The Zane Grey Megapack. Zane Grey
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his tomahawk, which struck fire from the swinging rifle.
He held them at bay. While they had no firearms he was master of the situation. With every sweep of his arms he brought the long rifle down and knocked a flint from the firelock of an enemy’s weapon. Soon the Indians’ guns were useless. Slowly then he began to edge away from the stone, toward the opening where he had seen the fleeting form vanish.
His intention was to make a dash for life, for he had heard a noise behind the rock, and remembered the guard. He saw the savages glance behind him, and anticipated danger from that direction, but he must not turn. A second there might be fatal. He backed defiantly along the rock until he gained its outer edge. But too late! The Indians glided before him, now behind him; he was surrounded. He turned around and around, with the ever-circling rifle whirling in the faces of the baffled foe.
Once opposite the lane leading from the glade he changed his tactics, and plunged with fierce impetuosity into the midst of the painted throng. Then began a fearful conflict. The Indians fell before the sweep of his powerful arms; but grappled with him from the ground. He literally plowed his way through the struggling mass, warding off an hundred vicious blows. Savage after savage he flung off, until at last he had a clear path before him. Freedom lay beyond that shiny path. Into it he bounded.
As he left the glade the plumed guard stepped from behind a tree near the entrance of the path, and cast his tomahawk.
A white, glittering flash, it flew after the fleeing runner; its aim was true.
Suddenly the moonlight path darkened in the runner’s sight; he saw a million flashing stars; a terrible pain assailed him; he sank slowly, slowly down; then all was darkness.
CHAPTER XVII.
Joe awoke as from a fearsome nightmare. Returning consciousness brought a vague idea that he had been dreaming of clashing weapons, of yelling savages, of a conflict in which he had been clutched by sinewy fingers. An acute pain pulsed through his temples; a bloody mist glazed his eyes; a sore pressure cramped his arms and legs. Surely he dreamed this distress, as well as the fight. The red film cleared from his eyes. His wandering gaze showed the stern reality.
The bright sun, making the dewdrops glisten on the leaves, lighted up a tragedy. Near him lay an Indian whose vacant, sightless eyes were fixed in death. Beyond lay four more savages, the peculiar, inert position of whose limbs, the formlessness, as it were, as if they had been thrown from a great height and never moved again, attested that here, too, life had been extinguished. Joe took in only one detail—the cloven skull of the nearest—when he turned away sickened. He remembered it all now. The advance, the rush, the fight—all returned. He saw again Wetzel’s shadowy form darting like a demon into the whirl of conflict; he heard again that hoarse, booming roar with which the Avenger accompanied his blows. Joe’s gaze swept the glade, but found no trace of the hunter.
He saw Silvertip and another Indian bathing a wound on Girty’s head. The renegade groaned and writhed in pain. Near him lay Kate, with white face and closed eyes. She was unconscious, or dead. Jim sat crouched under a tree to which he was tied.
“Joe, are you badly hurt?” asked the latter, in deep solicitude.
“No, I guess not; I don’t know,” answered Joe. “Is poor Kate dead?”
“No, she has fainted.”
“Where’s Nell?”
“Gone,” replied Jim, lowering his voice, and glancing at the Indians. They were too busy trying to bandage Girty’s head to pay any attention to their prisoners. “That whirlwind was Wetzel, wasn’t it?”
“Yes; how’d you know?”
“I was awake last night. I had an oppressive feeling, perhaps a presentiment. Anyway, I couldn’t sleep. I heard that wind blow through the forest, and thought my blood would freeze. The moan is the same as the night wind, the same soft sigh, only louder and somehow pregnant with superhuman power. To speak of it in broad daylight one seems superstitious, but to hear it in the darkness of this lonely forest, it is fearful! I hope I am not a coward; I certainly know I was deathly frightened. No wonder I was scared! Look at these dead Indians, all killed in a moment. I heard the moan; I saw Silvertip disappear, and the other two savages rise. Then something huge dropped from the rock; a bright object seemed to circle round the savages; they uttered one short yell, and sank to rise no more. Somehow at once I suspected that this shadowy form, with its lightninglike movements, its glittering hatchet, was Wetzel. When he plunged into the midst of the other savages I distinctly recognized him, and saw that he had a bundle, possibly his coat, wrapped round his left arm, and his right hand held the glittering tomahawk. I saw him strike that big Indian there, the one lying with split skull. His wonderful daring and quickness seemed to make the savages turn at random. He broke through the circle, swung Nell under his arm, slashed at my bonds as he passed by, and then was gone as he had come. Not until after you were struck, and Silvertip came up to me, was I aware my bonds were cut. Wetzel’s hatchet had severed them; it even cut my side, which was bleeding. I was free to help, to fight, and I did not know it. Fool that I am!”
“I made an awful mess of my part of the rescue,” groaned Joe. “I wonder if the savages know it was Wetzel.”
“Do they? Well, I rather think so. Did you not hear them scream that French name? As far as I am able to judge, only two Indians were killed instantly. The others died during the night. I had to sit here, tied and helpless, listening as they groaned and called the name of their slayer, even in their death-throes. Deathwind! They have named him well.”
“I guess he nearly killed Girty.”
“Evidently, but surely the evil one protects the renegade.”
“Jim Girty’s doomed,” whispered Joe, earnestly. “He’s as good as dead already. I’ve lived with Wetzel, and know him. He told me Girty had murdered a settler, a feeble old man, who lived near Fort Henry with his son. The hunter has sworn to kill the renegade; but, mind you, he did not tell me that. I saw it in his eyes. It wouldn’t surprise me to see him jump out of these bushes at any moment. I’m looking for it. If he knows there are only three left, he’ll be after them like a hound on a trail. Girty must hurry. Where’s he taking you?”
“To the Delaware town.”
“I don’t suppose the chiefs will let any harm befall you; but Kate and I would be better off dead. If we can only delay the march, Wetzel will surely return.”
“Hush! Girty’s up.”
The renegade staggered to an upright position, and leaned on the Shawnee’s arm. Evidently he had not been seriously injured, only stunned. Covered with blood from a swollen, gashed lump on his temple, he certainly presented a savage appearance.
“Where’s the yellow-haired lass?” he demanded, pushing away Silvertip’s friendly arm. He glared around the glade. The Shawnee addressed him briefly, whereupon he raged to and fro under the tree, cursing with foam-flecked lips, and actually howling with baffled rage. His fury was so great that he became suddenly weak, and was compelled to sit down.
“She’s safe, you villainous renegade!” cried Joe.
“Hush, Joe! Do not anger him. It can do no good,” interposed Jim.
“Why not? We couldn’t be worse off,” answered Joe.
“I’ll git her, I’ll git her agin,” panted Girty. “I’ll keep her, an’ she’ll love me.”
The spectacle of this perverted wretch speaking as if he had been cheated out of love was so remarkable, so pitiful, so monstrous, that for a moment Joe was dumbfounded.
“Bah! You white-livered murderer!” Joe hissed. He well knew it was not wise to give way to his passion; but he could not help it. This beast in human guise, whining for love, maddened him. “Any white woman on earth would die a thousand deaths and burn for a million years afterward rather than love you!”
“I’ll see you killed at the stake, beggin’ fer mercy, an’ be feed fer buzzards,” croaked