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.