told him that. Still, when one-half the distance had been traversed, he
glanced back, and felt assured that, barring accident, he would not be
overtaken before reaching the hill.

On--on the competitors sped. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, the distance
separating them lessened. But then the rocky mound now loomed up
quite near, and Abel could plainly distinguish the irregular seams
and fissures in its surface. Surely, in some of these he could find a
refuge? Hope sprung up anew in his heart, though he knew that he must
round the point of the hill before attempting to secrete himself, if he
wished to make the attempt successful, and every additional yard to be
run was adding to the task already sufficiently arduous.

Panting heavily, his limbs trembling, his brain madly throbbing, Abel
Dare gained the foot of the hill. Still he did not pause, even to
glance back at his pursuers, but pressed on round the point at full
speed. Yelling madly the savages dashed on after him, knowing that the
end was nigh by his uncertain strides.

A little stream of water was before Abel, and a wild, whimsical thought
was called up by it. Skirting the hill-base, he came upon what seemed
the source of the stream, where the water, clear, sparkling and cold,
came gushing through a round black hole, as though from the bowels of
the rocky mound. Here Abel paused, dropping upon his hands and knees,
plunging his head in the water, swallowing great mouthfuls of the
grateful liquid.

"At any rate, I'll not die thirsting," was his thought, and regardless,
as it seemed, of the rapidly approaching enemy, he acted upon the idea.

But this was only momentary. Scarce had he touched the water, when he
started. A clear, wild-sounding laugh filled his ear, apparently coming
from the empty air above his head. And following the laugh came these
words:

"Does the hunted deer halt to appease his thirst or hunger while the
wild wolves snarl at his heels? Go learn wisdom from the dumb beasts.
Up, man! up and away--the blood-thirsty heathens are upon ye!"

Thus directed, Abel Dare's eyes rested upon a tall, wild-looking
figure, standing upon a sort of projecting platform, half-way up the
hill. It was the same being who had warned the Mordaunt family of their
danger--the being sometimes called "the hermit"--oftener the devil,
by the settlers. Now for the first time, Abel beheld his face, though
more than once, during his hunting experience, he had caught a fleeting
glimpse of the rudely-dressed being.

But the one glance was all that Dare gave him now, for from round the
hill-point came another series of yells from the pursuing savages, now
close at hand. Yet in that glance Abel noted a rude, faintly-defined
path leading up the precipitous hillside, ending at the platform where
stood the hermit. It could be scaled by an active man.

Without pausing to consider whether such a course would be agreeable to
the hermit, Abel sprung forward, clambering up the smooth trail with
the agility of a cat. A peculiar cry broke from the hermit's lips, and
he retreated from sight. Almost immediately Abel heard him rolling a
heavy bowlder toward the point directly above him. At the same moment
loud, eager cries from the ground below told that the savages had
rounded the hill-point, and had discovered him.

A double peril seemed threatening him, yet, spurred on by the malignant
whoops, Abel scrambled on and upward. Directly above his head hung a
large, jagged bowlder, poised upon the edge of the platform by the
strong arms of the hermit. To the young man, a look of devilish triumph
seemed dawning in the big black eyes that peered down upon him over the
top of the bowlder.

"Quick! the heathen are beginning to bethink themselves of their
weapons. Reach me your hand--haste! Is life so worthless that ye would
cast it away without an effort toward saving it?" cried the man, in
tones so different from that first used that even Abel felt surprise.

Still, great though that surprise was, increased, too, by finding a
friend when he had expected to meet an enemy, it did not prevent Dare
from obeying the hermit by extending his hand, which was clutched by
fingers like iron in their strength. Without any apparent effort the
hermit drew Abel Dare up over the escarpment, landing him safely by
his side, though now the rifles from below had begun to speak, the
bowstrings to twang, and the feathered shafts to hurtle through the
air. But the marksmen were unsteadied by their long race, and their aim
any thing but accurate.

"Give them a taste of your metal, young man--take those with the
rifles," sharply cried the hermit, seemingly changed from a wild
enthusiast into a cool Indian-fighter.

Abel, nowise loth, obeyed. A savage dropped to the ground, writhing in
agony. The hermit shook his head and frowned.

"You overshot--at least two inches too high. 'Tis better, even in
dealing with such reptiles, to do your work neatly. But now hold this
rock, while I go and get my arms. Your shot checked them for a time."

In a few moments the hermit returned, bearing in his hand a huge bow
of second-growth white-oak, full six feet in length, more resembling
a crow-bar, tapering slightly at both ends, than weapon to be used by
human arm. Besides this he carried a skin quiver filled with long,
flint-tipped arrows. Abel's eyes opened widely as he saw with what ease
the hermit bent this bow, to test the string. But soon they had their
hands full.

In silence a number of Indians broke cover and darted toward the narrow
path leading upward, while a volley from those remaining concealed
swept the platform. Crouching low down the two defenders coolly watched
their movements, comparatively well shielded the while.

Half a dozen braves succeeded in scaling the path for fully half the
distance, when, with a sudden push, the hermit toppled over the heavy
bowlder. True to his intention, it dashed along the hollow trail, and
tore resistlessly through the line of savages, crushing, mangling them
horribly, leaving but one alive of the six, and as he picked himself
up at the hill-foot, the huge bow was bent, and then an arrow passed
entirely through the poor devil's body.

The savages yelled madly from their cover, but not one ventured to show
himself. The hermit laughed loudly, then turned to Abel, who, pale and
staring, was gazing over the platform:

"How do you like my style of working? But go and get some more of our
jolly flint bullets--you'll find them yonder, in the cave behind you."

Awe-stricken, Dare rose to his feet to obey, but then paused as though
transfixed. Then a joyous look overspread his face, as he sprung
forward, crying:

"Edith, my darling! alive--thank God!"




                             CHAPTER VII.

                    THE WHITE WOLF SHOWS HIS FANGS.


With a low, glad cry the maiden sprung forward and was clasped tightly
to the breast of her lover, whose eager lips rained hot kisses upon
her face; for it was indeed Edith Mordaunt--Yellow-hair. It was a
rapturous meeting, so unexpected. For a time their speech was broken,
inarticulate.

The hermit turned his head at the cry, and now stared at the young
couple in seeming surprise. As if by magic the old half-wild,
half-vacant expression came back to his face. One hand pressed his bow
with an impatient gesture, as he partially raised himself. A sharp,
spiteful report rung out from below, and a few threads of the iron-gray
locks fell upon his breast, severed by the passage of the renegade's
bullet. This seemed to break the spell that bound him, and the hermit
sunk back, saying, carelessly:

"So you know the lady, then?"

"Know her--But tell me, Edith, has this man dared to--"

"No, he has treated me kindly--I believe I owe him my life," quickly
replied the maiden.

"There, young man, let that knowledge satisfy you for a few moments--at
least until you can roll me out two or three such playthings as we used
a moment since. Then you can ask the lady what questions you will. One
man can easily hold this pass, though a tribe should attack it."

The cool, quiet tone of the hermit acted like magic upon the young
borderer, and he obeyed without question. Just within the mouth of the
cave he could distinguish at least half a score of the flinty bowlders,
and several of these he managed to roll to the side of the hermit, who
was once more watching the movements of the enemy below. Though they
had not fled, the savages did not appear anxious to renew the assault
after such an overwhelming reception.

Together the young couple seated themselves just within the mouth of
the cavern, side by side, hand in hand, conversing eagerly, yet saying
very little, yet repeating that little over and over again, which seems
to be a trait peculiar to lovers after a certain point. Yet, despite
these interruptions and digressions, Edith managed to tell her story,
which may be briefly summed up.

The hermit was abroad on that fatal night, under the influence of what
may be termed a crazy fit, since he could remember nothing that had
transpired, after the spell was gone. In it he had warned the Mordaunt
family of approaching peril; in it, when he heard the firing of rifles,
the shrill yells of savages, together with the shrieking of women, he
rushed to the scene of death. An Indian was bearing the struggling
form of a woman in his arms. One stroke of his clenched fist felled
the savage senseless, and seizing the sinking form, he fled through
the raging storm, instinctively seeking his hill retreat. The cold,
driving wind beating upon the maiden's upturned face, soon restored her
to her senses, though still sadly confused and bewildered. A flash of
lightning revealed to her affrighted gaze the stern, wild face of the
one who bore her so swiftly through the forest. To her then it seemed
the face of a very demon. She strove to shriek aloud for help, but in
vain. A horrible dread chained her tongue.

What followed was indistinct and dim, until she awoke with a new day,
though its light shone but dimly, into the place where she was resting.
The hermit crouched at her feet, gazing upon her with a puzzled air.
The crazy spell was broken: he was rational now. But the events of the
past night were buried in oblivion, so far as his memory was concerned.
Wonder was plainly written upon his features; how came this fair maiden
in his wild retreat?

Seeing that Edith was awake, he eagerly questioned her, and then,
from his own knowledge of his occasional madness, the hermit read the
riddle. He pledged himself to protect and safely restore the maiden to
her friends, at the earliest moment consistent with her safety. And
there was something in his words and actions that told Edith she might
trust him implicitly.

The voice of the hermit was now heard without, and Abel hastened to
learn what was the matter. The young settler started, a deep flush
suffusing his face as he heard a voice sounding from the plains below;
a voice that he recognized for that of a dastardly villain--the voice
of Seth Grable, the White Wolf!

"You mought as well give in, fust as last," Grable said, "fer thet's
boun' to be the eend. I know you've got a snug kiver, as you say, but
it kin be taken; an' we've jest got the fellows to take it, too. You
see'd the Injuns thet kem up jest now. Thar's more'n a hundred braves
here who take my word fer law. Ef I say the word, up they go, though
you rub out the biggest half. But I don't want to say so. Why? Easy
told. You've got a gal up thar thet I've swore must be my squaw. She'd
be shore to git rubbed out in the muss. Thet's why I offer ye tarms."

"What terms can a dirty scoundrel like Seth Grable, the renegade, have
to offer honest men?" said Abel Dare, standing boldly out into view,
his rifle half-poised.

"Them's rough words o' yours, Abe Dare," returned Grable, his voice
trembling with ill-suppressed passion; "but they don't do no harm,
a'ter all. What tarms? Jest these. Give up peace'bly, 'thout makin'
no more fuss, and I promise you your lives. O' course you'll be kept
pris'ners, but mebbe you kin buy your freedom, some time."

"A clumsy lie--a disgrace even to an idiot like you, Seth Grable. But
here's our answer. If you want us, come and take us--if you can,"
laughed Abel, sinking down in time to avoid several arrows that hurtled
near.

Then, once more, all became quiet. The savages remained hidden behind
the rocky breastworks. The hermit lay upon the platform, his bow in
hand, the bowlder beside him ready to be hurled down the hollow trail
in case the enemy should dare another onset. Abel retreated to the side
of his loved one, and they conversed earnestly, yet sorrowfully, for
the death of their friends pressed heavily upon their hearts.

Grable had spoken no more than the truth when he admitted the position
was a strong one. Indeed it appeared impregnable. The hill stood alone
in the center of a plain, bare and treeless save at the very summit,
and from it the ledge was hidden. For a few yards from the top, the
rocks sloped abruptly down; then came a perpendicular descent of full
fifty feet, ending in a broad, table-like ledge that overhung the
mouth of the hermit's retreat. Only by a swaying rope from above could
the ledge be gained, and then, standing in the cave entrance, those
below would be hidden. The trail leading up from the plain below was
narrow, hollowed out of the rock, barely affording room for one person
to ascend at a time. This was the only avenue of approach from that
direction.

Truly, it was well said: a strong position.

Slowly the hours rolled by. All was silent save the voices of nature.
The savages seemed to have disappeared. The hermit lay upon the rock
motionless as though dead. A vacant expression rested upon his face. He
was brooding over the past, all-unconscious of the net that was fast
closing around him.

Suddenly something whizzed through the air, followed by a double
_click_, sharp and peculiar. A cry broke from the hermit's lips as
he rolled over upon his back. The long locks of gray hair were fast
darkening with blood. A couple of headless arrows lay beside him; their
flinty heads had been shivered to atoms upon the hard rock.

At the cry, Abel Dare sprung to his feet, rifle in hand. He saw the
blood--he believed the hermit was dead, so motionless did he lay. But
then came a rapid change.

The hermit's arms were uplifted, bending the long bow until the notched
shaft touched his ear. Then it was loosed--its swift passage baffling
human eyesight.

A cry--a shrill, blood-curdling shriek of mortal agony--came from
above. And then a dark form shot headlong down through the air,
striking with a sickening _thud_ upon the rocky ledges, crushed into a
shapeless mass, bespattering the trio with clotted blood and brains.

Wild and taunting rung out the laugh of the hermit as he sprung to his
feet, shaking his weapon at the savages upon the plain. Their cries
of rage and hatred caused the rocky mound to echo again. And then a
score of arrows and rifle bullets passed the shelf, pattering against
the flinty wall beyond. With another laugh, the hermit leaped back
unharmed.

"You are wounded?" anxiously cried Abel Dare.

"A scratch--nothing more," was the quiet reply. "But, the time is come
now. Those devils mean mischief. They hold the ledge above, and next
time will take better aim. But _they_ can't touch us in here. All
we have to do now is to watch and pick off the devils as they show
themselves at the head of the path you came up by."

Truly a narrow escape had been his. One of the arrows had grazed
his neck, cutting through the skin over the jugular vein. The other
had passed between his arm and side marking them both with a livid
welt. Considering the position they were forced to assume, and firing
directly downward, the wonder was that the Indians had made such good
shots, and that they missed being fatal.

"Then, you think they will attempt to force their way up that--?"

"I'm certain of it. They know our strength now, and they dare not
retreat--their tribe would disgrace them if they let two men foil them.
No, depend upon it, they'll give us work enough--and hot work at that."

"God grant that we may be able to hold our own! Not for myself," Abel
hastily answered the hermit's keen glance, "but for _her_. She is all I
have left on earth now."

"Then you--you are an orphan? Your mother is--"

"Dead. But whether my father lives or no, I can not tell. I can
remember nothing of him but what my mother told me. On her death-bed
she bade me seek for him, nor rest satisfied until I had found him,
either living, or in his grave. If living, to give him her forgiveness
for the great wrong he had done her. But why do I tell you this? It can
not interest you--a stranger."

"It does--deeply. Perhaps because you are a friend. Tell me more--about
_him_. Perhaps I can give you some clue--"

"Hist! Is not that the scratching sound of feet upon the trail?"
hastily whispered Abel, bending his ear.

"Yes--the devils are coming. I will take the first one that shows his
head--you the second. Remember waste no shot."

Kneeling in the mouth of the cave, the two men silently awaited the
appearance of their enemies. The rifle was leveled, the long bow half
bent. And the scratching noise sounded more distinct.

Then the black muzzle of a rifle crept noiselessly over the escarpment.
The hermit smiled. The guess was a poor one. The bullet would strike
two feet to the left.

The rifle cracked. As though believing the smoke-cloud would screen
them, the savages uttered their war-cry, and sprung up to gain the
ledge.

The hermit laughed aloud. As the foremost figure appeared in view,
the strong bow was bent--then the shaft leveled. Striking fairly, the
broad, muscular breast, the missile passed entirely through, falling
upon the plain far beyond the mound. Clutching, tearing convulsively at
the wound, the Indian, with the terrible yell almost universally given
by his race, fell heavily backward.

At the same instant Abel Dare fired, the flame from his rifle
blackening the face of the second savage whose skull was crushed in.
The fall of these two bodies, checked the advance of their comrades,
and gave the hermit time to deal the finishing stroke by a daring deed.

Dropping his weapon, he rushed forward, heedless of the yelling fiends
upon the ledge above, and seizing upon one of the large bowlders,
fairly raised it from the ground, and dashed it down upon the
struggling savages. Two arrows struck the rock by his side, one of them
tearing through his garments, but he did not hesitate. Stooping, he
seized a second rock. An arrow struck him, and he fell to the platform.
A yell of devilish triumph rung out from the savage marksmen above. But
their exultation was premature.

With an angry cry, almost mad, the hermit struck the bowlder with his
hands, rolling it over like a feather-weight, sending it down the
hollow trail to complete the work its fellow had so terribly begun.
Another arrow splintered its flinty head beside him, but uttering
another cry he scrambled back to the mouth of the cave, well knowing
that the trail was once more clear of savages.

Anxiously Abel bent over him. A long arrow was sticking deep in his
back, buried half its length in the flesh. It seemed impossible for the
wound to be other than mortal. But the hermit smiled grimly.

"Don't be alarmed, lad; I've fought down harder blows than this. I
don't think it went deep enough to kill--you see it's only through
my side. Cut off the feathers, and push it through. I feel the point
pricking the skin."

In silent amazement Abel obeyed, and then the blood-stained arrow was
cast aside. While thus engaged, the wounded man had torn a bit of
cloth from the young settler's shirt, and after chewing it hastily,
pressed it into the orifice; another bit closed the second, and then he
staggered to his feet, cutting a broad strip from his clothes.

"This will do for a bandage. Tie it hard and tight."

Abel tore the sleeve from his shirt, making two pads, which he placed
over the wounds, then drawing the broad strip of buck-skin around the
hermit's body as tightly as possible, secured it firmly. By this time
the strange being had apparently recovered. As he said, the wound had
in a manner paralyzed the muscles of his body, though only momentarily.

Edith had been a pale and trembling witness of all this, crouching just
within the cave. Death seemed inevitable when the stern onset was made,
but now she breathed a prayer of thanksgiving that they all were yet
safe.

The repulse had been bloody in the extreme, and the loss of the Indians
had been very severe. Yet it seemed only to increase their resolution
to conquer. As the hermit said, they would never be beaten by two men.
And now, though in silence, they were again advancing to the spot of
death.

A dark line cautiously broke upon the grayish white edge of the rock,
rising noiselessly higher, until a pair of eyes glared strangely
toward the defenders. A faint cry from Edith called their attention,
then following the direction indicated by her trembling finger, they
discovered the head of a savage slowly rising above the ledge. Quick
as thought, Abel flung forward his rifle and fired, just as the hermit
cried:

"Don't shoot--it's a trick--they're shoving up a dead man to draw our
fire!" and then he clutched the bow and notched an arrow to the string.

As the rifle-shot rung out, a cry of triumph broke from the lips of the
savages, and the corpse that had availed them so well was cast aside,
while in quick succession they sprung upon the ledge. They believed
the game was in their own hands now, for the marksmen above had
telegraphed them the fall of the hermit, and now that the other's rifle
was empty, a single rush would end all.

But the first one whose foot touched the ledge bounded backward,
yelling convulsively, a feathered shaft quivering deep in his skull. He
fell half-way down the hill, but to one side of the trail, that was now
densely crowded with yelling warriors, rushing to the ledge above.

Like living shadows, the yelling red-skins leaped upon the narrow
ledge, the bright blades of their brandished weapons gleaming in the
sunlight. Twice in rapid succession the hermit's bow twanged sharply,
the death-note of as many screeching fiends. Again the weapon was
bent--but the wielder staggered forward, as, with a sullen sound,
the frayed string snapped in twain, the arrow dropping useless to
the ground. It seemed as though all was over, for Abel Dare was just
ramming home a bullet. Before he could withdraw the rod, the enemy
would be upon them bodily.

All this had occurred with the rapidity of thought. The red-skins had
not yet recovered from the surprise given them by being confronted with
one whom they supposed dead.

Recovering himself, the hermit, still clutching the bow, sprung back
and raised Edith in his arms, crying for Abel to follow them quickly,
then darted into the darkness of the cave. Hard upon his heels trod the
young settler, while, recovering from their momentary confusion, the
Osages dashed after the fugitives with blood-curdling yells.

But the nimble-footed savages were too fleet for the fleeing trio, and
the hermit, panting from exertion and growing weakness, exclaimed to
Dare:

"I'll have to give in. There is but one thing to do. You go on through
the passage, leave the girl and me--I'll see that no harm comes to
her--and make your way out of the other end of the passage. There
you'll be in the open country, and, if you are spry, you can bring the
settlers down to help us. It's the only way. Go at once, or we all
perish here together."

Abel hesitated. What, leave Edith? She guessed the thought.

"Go, Abel. I feel that it is the only way to save me. Do as our friend
suggests. Get the settlers or Lightfoot on the trail, and all will yet
be well."

"I will go! God forgive me if any ill happens to you!" and he
disappeared in the darkness.

The savages, led by the renegade, were soon up with the old man and
his charge, and came down on them with the fierceness of tigers. Their
leader, however, interposed to save the fugitives from slaughter; he
had other designs upon them than to permit the old hermit an easy death.

The captives were led backward to the outer world again, and then on
toward the Indians' late camp, around whose still burning fire the
party gathered.

It was strange, but true, that Abel had, in pursuing his tortuous
course through the cave, come out near this very spot, and when the
party emerged in view from above, he beheld all from his hiding-place.
With the eyes of a basilisk Abel watched. Edith was placed upon a
couch of leaves to one side of the fire. The hermit, held by two
stout braves, was brought into the full firelight. The White Wolf
hurriedly addressed his braves, his words being received with evident
gratification. Then he turned to the captive.

"Wal, old man, I don't s'pose you onderstand what I said to these
braves, so I'll repeat. You've did us a heap o' mischief--killed a
durnation lot o' critters as you wasn't fit to hold a torch to, an',
o' course, you've got to take the consequence. 'Tain't much--only a
little fun, ye see, an' you kin go free a'ter it's over, 'f ye want
to. You see the point o' rock up thar? We'll jist throw a rope over
it, then hitch a slip-knot over your thumbs an' haul ye up a little
ways. Unfort'nately fer _you_, the boys hes built a fire under it,
but thet'll soon burn down. Understand?" and the White Wolf laughed
diabolically as he peered into the hermit's face, while the savages
appeared delighted.

"Do your devil's work," coldly replied the hermit, apparently unmoved
by the horrible threat. "I am a man--words alone can not frighten me."

"We'll try more'n words, then," angrily snarled Grable, as he made a
sign to the savages, then seized the captive.

A rude though stout rope was now produced. It had been manufactured
from strips cut from the skins found in the cavern. This was, with
considerable difficulty, cast over the point of rock alluded to by
the renegade, both ends reaching the floor. Upon one of these a neat
slip-knot was made.

"Now tell me whar the young feller hid--Abel Dare," suddenly uttered
Grable, stooping forward to peer into the captive's face, a venomous
glitter in his eyes.

"I am not a white Indian--a traitor and renegade, to betray my kind. Go
seek--mayhap you will find him."

"Better tell--it'll make it easier fer ye, 'f ye do."

"A lie--foolish and bare-faced. You have resolved to kill me, and even
if _you_ were inclined to be merciful, these men around would take the
job out of your hands. Go on--you will gain nothing from me," coldly
replied the hermit.

In his rage Grable struck the captive a brutal blow in the face, the
blood trickling from where his heavy fist alighted; but the hermit did
not flinch an atom. Half-frantic, Grable cut the bonds that held the
captive's arms, and raised both hands above his head, to slip the noose
over them. Quick as thought, the hermit wrenched loose from the savages
who were holding him, and struck the renegade to the ground. But then
he was seized again and held fast, despite his desperate struggles.

Howling with rage, Grable sprung up and plunged a knife in the
captive's breast. With a wild cry, Edith sprung forward to arrest the
blow. Cursing her, Grable struck her a fierce blow in the face. With a
moaning cry, she sunk to the ground.

A wild cry--horrible in its intensity of rage--rung through the
cavern, and then a dark form shot through the air, alighting beside
Grable, whose throat was clutched with a giant's grip, as he staggered
backward, borne to the ground beneath the shock. It was Abel Dare,
wrought to madness by seeing his loved one so brutally stricken down.

The savages started back in affright and amazement. At first they
believed themselves attacked by something more than mortal man. Thus
released, the hermit staggered upon his feet. Then, with a hollow cry,
he turned, and rushing forward to the edge of the encampment, he leaped
and was gone!




                             CHAPTER VIII.

                            A FIERY ORDEAL.


The Wood King did not notice the pause of Abel Dare, nor did he make
the discovery that he was alone, until fully a mile had been traversed.
Then, as he repeated an unanswered query, he turned around.

The young man was not in sight. Believing him to be close at hand,
Boone uttered a low whistle, to hurry him up. But there came no answer.
Again and again, with increased volume, the signal rung out; but the
result was the same. No answer came to the impatiently listening ears.

Wonderingly Boone began retracing his steps. What could have happened?
Surely no serious accident, or he must have been alarmed.

His soliloquy abruptly terminated. A faint sound met his ear that,
at first, he thought might be the strayed, but then he knew better.
Instead of one pair of feet, there were a full score. The Osages were
once more closing upon him.

For a moment the Wood King listened as though undecided what course to
pursue. By pressing forward in that one originally pursued, he might
possibly escape detection, but it would almost certainly be fatal to
Abel Dare, who, ignorant of the crooks and turns of the trails, would
easily become bewildered and thus fall an easy prey to the savages.
Reasoning thus, Boone struck into a trail that bore abruptly to the
right, gliding rapidly along.

For a while he believed he would escape without being sighted by the
Osages, but then this hope died out. As he turned an abrupt curve in
the trail, he caught sight of a dark figure gliding toward him. There
could be no mistaking it; the moonlight was still too clear for that.
The figure was that of an Osage warrior.

A collision was inevitable. At nearly the same moment, the savage
caught sight of the pale-face, and drawing his tomahawk, flung back his
arm for a cast, uttering the shrill yell of discovery. Quick as were
his motions, the Wood King anticipated them, and with a spiteful report
the long rifle sent its leaden pellet crashing through the Indian's
brain, turning the cry of triumph into a shriek of horrible agony. Then
a corpse lay quivering upon the rocks.

For a moment Boone almost despaired. In answer to the yell of the now
dead savage, cries were echoing from every point of the compass. The
wood-ranger was surrounded. Since entering the rocky tract, the Osages
had scattered, some entering each one of the numerous trails that
branched off from the main one, so that, by Boone's backward movement
in quest of Abel Dare, he had glided into their very midst. Death or
capture seemed inevitable.

Still the Wood King was not one to tamely submit while a chance
remained him. Knowing that the yell and rifle-shot would draw the
savages directly to that spot, he darted forward past the dead body, on
the faintest chance that this trail was now unoccupied by other than
himself.

Scarcely had a hundred yards been traversed ere a shrill whoop rung out
from the right, telling that his flight was discovered. Clenching his
teeth, Boone darted ahead with all the speed he could bring into play
over such a rough trail. Bounding over bowlders with the activity of
one in his prime, scrambling up or climbing down an abrupt ascent or
descent, the Wood King fled from his enemies, who were now fairly upon
his track. A thrill of renewed hope pervaded his being as he became
convinced that his enemies were all behind him; that the slain savage
had been the only living obstacle in the way of his flight.

Having more than once explored this strange tract of ground, Boone
improved every little advantage, losing no time in making useless
turns, heading direct for a place of refuge not far distant, where he
hoped to elude his persistent pursuers. Evidently the Osages divined
his purpose, for they pressed on at reckless speed, more than one
coming to grief upon the jagged rocks in their mad haste. Their yells
rung out loud and piercing. Boone's brows contracted as he thought of
the result should their cries arouse some of the wandering band of foes
ahead, and enable them to cut off his flight. Then he smiled grimly at
the wild, improbable idea.

The rock-bed was cleared, and the hunted scout darted forward with
accelerated speed. A narrow, gravelly tract was passed; then came one
of sand, thickly covered with coarse grass. Beyond this the grass grew
more rankly, with straggling oak and thorn bushes. Through this Boone
darted, heading straight as the crow flies, with the nearest savage two
hundred yards behind, now running in stern silence, straining every
muscle to the utmost in the endeavor to overtake the fugitive before he
could reach the covert for which he was heading.

On through the stiff, stubborn bushes Boone dashed; then another belt
of grass lay before him. The end was now near at hand, and he felt
invigorated. Again the savages yelled, this time partaking more of
chagrin than anticipated triumph. Boone smiled grimly, his head bent
forward, his steps carefully calculated.

The nature of the ground changed again. It would give beneath his feet,
springy, elastic. Occasionally a few drops of water would be dashed
aside. It resembled the edge of a swamp; the mud, though growing soft,
was not sticky. The grass began to grow in irregular patches, with
black spaces between. Here and there the moonlight was reflected back
from water. Still beyond grew a dense wall of something grayish brown.
This was the hiding-place toward which Boone had been tending.

In fact it was a large shallow pond, covered with a dense growth of
wild-oats, reeds and bushes. The water was nowhere deeper than a man's
hight. Amidst this thick-laced growth a fugitive might lie hidden
within arm's-length of an enemy, without being seen.

Suddenly Boone raised his head. The yells of his pursuers were echoed
back from the opposite side of the pond. Faintly glimmering through
the undergrowth he could distinguish a camp-fire. Evidently a party of
savages had been resting there until aroused by the shouts of their
kindred, and were now spreading out to intercept the game that was
afoot.

Even had he not resolved upon it, there was now no other course open
to the Wood King but to seek refuge in the pond, and he hastened on,
bounding from one tussock to another like a deer in full flight.
Suddenly he disappeared from view of the savages who had paused at the
edge of the pond. He had sunk down in the water, crawling forward until
the dense grass was reached. These he carefully replaced behind him,
and then listened intently.

All was still save the rustling of the fresh breeze swaying the grass
and reeds. What devil's plot were the savages hatching? Why did they
not search for their prey? This course Boone had counted upon their
following, feeling sure that while they were thus engaged he could
manage to steal away unseen. While wondering, he cautiously loaded his
rifle, and then, noiselessly as possible, pushed on toward the middle
of the pond.

For half an hour he stood waist deep in the water, anxiously listening
for some sound by which he might judge of the enemy's movements, but
in vain. But then his face was upturned, and he sniffed quickly at
the air. A faint trace of smoke was perceptible--and yet the wind
was blowing away from the camp-fire he had seen. Could it be? An
involuntary exclamation of horror broke from his lips. Only too plainly
he read the truth.

_The Indians were setting fire to the reeds and grass!_

But would it burn? Eagerly Boone felt of that growing so thickly around
him. It cracked and crumbled beneath his hand. It was dry as tinder
to within a foot of the water. And now the smoke was thicker and more
dense.

Hastily he plunged on, seeking for a spot where was open water, but
in vain. The reeds grew everywhere. Then he paused. A warning sound
came to his ears. It was the roaring, rushing voice of the devouring
element, crying aloud for its victim.

Crushing a handful of the stuff, he placed it upon the pan, then
discharged his rifle. A spark caught. Tenderly he blew his breath upon
it. It flickered--grew larger--then died out. And the roaring of flames
grew louder and nearer, and the smoke was almost unbearable.

Slinging the rifle on his back, Boone cut and slashed at the
stout-stemmed grass and reeds, flinging them from him in handfuls,
clearing a space around. The sweat rolled from his face--not alone
from the violence of his exertions, for the air was now hot and
parching--like that of an oven. Already he found it difficult to
breathe.

Sinking beneath the surface, he tore at the muddy bottom, scooping up
great handfuls, and then daubing it over his head and face. Then he
tore off the woolen hunting-shirt and wound it round his head and neck.
He could breathe more freely now, since the smoke was excluded. And,
too, it shut out the horrible glow that now lighted up the scene, and
deadened the sickening roar.

Again and again he dipped beneath the surface to cool his aching
temples; then as he felt the intense heat, the falling particles of
the reeds and rushes, Boone knew that the fire-fiend was upon him, and
inhaling a long breath, he sunk beneath the surface, his head touching
the cool, muddy bottom. Clinging to the slimy roots, he lay there until
it seemed as though his lungs would burst. Then the long-pent-up breath
came forth. For a few moments longer he resisted, then rose to the
surface. Though the breath he inhaled seemed blistering his throat,
Boone gasped with delight. It was renewed life. But then the heat
seemed melting his very brain, scorching the woolen garment that now
steamed like a furnace, and again the hunter sunk to the bottom.

Twice was this repeated, then as a cooler current of air struck the
shrouded head, he tore the bandage free and glared around. A broad wall
of flame was gradually receding. The surface of the pond seemed one
living coal. A second glance showed him this was the water-soaked part
of the growth, too green to blaze up.

The fiendish yells of the savages came indistinctly to his ears above
the crackling roar. He started and bent his ear keenly. Then his face
lighted up. From one side there came no yells. It seemed as though the
savages had deemed it impossible for the pale-face to live through
the fiery ordeal, and had all flocked to cut off his retreat to the
opposite side to that on which the fire had been started.

Without reflecting that, notwithstanding the silence, some might have
been left to guard this point too, Boone plunged forward, thrusting the
glowing stalks down into the water as he proceeded, feeling that this
was his only chance of escape. To wait until the fire was out and the
smoke-cloud raised from the surface, he knew would be fatal. Then the
keen-eyed savages would espy him, when captivity or death must follow;
for he was too greatly exhausted to flee for life now.

Hurriedly he pressed forward, too hardly bestead for time to think of
using much caution, for he must gain the undergrowth beyond before the
flames died out, or be discovered. Gaining the shallow water, he crept
forward, crouching low down, with drawn knife, ready to sell his life
dearly. But no alarm was raised as he gained the edge of the pond. That
side seemed deserted.

With a muttered prayer of thanksgiving, the Wood King pressed on with
as much speed as he could extract from his weary, sorely-tasked limbs.
At length he sunk down behind the first line of bushes, and glanced
back.

The flames had swept the pond clear to the further shore, and were
now rapidly dying out. Flitting here and there, he could just discern
several human forms. They were the Indian, and he knew, by their
actions, that his flight had not been discovered. Still, knowing that
his trail would eventually be found and followed, Boone dared not
give way to the drowsiness that was stealing over him, and so arose,
pressing steadily on until the rock-bed was gained. Here his trail
would be lost. Knowing this, he felt that he was saved, and kneeling,
rendered thanks to the One who had so wonderfully preserved him.

Yet he dare not halt here for the rest he so greatly needed. He knew
that his trail would be followed to the rock-bed, and that thoroughly
searched by the savages before they would allow such an enemy to
escape. So he wearily pressed on, through the gray light of coming
dawn, shaping his course by the knowledge that Lightfoot must be
impatiently awaiting his coming at the cave by the Osage.

Clearing the rock-bed, he struck a direct course for the rendezvous.
The cool morning breeze greatly revived him, and partially dispelled
the drowsiness. Once he paused. There came to his ears the faint sound
of yelling, from the far right. Though he knew it not, it was the
discovery of Abel Dare by the Osages under Seth Grable.

Half an hour later Boone discovered two smokes: the nearest light and
fleecy, the other dark and heavy, arising, as he calculated with a
peculiar thrill, from the vicinity of the cave. Was it a signal kindled
by Lightfoot to hasten his coming? This interpretation did not satisfy
him, though he could think of none other.

Both smokes were before him, almost in a direct line. Hastily advancing
to the opposite swell, he crept along until he could look down into
the valley. From a small grove of trees beside a tiny creek, arose the
smoke. Even as he looked, a body of horsemen filed out into the open
ground. A wild cheer broke from his lips, and leaping up, Boone ran
forward, waving his hand as a signal.

The party instantly halted and seemed about to turn back into the
grove, but then appeared to recognize the comer as a white man.
Breathlessly Boone gained their side, but not until he spoke did they
recognize him. Black mud had dried upon his face and hair. His skin,
what little was visible, was burned to a blister, blackened with smoke.
A more deplorable looking object could scarcely be imagined.

Amid their hasty questions, the eyes of Boone were anxiously fixed upon
the smoke-column beyond the prairie. Reason told him that Lightfoot was
too good a scout to kindle such a beacon when so many enemies roamed
through the country. Abel Dare might have done it, but was he there?
Boone doubted it.

"Boys," he said, speaking hurriedly, "I believe that smoke means danger
to a friend of ours--one true as steel, though his skin _is_ red. I
mean Lightfoot, the Kickapoo chief. Will you lend a hand, or must I go
alone?"

"Nary 'lone--not much!" cried Jim Fosdick. "You think the reds is at
the devil's work over thar--wal, we jest kum out skelp-huntin', an'
these 'll do as well 's any others, 'specially as we kin save a fri'nd
by wipin' 'em out. What say, boys--be I right?"

Every voice was raised in assent, and then Boone leaped up behind the
lightest weight, and gave the word for hard riding. From the next
valley they heard rifle-shots coming from the direction of the smoke.
Upon the next ridge human voices were borne to his ear; the yelling of
exultant savages. And the smoke grew blacker and blacker, rising in a
tall, sloping pillar.

The party grew more excited. Knife-points were used as spurs. Snorting
with pain and excitement, the horses thundered on at break-neck speed.
The prairie was passed, the timber began, the ground grew more broken;
but the smoke-column now floated above their heads.

"'Light and tie," cried Boone, leaping to the ground. "We kin go faster
now afoot, an' the horses' hoofs would tell the heathen we was comin'."

Rapidly the settlers obeyed, and then hastened across a densely-wooded
ridge. From its summit Boone saw that his fear was well-founded. From
the hill that crowned the cave, the smoke arose. The red flames were
bursting from the hollow tree. _And seemingly standing amidst the
roaring fire, was a human figure!_

Down the hill they glided, across the valley, then up to the last belt
of bushes, unheard, unseen by the yelling demons above. As their rifles
cracked, a wild cry broke from their lips. The human form leaped out
from the tree, its garments ablaze, holding a flaming bow in one hand.
Down--down, until it reached the ground, with a dull, sullen _thud_!

Unheeding the cry in their excitement, the savages broke cover and
rushed in a body toward the figure. At that moment the settlers poured
in a deadly volley, then charged up the hill, uttering their terrible
war-cry.

Over a dozen braves fell--the others seemed petrified with horror. But
as the settlers came closer, the survivors turned and fled with all the
speed left in their bodies.

In hot pursuit the settlers followed--all but the Wood King. He rushed
to the spot where the man had fallen, and tore the still smoking
garments away. A groan broke from his lips as he recognized the body.
It was that of Lightfoot.

Boone knelt beside the body of his comrade. Then he started abruptly
back. A hand moved--glided swiftly to the charred belt, clutching the
hot handle of a knife. The chief's eyes opened, a mad fire burning in
their depths. He struck viciously at the kneeling form. Boone caught
the hand and held it fast.

"Chief--don't you know me--your friend?"

Slowly a change came over the blistered face, the fire softened in his
eyes, and the weapon fell to the ground. The mouth opened--a husky
gurgle followed. He could not speak. He had breathed the scorching
flames too long.

Great tears rolled down the Wood King's face, for he knew now that
his friend--tried and true, though with a red skin--was dying. But
he dashed them aside, as Lightfoot made a peculiar gesture. One hand
traced a circle in the air then touched his own bare and blistered
head, afterward motioning toward a dead Osage that lay near.

Boone read the pantomime aright, and shuddered, but he could not refuse
the last request of a dying friend. He dragged the Osage near, then
averted his face. Lightfoot partially raised his body, and tore the
scalp from the gory skull. Then he shook it aloft, a horrible sound
parting his lips.

Boone turned quickly. The outcast fell back. He had died while
attempting to sound his exultant war-cry.




                              CHAPTER IX.

                          BOUND TO THE STAKE.


Snarling with the intense ferocity of some wild beast, Abel Dare fell
upon the renegade, burying his fingers deep in the flesh of his throat,
shaking, worrying him much as a terrier handles a rat. Had he a weapon,
however small, the career of the White Wolf would have ended then and
there, for, though a strong man, the maddened lover handled him like a
child. Already his tongue protruded, his face blackened.

But then an Osage warrior recovered from the surprise sufficiently to
administer a sharp tap upon the back of Abel Dare's head that felled
him senseless upon Grable.

Grable staggered to his feet, gasping, rubbing his livid throat, his
tongue and eyes gradually assuming their usual position and appearance.
Speechless, he made signs that Abel should be firmly pinioned. Edith
crept to the side of her lover, as though to shield him from injury
with her own person. Cursing bitterly, Seth Grable tore her away.

Grable, having regained his voice, was frightfully enraged. He showered
curses the most horrible upon the helpless settler, spitting in his
face, buffeting, kicking him unmercifully. A whitish froth tinged his
lips--he seemed a madman.

At length he turned and uttered a few hasty words to his followers,
and a yell of fiendish delight greeted the speech, as the warriors
glided away to execute the order. Grable again crouched down beside the
captive, a devilish grin upon his face, as the words parted his lips:

"You heerd me tell the Injuns? But mebbe you don't understand the
lingo. Wal, I told 'em to git a lot o' wood an' pile it up down thar
at the foot o' the path. Goin' to hev a barbecue--d' y' know what thet
means?" and the brute laughed diabolically.

Abel made no reply. He did understand the renegade's meaning,
perfectly. He knew that he was doomed to perish horribly at the
fire-stake. Though a sickening chill crept over his frame at the
thought, he gave no outward sign that the words had made any impression
upon him.

Grable eyed him steadily for a moment, then turned hastily away, as
though afraid to trust his passions. He hated this man so intensely
that a single blow, though it carried death with it, would not satisfy
his revenge. Afraid to tempt himself, he strode hastily to the cave
opening.

"Abel--Abel Dare," faintly uttered a low, quavering voice.

"Edith--thank God! I feared you were dead!"

"No--better that I was, perhaps. But you, oh! Abel, why did you act so
rashly, when you were once safely beyond the reach of these demons?"
and Edith groaned.

"I saw him raise his coward hand and strike you--I saw you fall as
though dead, and it made a madman of me. I thought only of avenging
your murder, and--"

"So got caught yourself--'zactly so, my children," added the harsh
voice of Grable, as he advanced and seized Abel by the collar. "But
you've talked a-plenty fer now. Don't be impatient, little 'un; I'll
come fer you in a minnit."

He dragged the captive over the ground toward the outer rim of the
camp, which was in the rocky hollow from which the passage started.
Near this outer boundary of the spot was a deep rift or pit in which
to fall was to go to doom. Gaining the ledge, Grable lifted Dare upon
his feet, pointing one hand down to the plain below. The Indians were
hastily gathering fuel from among the rocks to the left, where it had
fallen down the cliff from the trees above. A considerable pile was
already collected.

"More'n enough to roast _you_ to a turn, anyhow," chuckled Grable. "I
put it down thar so the smell won't bother my new squaw in thar. We'll
set here, looking at ye. So screw up your courage--'member a woman 'll
be lookin' on."

Abel bit his lips hard, and threw all the strength of his frame into
one effort to burst his bonds; but in vain. The stout skin did not
betray its trust.

"No use, man--not a bit. You're booked fer--"

Why did Seth Grable pause so suddenly and turn his eyes down upon the
plain? Why did the savages drop their loads of wood and dash toward the
trail leading upward to the cavern? Why did Abel Dare utter such an
exultant cry?

Because the quick, heavy thud of horses' hoofs beating the turf in full
gallop, came to their ears. Because a body of horsemen, nearly one
score strong, burst into view around the spur of the mound, charging
with a hoarse cheer--their rifles and pistols playing rapidly upon the
fleeing forms of the surprised savages, who had left their weapons
within the cavern, laying out a full dozen of the dusky warriors,
writhing in death-agony, or lying motionless as they fell, their blood
staining the white shingle.

At their head rode one--tall, muscular, his face and long gray hair
stained with black swamp mud; yet through this disguise Abel Dare
recognized the Wood King, Daniel Boone! Loud and clear, above the
tumult, he cried:

"Help! for the love o' God! Edith Mordaunt is held captive up in
this--" But then his speech was abruptly checked as Grable hurled him
heavily to the rocky ledge, at the same moment sinking out of sight
himself.

But the words were heard and understood. The captive settler had been
seen and recognized. And with a simultaneous yell, the borderers sprung
forward, abandoning their horses, treading hard upon the heels of the
fleeing red-skins as they scrambled up the narrow trail.

Cursing horribly, Grable dragged Dare into the passage along with
Edith; then seizing an armful of weapons, both muskets and bows and
arrows, he darted back to the ledge, just as the foremost Osage gained
it. A few hasty words--then the White Wolf leveled a musket, and fired
at the leading pale-face. A deep groan--then the slain man fell back
upon his comrades, momentarily checking their advance. Thus encouraged,
the Indians followed the example set them, and rained arrows and
bullets down upon the foe. Without means to return the compliment, the
settlers consulted prudence and hastily retreated, seizing their rifles
and seeking cover behind the bowlders, while the savages yelled loudly
in triumph. And above all rung the taunting laugh of the renegade.

The Osages seemed intoxicated with their victory. At that moment one
word from the White Wolf would have sent them headlong down the hill,
charging upon the pale-faces. But Grable did not utter the word--nor
did he even think of it. Besides being a rascal, he was a coward.
However, their dance was abruptly terminated, as a single report came
from below, and a savage dropped to the ledge, shot through the brain.
The next moment not a living soul was to be seen.

Five minutes later a strong voice from the plain called out:

"Hellow, you fellers up thar! kin any o' you talk white man's lingo? 'F
so, step out an' show yourself."

"Thet you may hev the fun o' takin' a crack at me, eh, Jim Fosdick?"
returned Grable from the ledge.

"No--honest Injun. We want to see 'f we can't come to some sort o'
tarms. Show up--we won't tetch ye."

"Wait a minit, an' I will."

Grable hastened to where the two captives lay bound, and stooping
raised Edith in his arms. An angry cry broke from Abel's lips, and he
strove desperately to break free, but in vain. The next moment Seth
Grable stood upon the ledge, holding the maiden before him in such a
manner as to perfectly shield his body; and laughing, he demanded:

"Now what ye want? Here I be--talk quick, though."

"What'll ye give for us to let ye go free?" asked Fosdick.

"_You_ let _us_ go free? Why, ye pesky fool, we're two to one now. You
cain't keep us here one minnit, 'f so be we want to git away," sneered
Grable.

"Lyin's cheap, or you'd starved to death long ago. But never mind thet
now. The matter's jist this. You're up thar, we're down here. Yon
cain't come down unless we say so. We've got nineteen rifles--sixteen
men to han'le 'em, sence you rubbed out three. We kin pick ye off one
by one as fast as ye putt fut over the edge. An' it's either that or
starvin'. They ain't much game up thar, I don't reckon. Then you'll
sca'cely drown'd yourself, 'ca'se water's too sca'ce. Thar it is in a
bullet-mold. How d' y' like it?"

"Even s'posin' it was all true--which it ain't by a durned sight, mind
ye--it'll be nice fun to think thet while you was starvin' _us_, you
was doin' the same to your fri'nds; to this gal an' Abel Dare."

"It wouldn't be very scrumtious, I know," coolly returned Fosdick, "but
then, sich is life. 'F you fellers hold out, bein' durned contrairy
fools, why then they's got to suffer, thet's all. But I said tarms, a
bit ago. We want to give ye a chaince. Send down the boy an' gal, safe
an' sound, an' we'll 'low ye till mornin' to git to a safe spot. Mind
ye, 'tain't 'ca'se we love ye any, but we don't want to hurt the boy
an' gal, if so be we kin help it."

"S'pose I say I won't do it?" sullenly replied Grable.

"Then we'll do one of two things," abruptly cried the Wood King. "We'll
either take you by storm, or lie here until we starve you out. Now
decide, quick!"

"I must talk 'th my braves fust," and Grable stepped beyond view of
those below, his face corrugated.

The consultation was long and animated. Edith listened to their words,
though not comprehending the harsh dialect, and closely watched the
expression of each speaker. Her heart sunk deeply as the braves
followed each other. A new hope, faint though it was, had sprung up in
her bosom at the settlers' demand, but now it was destroyed. She knew
that the savages had refused to accept the terms offered them.

"Ye see, pet, ye're mine, beyond all hope," laughed the White Wolf, as
he again raised Edith before him.

"I'd rather die then--"

"It's like you _will_; but then you've got to be mine _fust_. You
cain't overjump _thet_ nohow." Then adding, in a raised voice: "Hellow,
you fellers! down thar!--our answer is, jest do your level durnedest.
But, mark my words. The very fust lick you strike at us, 'll be the
death o' these captives. We've got a big fire a-burnin' in thar. We'll
jest rake it out here, tie the boy an' gal together an' pitch 'em on
the coals an' let 'em sizzle right afore your eyes. Mind ye, now, I'm
talkin' right from the book--it's swore to."

"This is your last answer, then?" sternly demanded Boone.

"With a few words more, yas. You jist take your critters an' ride
straight away east until you git to the fur-hill whar the two trees
grows side by side. You 'light thar. A'ter thet you kin do jist as you
please. Come back a'ter us, if so be you think best. We'll be out thar
in the open, then."

"And if we refuse?"

"Jest what I told ye afore. Strike one lick, and you kill your fri'nds.
We've got the deadwood on ye thar!"

"Give _us_ ten minutes to think it over," added Boone.

Grable granted the request, and then returned with Edith to where Abel
Dare lay. Here he began taunting the young man with all the ingenuity
of a foul-mouthed rascal, until called hastily away by a shout from the
savages without. Rushing to the entrance, he found his braves greatly
excited. In a moment he learned the truth. The settlers were about to
attack them, despite his sanguinary threats.

Spreading out, holding their rifles primed and cocked, in readiness for
an instantaneous shot, the settlers were approaching the sloping trail.
A few yards from its base six of them halted, their weapons covering
the ledge. Two men glided up to each of the six, laying their rifles
at their feet, then making a rush for the mound. These last had their
knives and all the pistols belonging to the party. The other six were
to protect them while clambering up.

Several Indians rushed to where a good-sized bowlder lay, rolling it
to the edge. Two rifles cracked--two Osages dropped, shot through the
brain, having carelessly exposed their persons. The scaling party
shouted exultantly. Those who had fired dropped the empty weapons and
seized fresh ones, once more covering the ledge.

A savage drops flat upon his face, then pushes the bowlder forward by
main strength. It rests upon the edge--another effort, and it topples
over. A cry comes from the foremost man, now nearly at the top of the
trail.

It is Boone. The next behind him is Jim Fosdick. The latter bows his
head to the rock, clutching the sides of the hollow path. The feet of
Boone rests upon his broad shoulders. His open hands are flung up and
meet the bowlder. A moment of horrible suspense. If his muscles were
unequal to the task, their fate was sealed.

A desperate effort that causes the whole human line to quiver and
shake--then the bowlder is turned aside and goes thundering down the
mound, dashing far out upon plain, its jagged points stained only with
blood from the palms of the Wood King. Loud yell those below--the
Osages howl with baffled fury.

The White Wolf shouts a few words, then rushes into the cavern. The
Osages clutch their weapons and spring forward. The rifles of the
marksmen below speak rapidly, each bullet sounding a death-knell. A
savage kneels down and aims a vicious blow at the Wood King with a
hatchet. His arm raises--a pistol flashes--the Indian falls forward,
his skull shattered to atoms, his hot blood besprinkling Boone's face.

A yell, horrible and unearthly, comes echoing from the passage into
the hills behind them. Then a wild, maniacal laugh. Instinctively the
combatants pause, wondering, awe-stricken.

Two Osages dart into the darkness; they are sworn friends to the
White Wolf. They fear he has met harm. That thought conquers their
superstition, redoubles their courage.

Passing the fire, they pause. Where the captives laid, there is only
one body now--that of a man. They reach its side, stoop over it--start
back in horror. It is the gory form of the White Wolf!

And from out the gloom beyond comes the horrible laughter.




                              CHAPTER XI.

                       THE BOWELS OF THE EARTH.


Edith Mordaunt and Abel Dare lay side by side upon the rocky floor
of the passage into which they had been borne for safe-keeping. They
discovered that their prison was indeed a rocky chamber out of which
the passage led, both into the outer air and into the hill. In that
chamber Seth Grable had left them just as he was startled by the cries
of his comrades, as the settlers began their desperate attack. And with
beating hearts, whose throbs were almost suffocating, the captives
listened, hoping, praying that the pale-faces might overcome the
Indians, and rescue them from what, otherwise, was almost certain death.

Believing themselves alone, they gave free expression to their hopes
and fears, little dreaming that human ears drank in their every word,
that human eyes were even then upon them, as they lay just within the
firelight. Then, with a step that made no sound, a tall figure glided
from out the darkness and stood over the wondering captives. And well
they might feel surprise, for the hermit stood before them in the
flesh, apparently unhurt!

A loud cry came to their ears from without, followed by the rapid
tramp of feet. Some one was approaching from the outer air. Stooping,
the hermit severed the cords that bound the lovers, at the same time
warning them to lie still. Then he sprung back into the shadow.

The White Wolf, a moment later, bounded into the fire-lighted circle,
his features horribly distorted, the devil painted in each bloodshot
eye. His intentions are easy told. He intended dragging the captives to
the ledge, and there expose them to view of the marksmen below, while
some of his braves knelt close behind them to pick off the attackers.
He knew that the settlers would not wantonly sacrifice their friends,
and depended upon that to free him from this new peril.

"Come--them cussed hounds out yender hev spoken yer doom. Better lose
a squaw than a life, though I hate to see ye rubbed out, gal," muttered
Grable, bending down.

"We'll live to see _you_ die!" gritted Abel, his hands clutching the
renegade by the throat, then hurling him with violence to the ground.

A yell of terror broke from his lips, echoed back by a cry so horrible
that he glared around in amazement. Then a shadow sprung forward. The
hermit stood over him. The firelight without flickered up--there could
be no mistake. Grable shuddered with a nameless awe. There seemed
something supernatural in these abrupt vanishings and reappearances.

"Mercy--don't kill me!" he gasped, as the bright glimmer of steel
filled his eyes. "I didn't mean you no harm when--"

"A dog you've lived--a dog you die!" gritted the hermit.

Then the long knife-blade descended twice, burying its length in the
heaving breast of the craven wretch. A horrible yell of agony--a shrill
laugh of diabolical glee--then the hermit sprung to his feet.

From without came other sounds--the savages would soon be there to
investigate the alarm. Unarmed save with a knife, the pale-faces could
expect to do little. Knowing this, Abel seized Edith and clasped her
firmly to his breast, saying:

"You know the crooks and turns of this place--lead on, then, before
those devils are upon our backs. Quick!"

"True, _she_ must be saved; for you and I, it matters little. Follow
me--tread carefully, and keep in my tracks. You have seen a specimen
of what the cavern contains, but there is more. Let the heathen follow
us if they dare; there will be wailing and gnashing of teeth in the
lodges of their people!" and again the wild, almost maniacal laugh of
the hermit rung out, reaching the ears of the savages, causing them
to glare hurriedly around, with a vague expectation of beholding some
supernatural horror.

Into the bowels of the hills--across a chasm spanned by a bridge,
taking a passage that led sharply to the right, the hermit led the way,
on through the darkness, never once faltering, though at more than one
point a single misstep would have ended in hurling the trio down to
inevitable destruction.

On he led, Abel following, Edith close clasped to his breast. Still on,
winding deviously, now in one direction, now in nearly its opposite,
until Abel felt his brain grow unsteady and commence to whirl.

"Now you can wait here until I return. Do not attempt to leave--the
ground is full of pitfalls made by nature."

"But should--if you should not return as you expect?"

"True--I forgot. Give me your hand. There--that is clay. By loosening
that you will find a passage that will lead you out upon the hill. Dig
twenty feet and you will come to a rock. Press hard against it, with
your shoulder, and you will roll it out. Here is a knife with which you
can dig. But don't attempt that for at least half an hour. There is no
danger of the heathen reaching you here, for, even if they attempt it,
I shall be in the way--and one man, with a knowledge of this trail, is
equal to a thousand in open ground. Remember--wait half an hour."

The hermit rapidly retraced his steps. He was now totally unarmed, but
felt little concern on that score. He possessed a knowledge that was
equal to an armory.

Pausing upon the bridge of rock, the hermit glared out upon the
swooning renegade, over whom stooped two braves, seeking to check the
flow of blood that saturated his garments. A devilish light deepened
in the hermit's eyes. He saw that the renegade still lived--possibly
might recover, and a bitter curse hissed through his grating teeth as
he groped around the edge of the rock with his hand.

Then again he stood erect, a rugged fragment in either hand. True as
the bullet from a hunter's rifle the rock sped through the air. Full
upon the bended head of the nearest savage it fell, crushing in the
skull bone. The second brave sprung hastily to his feet. The other rock
struck him upon the breast, felling him like a shot. Laughing horribly,
the hermit sprung forward, bending over the terror-stricken renegade.

The wounded savage utters a faint cry, and partially rising, flings
his knife at the hermit. The sharp blade sinks deep in the fleshy part
of the shoulder, but is unheeded by the seeming madman. The moaning
White Wolf is raised bodily from the blood-stained rock, and borne to
the edge of the muttering, rumbling abyss. A moment--then a horrible
shriek rings through the hollow hill as his body descends like a shot;
a sullen splash--then all is silence save the grumbling tones of the
water fiend.

And now the hermit stood possessed of a knife, a hatchet, a stout bow,
and tolerably well-filled quiver.

With ready bow he glided silently along, choosing the deepest shadow,
where the glow of the fire could not penetrate. He seemed to have only
thought for vengeance. He knew that he was death-stricken--in his
madness he resolved to exact a heavy compensation. His death would be a
dear one to the Osages.

He paused, the phosphorescent glitter deepening in his eyes as he
caught sight of several human forms, crouching close to the rugged
walls, their attention turned toward the cave entrance, their weapons
in readiness for instant use. They were Indians. He could distinguish
them quite plainly by the light of day beyond, though from the ledge
they would be invisible.

After escaping the death threatened by the bowlder, Boone had led his
men upon the ledge, winning it by a fierce though momentary struggle.
The Indians retreated into the cave darkness. To follow them there
would be little short of madness, and the Wood King called a halt to
consult upon the best plan of procedure. Lying close to either side
of the entrance they waited. Inside were the savages; beyond them the
hermit, all unsuspected, the fires of insanity blazing in his eyes, as
he bent the stout bow.

The bow relaxed--the arrow sped--an Osage sunk forward, transfixed by
the feathered shaft, his death-cry carrying consternation to the hearts
of the warriors, for they knew not whence the death-shot came. Another
_twang_ was followed with a like result, and then the madman's shrill
laughter rung out clear and devilish. In terror the Osages leaped
to their feet and darted to the entrance. From bad to worse. Half a
dozen rifles cracked, so close that their flashes scorched the flesh;
and then the rangers rushed on to a hand-to-hand struggle. But the
terror-stricken savages turned and fled.

Still before them sounded that horrible peal, and at the fire they
faltered in terror. Following each other in rapid succession the
feathered shafts carried death into their midst, each shot accompanied
by a devilish laugh. Paralyzed with horror, the savages flung
themselves upon the blood-running floor, hiding their heads. Upon them
poured the rangers, mad, raging, striking and slaying without mercy in
their blind rage, until not one was left alive.

When the excitement was over, the over-wrought strength of the hermit
gave way, and he staggered out into the firelight, and sunk to the
floor like one dead. Boone, recognizing him, rushed to his assistance.

"Where are our friends?" he asked.

"Over there--take torches and bring them here, quick! I must not die
without telling him--haste, I am dying!" gasped the hermit, blood
tinging his long beard.

A party of rangers started in search of our friends, and soon found
them.

The meeting was a joyous one, and much hand-shaking was indulged in
before the last words of the hermit were remembered. Then the party
hastily retraced their steps, Abel still supporting Edith, whose nerves
had been sadly shattered by the terrible, heart-crushing events of the
past few days.

They found the hermit lying in a pool of his own blood, his head upon
the Wood King's lap, his eyes closed as though in death. But at the
sound of footsteps he roused up and muttered a request for more liquor.
Reluctantly Boone complied, holding the flask of corn-juice to his
bloodless lips. The fiery liquor seemed to infuse new life into the
wounded man's veins, and his voice was strong and distinct as he spoke.

"Abel Dare--come nearer to me. You must hear every word, for a dead man
speaks to you. Not long since you told me that you knew not whether
your father lived or was dead. I am the only being living that can
clear that mystery."

"Tell me, then. Can it be that you are--"

"Patience--I will tell you, but it must be in my own way. You told me
your mother forgave him upon her death-bed; she had nothing to forgive
_him_, for he never did her wrong in thought or deed! Two men loved
your mother--one was Reuben Dare, the other was James Hazelwood. The
last took her marriage so greatly to heart that he lost his mind. His
friends placed him in an asylum. One night it burned to the ground.
James Hazelwood was among the missing. All thought him dead--buried in
the ruins; but he was not. _His_ hand kindled the fire; then he escaped.

"A short time afterward, your mother began to receive anonymous notes,
leading her to suspect the fidelity of her husband. At first she
treated them with silent scorn, but the cunning of a madman--for the
hand of Hazelwood was in this--made black seem white--the innocent
seem guilty. Then she sorrowed, still in silence. Reuben Dare, at any
other time, would have noticed this, and soon learned its cause, but he
was battling hard with adversity--trying to save himself from ruin. A
series of misfortunes had swallowed his fortune; he was a bankrupt.

"Hazelwood saw all this, and timed his actions well. The night before
the truth must be known, he watched your father at his office--it was
nearly midnight when he started to go home. As he passed an alley, a
heavy blow felled him to the ground. The next he knew he was in a close
carriage, securely bound, rolling swiftly along. The carriage paused,
Hazelwood dragged forth his victim, and then told him all--of the
diabolical plot he had formed to ruin him even after death. Then there
was a cruel blow. When daylight came the corpse of your father was
floating far out upon the Delaware bay. Wait, I am nearly done. More
whisky--I am growing weak," muttered the hermit, faintly.

"That day your father's name was coupled with dishonor. They said he
had robbed his creditors, and had fled with another man's wife. _That_
was Hazelwood's revenge. But it was with _him_ that the woman fled. But
he was crazy--crazy."

"And who are _you_, that you know of all this?" hoarsely demanded Abel
Dare, his eyes glowing, his breast heaving.

"I am--I was--James--Hazelwood, the mad--"

A grating cry broke from the young man's lips, and he darted forward,
but, with uplifted hand, the Wood King said:

"Stay--he is beyond your power now--he is dead!"

The words were true. The hermit was no more--had died with the horrible
confession upon his lips. There was much left unexplained, that would
now be forever buried in oblivion. Of his life since the crime--how he
came to be a wanderer in these wilds, a hermit, no one would ever know.

Yet Abel felt a feeling of relief far down in his heart, for now he
knew that he had not been the son of a double criminal; though his
father had been unfortunate, he had not been guilty of the crime that
had rested upon his name.

The day was far spent, and as much yet remained to be done, the rangers
decided not to return to the settlement that night. A soft couch of
leaves was made for Edith under shelter of a rock, where she almost
immediately sunk into a deep and dreamless slumber, the first she had
enjoyed since the night before the massacre.

The Indian bodies were cast into the pitfall, but a grave was dug
outside for those of the settlers who had fallen.

The rangers watched closely that night, but nothing was seen or heard
of any enemies. With early dawn they took up their return march,
reaching the settlement in safety. Within one week the insurrection was
put down--the savages sued for peace, and the country was once more
safe.

That winter Abel Dare and Edith were married, and the girl who had been
mistaken by Lightfoot for Yellow-hair, stood bridesmaid, having been
released by the Osages at the new treaty.

And so we leave the couple, safely through the storm, basking in the
sunshine of each other's love.


                                THE END




                          DIME POCKET NOVELS.

              PUBLISHED SEMI-MONTHLY, AT TEN CENTS EACH.


     1--Hawkeye Harry. By Oll Coomes.
     2--Dead Shot. By Albert W. Aiken.
     3--The Boy Miners. By Edward S. Ellis.
     4--Blue Dick. By Capt. Mayne Reid.
     5--Nat Wolfe. By Mrs. M. V. Victor.
     6--The White Tracker. Edward S. Ellis.
     7--The Outlaw's Wife. Mrs. Ann S. Stephens.
     8--The Tall Trapper. By Albert W. Aiken.
     9--Lightning Jo. By Capt. Adams.
    10--The Island Pirate. By Capt. Mayne Reid.
    11--The Boy Ranger. By Oll Coomes.
    12--Bess, the Trapper. By E. S. Ellis.
    13--The French Spy. By W. J. Hamilton.
    14--Long Shot. By Capt. Comstock.
    15--The Gunmaker. By James L. Bowen.
    16--Red Hand. By A. G. Piper.
    17--Ben, the Trapper. By Lewis W. Carson.
    18--Wild Raven. By Oll Coomes.
    19--The Specter Chief. By Seelin Robbins.
    20--The B'ar-Killer. By Capt. Comstock.
    21--Wild Nat. By Wm. R. Eyster.
    22--Indian Jo. By Lewis W. Carson.
    23--Old Kent, the Ranger. Edward S. Ellis.
    24--The One-Eyed Trapper. Capt. Comstock
    25--Godbold, the Spy. By N. C. Iron.
    26--The Black Ship. By John S. Warner.
    27--Single Eye. By Warren St. John.
    28--Indian Jim. By Edward S. Ellis.
    29--The Scout. By Warren St. John.
    30--Eagle Eye. By W. J. Hamilton.
    31--The Mystic Canoe. By Edward S. Ellis.
    32--The Golden Harpoon. By R. Starbuck.
    33--The Scalp King. By Lieut. Ned Hunter.
    34--Old Lute. By E. W. Archer.
    35--Rainbolt, Ranger. By Oll Coomes.
    36--The Boy Pioneer. By Edward S. Ellis.
    37--Carson, the Guide. By J. H. Randolph.
    38--The Heart Eater. By Harry Hazard.
    39--Wetzel, the Scout. By Boynton Belknap.
    40--The Huge Hunter. By Ed. S. Ellis.
    41--Wild Nat, the Trapper. Paul Prescott.
    42--Lynx-cap. By Paul Bibbs.
    43--The White Outlaw. By Harry Hazard.
    44--The Dog Trailer. By Frederick Dewey.
    45--The Elk King. By Capt. Chas. Howard.
    46--Adrian, the Pilot. By Col. P. Ingraham.
    47--The Man-hunter. By Maro O. Rolfe.
    48--The Phantom Tracker. By F. Dewey.
    49--Moccasin Bill. By Paul Bibbs.
    50--The Wolf Queen. By Charles Howard.
    51--Tom Hawk, the Trailer.
    52--The Mad Chief. By Chas. Howard.
    53--The Black Wolf. By Edwin E. Ewing.
    54--Arkansas Jack. By Harry Hazard.
    55--Blackbeard. By Paul Bibbs.
    56--The River Rifles. By Billex Muller.
    57--Hunter Ham. By J. Edgar Iliff.
    58--Cloudwood. By J. M. Merrill.
    59--The Texas Hawks. By Jos. E. Badger, Jr.
    60--Merciless Mat. By Capt. Chas. Howard.
    61--Mad Anthony's Scouts. By E. Rodman.
    62--The Luckless Trapper. Wm. R. Eyster.
    63--The Florida Scout. Jos. E. Badger, Jr.
    64--The Island Trapper. Chas. Howard.
    65--Wolf-Cap. By Capt. Chas. Howard.
    66--Rattling Dick. By Harry Hazard.
    67--Sharp-Eye. By Major Max Martine.
    68--Iron-Hand. By Frederick Forest.
    69--The Yellow Hunter. By Chas. Howard.
    70--The Phantom Rider. By Maro O. Rolfe.
    71--Delaware Tom. By Harry Hazard.
    72--Silver Rifle. By Capt. Chas. Howard.
    73--The Skeleton Scout. Maj. L. W. Carson.
    74--Little Rifle. By Capt. "Bruin" Adams.
    75--The Wood Witch. By Edwin Emerson.
    76--Old Ruff, the Trapper. "Bruin" Adams.
    77--The Scarlet Shoulders. Harry Hazard.
    78--The Border Rifleman. L. W. Carson.
    79--Outlaw Jack. By Harry Hazard.
    80--Tiger-Tail, the Seminole. R. Ringwood.
    81--Death-Dealer. By Arthur L. Meserve.
    82--Kenton, the Ranger. By Chas. Howard.
    83--The Specter Horseman. Frank Dewey.
    84--The Three Trappers. Seelin Robbins.
    85--Kaleolah. By T. Benton Shields, U. S. N.
    86--The Hunter Hercules. Harry St. George.
    87--Phil Hunter. By Capt. Chas. Howard.
    88--The Indian Scout. By Harry Hazard.
    89--The Girl Avenger. By Chas. Howard.
    90--The Red Hermitess. By Paul Bibbs.
    91--Star-Face, the Slayer.
    92--The Antelope Boy. By Geo. L. Aiken.
    93--The Phantom Hunter. By E. Emerson.
    94--Tom Pintle, the Pilot. By M. Klapp.
    95--The Red Wizard. By Ned Hunter.
    96--The Rival Trappers. By L. W. Carson.
    97--The Squaw Spy. By Capt. Chas. Howard.
    98--Dusky Dick. By Jos. E. Badger, Jr.
    99--Colonel Crockett. By Chas. E. Lasalle.
    100--Old Bear Paw. By Major Max Martine.
    101--Redlaw. By Jos. E. Badger, Jr.
    102--Wild Rube. By W. J. Hamilton.
    103--The Indian Hunters. By J. L. Bowen.
    104--Scarred Eagle. By Andrew Dearborn.
    105--Nick Doyle. By P. Hamilton Myers.
    106--The Indian Spy. By Jos. E. Badger, Jr.
    107--Job Dean. By Ingoldsby North.
    108--The Wood King. By Jos. E. Badger, Jr.
    109--The Scalped Hunter. By Harry Hazard.
    110--Nick, the Scout. By W. J. Hamilton.
    111--The Texas Tiger. By Edward Willett.
    112--The Crossed Knives. By Hamilton.
    113--Tiger-Heart, the Tracker. By Howard.
    114--The Masked Avenger. By Ingraham.
    115--The Pearl Pirates. By Starbuck.
    116--Black Panther. By Jos. E. Badger, Jr.
    117--Abdiel, the Avenger. By Ed. Willett.
    118--Cato, the Creeper. By Fred. Dewey.
    119--Two-Handed Mat. By Jos. E. Badger.
    120--Mad Trail Hunter. By Harry Hazard.
    121--Black Nick. By Frederick Whittaker.
    122--Kit Bird. By W. J. Hamilton.
    123--The Specter Riders. By Geo. Gleason.
    124--Giant Pete. By W. J. Hamilton.
    125--The Girl Captain. By Jos. E. Badger.
    126--Yankee Eph. By J. R. Worcester.
    127--Silverspur. By Edward Willett.
    128--Squatter Dick. By Jos. E. Badger.
    129--The Child Spy. By George Gleason.
    130--Mink Coat. By Jos. E. Badger.
    131--Red Plume. By J. Stanley Henderson.
    132--Clyde, the Trailer. By Maro O. Rolfe.
    133--The Lost Cache. J. Stanley Henderson.
    134--The Cannibal Chief. Paul J. Prescott.
    135--Karaibo. By J. Stanley Henderson.
    136--Scarlet Moccasin. By Paul Bibbs.
    137--Kidnapped. By J. Stanley Henderson.
    138--Maid of the Mountain. By Hamilton.
    139--The Scioto Scouts. By Ed. Willett.
    140--The Border Renegade. By Badger.
    141--The Mute Chief. By C. D. Clark.
    142--Boone, the Hunter. By Whittaker.
    143--Mountain Kate. By Jos. E. Badger, Jr.
    144--The Red Scalper. By W. J. Hamilton.
    145--The Lone Chief. By Jos. E. Badger, Jr.
    146--The Silver Bugle. Lieut. Col. Hazleton.
    147--Chinga, the Cheyenne. By E. S. Ellis.
    148--The Tangled Trail. By Major Martine.
    149--The Unseen Hand. By J. S. Henderson.
    150--The Lone Indian. By Capt. C. Howard.
    151--The Branded Brave. By Paul Bibbs.
    152--Billy Bowlegs, The Seminole Chief.
    153--The Valley Scout. By Seelin Robbins.
    154--Red Jacket. By Paul Bibbs.
    155--The Jungle Scout. Ready
    156--Cherokee Chief. Ready
    157--The Bandit Hermit. Ready
    158--The Patriot Scouts. Ready
    159--The Wood Rangers.
    160--The Red Foe. Ready
    161--The Beautiful Unknown.
    162--Canebrake Mose. Ready
    163--Hank, the Guide. Ready
    164--The Border Scout. Ready Oct. 5th.


      BEADLE AND ADAMS, Publishers, 98 William Street, New York.

                   *       *       *       *       *

     [Transcriber's Note: No Chapter X. heading in original text.]