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.