Chapter VI: Demanding the Dead

“Well, they’ve got Doc Cromer cornered at last. He fooled ’em completely when they pounced down upon his shanty like buzzards, an’ he’s goin’ to try an’ fool ’em ag’in. Boy, them red devils war watchin’ the cave, an’ when they saw me, they couldn’t hold ’emselves longer, so erbout twenty let drive ter once, an’ I felt a sting in my leg. Jehu! how I sent the boat through the water then, and of course they follered. I didn’t ’spect to find both you chaps to home, fur I thought the half-breed was still off on the powder errand.”

“He returned a few hours prior to our fight. I saved his life in the woods, and broke an oath by such action.”

“How, boy?”

“I had sworn to Ahdeek that I would never appear to the Indians while they saw him. You see, Doc, I never had any great grudge against the reds, but Ahdeek is avenging the death of somebody—he won’t tell me who. True, the greasers have bothered my traps, and that set me against them, and the boy made me swear that I would assist him to avenge the death of that mysterious personage, also, as I have further said. The Indians know that _I_, and not Ahdeek, am the real White Tiger. I told them so when I saved the boy’s life. Doc, among the murdered traders I possessed many staunch friends, and if I ever escape from this difficulty, those brave fellows shall be remembered when I strike.”

Doc Cromer spoke quickly.

“And are we to die here?” he asked.

“I trust not.”

“Say ‘No,’ boy.”

“_No!_”

The trader rose to his feet.

“Dorsey, something’s going on among the young braves,” he said. “They’ve been hobnobing in groups for several hours, and p’r’aps they want to take one of us three down to the hollow.”

“Should they take us, we’ll escape, Doc.”

“Yes, but we’ll not be taken. Our guards are old fellows, and the young Chips will not interfere with them. Ahdeek’s guards are young larks, and mind I tell you, if they take anybody ’twill be the dark boy. For that reason they separated us; the old warriors knew that the young ’uns would want a victim, an’ so they set Ahdeek aside for them.”

“They won’t kill the boy,” said the White Tiger, confidently. “He’ll elude the red devils.”

“Yes, he’s too much for ’em. Dorsey Webb, I’m the last of the traders,” and the speaker ground his teeth till the guards, attracted by the grating sound, moved nearer the wigwam and listened.

After the battle in the White Tiger’s cave, the three captives were conveyed to the Chippewa village, and thrust into wigwams which were strongly guarded.

Nothing definite concerning their fate had been revealed. The Indians were reticent; but their lowering looks and the clamorings of the squaws foretold a dark future.

Cromer’s wound had been rudely dressed by a Chippewa doctor, and he felt much relieved while they conversed in their prison.

“It must be near day,” said the trader, after a long pause, “for it looks so dark out. The village is asleep.”

“Do the guards slumber?” questioned the White Tiger in a whisper.

“Not much!” said Cromer, lightly. “When you catch a Chippewa asleep when he’s entertaining such visitors like ourselves, you’ll see it rain scalps. Now it’s getting lighter we’ll soon learn if they took Ahdeek out last night.”

With the dawn of day excitement entered the village. Old warriors were seen conversing excitedly, and a strange, knowing smile played with the lips of the younger ones.

“I told you so,” said Doc Cromer, turning from a crack to young Webb, who reclined on a couch of wolf-skins. “They took Ahdeek last night.”

The White Tiger sprung to his feet, a painful expression crossing his face.

“Did they kill him?”

“Don’t know; the torturers haven’t come back. Some suspicious old greaser has just discovered the boy’s empty lodge.”

“Curse the fiends!” grated the Tiger. “Ahdeek was the best friend I had in the world. I loved him as a brother and—here, Doc, untie my hands and let me gripe a knife. By Heaven! I’ll make a red pathway through this accursed den of devils for last night’s work.”

“Don’t do it, boy,” answered the trader, quietly and with a smile. “My hands are in a delicate situation, too. S’pose we ask one o’ the guards to cut us loose.”

The youth bit his lip and threw himself down on the couch again. Then he rolled over on his face and recalled the past, which he associated with Ahdeek, and thought of the dark boy’s doom.

Several hours flitted over him in that position, while Doc Cromer continued to peer through the crack upon the Indian village.

Suddenly a distant shout fell upon the latter’s ear, and he turned to the boy.

“Boy, did you hear that?”

“No,” answered the Tiger, starting up. “If it was a cry, Doc, what did it mean?”

“It war a cry, and it meant that a gang of Injuns is comin’ into town with a captive.”

“A captive? Who can it be?”

“I’m puzzled,” said Doc. “The traders ar’ dead, an’ Injun don’t fight Injun in this war. Come hyar an’ look through this crack. We’ll see presently who’s comin’.”

The youth rose and moved to a crack below the one through which his fellow-prisoner had been taking observations, and in silence they watched for the returning band.

The great council-square of the village soon thronged with Indians of both sexes and all ages, whose eyes were turned to the north, from which direction the shout had emanated.

“There they come, down the hill,” whispered Cromer, as a dark body of Indians descended a rise among the suburbs of the town. “They’ve got a captive, but not Ahdeek.”

A few minutes later, the band joined their comrades in the “square,” where the red ranks broke at a signal, and the gaze of the prisoners fell upon Silver Rifle!

“The Spirit of the Lake!” cried the White Tiger, starting from his post.

“True, by hokey! Not much ghost there, boy. I wonder how they came to catch ’er? Surely they won’t kill _her_—she’s too pretty. Some chief’ll take her for his squaw.”

“Not if I can drive a knife to his heart!”

Cromer turned quickly upon the fiery speaker.

“You claim her, then!” he said, with a smile.

“No; but she sha’n’t be an Indian slave. I never met her with a word. She knows I live, that is all, and she may see me die.”

“True as Gospel. But let the gal alone. Think of John Burton; he tried to cheat an Ottawa out of a white gal, an’ got his everlastin’ fur his trouble. Gals ar’ dangerous things—worse nor rattlesnakes to fool arter. Therefore, let that white piece out thar alone.”

“Doc, I thank you always for advice, whether I take it or not. But see how she faces the demons.”

“She’s grit, no doubt, but then she’s got to make the best of her situation. I don’t care much for her, though I’d like to know what they’ve done with Ahdeek.”

“Your curiosity and fear are no greater than mine, Doc,” answered the Tiger. “But we’ll soon hear.”

The last words were called forth by the return of a guard, who had evidently been sent to the crowd to learn something concerning the new captive and the fate of the half-breed.

Doc Cromer, whose knowledge of the Chippewa language was quite extensive, applied his ear to the crevice and listened.

“Where dark White Tiger?” asked one of the sentries.

“Dead,” was the reply. “He break from stake and run, but the young braves catch him, bring him back and burn him.”

“Who Oagla catch?”

“Silver Rifle. She hunt for ring in big wood near Gitche Gumee, when Chippewas slip up and catch her. Hawkeye wear ring gal lookin’ for, and she killed him for it.”

Doc Cromer waited to hear no more, but turned quickly upon the boy, who was waiting with painful anxiety and interest for him to speak.

“Ahdeek is dead,” he said, gently, and with a sigh. “And the girl has killed the bravest of the Chippewa chiefs.”

“Then there’s but little hope for her.”

“Precious little,” was the reply. “She made a desperate attempt to get the ring.”

“What do you know about the ring, Doc?”

“Nothing, only the girl war looking for it, when they surprised her. Hawkeye had the ring, an’ she killed him to get it.”

“Then some Indian has it now?”

“I rather guess so.”

“Poor Ahdeek! he’ll never get to fulfill his vow. But”—in an undertone—“I’ll fulfill it for him.”

“You’ll do what, boy?”

Dorsey Webb started and colored to the temples.

“Nothing!” he stammered.

“True as Gospel. But— Hello! what does this mean?”

The newly returned guard had thrown back the door of the prison wigwam, and confronted the captives.

“Hondurah want pale-faces in big place,” he said. “Want to say much to them.”

“Wal, lead on, an’ don’t stand hyar blabbin’. I’m anxious to hear what Hondurah has to say.”

“Pale-face won’t talk so big when sun sleeps, mebbe.”

The trader made no reply; the Indian’s words had set him to thinking, and, guarded by the warriors, the twain found themselves on the way to the “square.”

Doc Cromer limped somewhat, on account of his wound, but the White Tiger walked bravely erect at his side, with his eyes fixed upon the motley, revengeful crowd that awaited him.

Suddenly he saw the captive girl turn toward him, and her gaze fastened itself upon his face. A moment later she started back, with a light cry, which he could not understand.

“There _are_ two White Tigers,” she said. “_He_ spoke the truth when dying.”

Presently the red crowd admitted the whites to the circle in which Silver Rifle stood, and Hondurah, a noble specimen of the North American Indian, stepped forward, with folded arms.

“Hondurah will be brief,” he said, fastening his dark eyes upon the young White Tiger, who, with head thrown back in lofty defiance, met his look with unblanched cheek.

“Dohma and Renadah left their lodges five sleeps ago for the trail. They were to return last sleep. White Tiger, where are the chiefs?”

“They never crossed my trail,” was the quick, but measured reply. “Hondurah, if I slew Dohma and Renadah, I would not lie about it. Neither was their blood upon my darker brother’s hands.”

Murmurs of incredulity ran round the red circle, which impulsively contracted.

“White Tiger lies,” said the chief, slowly, but with rising indignation. “A forked tongue will do him no good here. Let him speak the truth, or die before yonder fiery Manitou sleeps below the waves of Gitche Gumee.”

“I have spoken the truth, red devils,” the boy hissed with such bitterness that Doc Cromer stepped reprovingly toward him. “I will not say there is blood on my hands, when there is none. Make the best of my answer. I can die but once.”

Hondurah’s tomahawk shot from his girdle.

“White Tiger, you have killed many Chippewas,” he hissed. “We have hunted you long, never dreaming that you were a twin. Your twin brother is dead; the young braves stole him from the lodge last sleep, and burned him in the forest. You may not tread the long trail to-day by taking the forked tongue from your mouth and putting one in that is not forked. Now Hondurah asks for the last time. Where are Dohma and Renadah?”

“I don’t know!” shouted the youth. “If I possessed a knife, Hondurah, you’d never call another white boy a liar!”

The sachem almost cracked his teeth with anger.

“Chiefs,” he cried, turning to several Indians who stood at his left, “to the torture-tree with the pale liar. He shall not see the sun sleep. When he burns he will tell where lie our stricken brothers. Hondurah has spoken. Away.”

The chiefs had sprung forward to obey the mandate, when, with a great bound, Silver Rifle threw herself between them and the doomed boy.

“Let Silver Rifle speak first!” she cried. “In the great cave near the Manitou’s chapel, sleep Dohma and Renadah, side by side. They fought for Silver Rifle—fought with tomahawks for the white girl. Dohma died, and then Renadah fell beneath _this_ arm!”

She paused, and howls of rage broke from the savage band, and as Hondurah sprung toward her, scores of scalping-knives and tomahawks flashed in mid-air, and the click, click, click of rifle-locks resounded on every side.

“The innocent,” she cried, “shall not suffer for the guilty! If the blood of Dohma and Renadah demand a victim, I am here. But, ere I die, let me clutch the ring that Oagla holds, for I would know who I am.”

The gaze of many flitted to Oagla, who thrust his hand into the medicine-bag at his side.

For a moment he rummaged among the ocherous stones, and then withdrew his fingers.

His face told a story.

The ring was gone!

“Villain!” cried Silver Rifle, “you’ve thrown it away! Oh if I could live to pay you for that act!”