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!