The Zane Grey Megapack. Zane Grey
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hard, and then fell heavily without uttering a cry. He had been shot by an Indian concealed in the thicket.
For a moment no one moved, nor spoke. The missionaries were stricken with horror; the converts seemed turned to stone, and the hostile throng waited silently, as they had for hours.
“He’s shot! He’s shot! Oh, I feared this!” cried Heckewelder, running forward. The missionaries followed him. Edwards was lying on his back, with a bloody hand pressed to his side.
“Dave, Dave, how is it with you?” asked Heckewelder, in a voice low with fear.
“Not bad. It’s too far out to be bad, but it knocked me over,” answered Edwards, weakly. “Give me—water.”
They carried him from the platform, and laid him on the grass under a tree.
Young pressed Edwards’ hand; he murmured something that sounded like a prayer, and then walked straight upon the platform, as he raised his face, which was sublime with a white light.
“Paleface! Back!” roared Half King, as he waved his war-club.
“You Indian dog! Be silent!”
Young’s clear voice rolled out on the quiet air so imperiously, so powerful in its wonderful scorn and passion, that the hostile savages were overcome by awe, and the Christians thrilled anew with reverential love.
Young spoke again in a voice which had lost its passion, and was singularly sweet in its richness.
“Beloved Christians, if it is God’s will that we must die to prove our faith, then as we have taught you how to live, so we can show you how to die—”
“Spang!”
Again a whistling sound came with the bellow of an overcharged rifle; again the sickening thud of a bullet striking flesh.
Young fell backwards from the platform.
The missionaries laid him beside Edwards, and then stood in shuddering silence. A smile shone on Young’s pale face; a stream of dark blood welled from his breast. His lips moved; he whispered:
“I ask no more—God’s will.”
Jim looked down once at his brother missionaries; then with blanched face, but resolute and stern, he marched toward the platform.
Heckewelder ran after him, and dragged him back.
“No! no! no! My God! Would you be killed? Oh! I tried to prevent this!” cried Heckewelder, wringing his hands.
One long, fierce, exultant yell pealed throughout the grove. It came from those silent breasts in which was pent up hatred; it greeted this action which proclaimed victory over the missionaries.
All eyes turned on Half King. With measured stride he paced to and fro before the Christian Indians.
Neither cowering nor shrinking marked their manner; to a man, to a child, they rose with proud mien, heads erect and eyes flashing. This mighty chief with his blood-thirsty crew could burn the Village of Peace, could annihilate the Christians, but he could never change their hope and trust in God.
“Blinded fools!” cried Half King. “The Huron is wise; he tells no lies. Many moons ago he told the Christians they were sitting half way between two angry gods, who stood with mouths open wide and looking ferociously at each other. If they did not move back out of the road they would be ground to powder by the teeth of one or the other, or both. Half King urged them to leave the peaceful village, to forget the paleface God; to take their horses, and flocks, and return to their homes. The Christians scorned the Huron King’s counsel. The sun has set for the Village of Peace. The time has come. Pipe and the Huron are powerful. They will not listen to the paleface God. They will burn the Village of Peace. Death to the Christians!”
Half King threw the black war-club with a passionate energy on the grass before the Indians.
They heard this decree of death with unflinching front. Even the children were quiet. Not a face paled, not an eye was lowered.
Half King cast their doom in their teeth. The Christians eyed him with unspoken scorn.
“My God! My God! It is worse than I thought!” moaned Heckewelder. “Utter ruin! Murder! Murder!”
In the momentary silence which followed his outburst, a tiny cloud of blue-white smoke came from the ferns overhanging a cliff.
Crack!
All heard the shot of a rifle; all noticed the difference between its clear, ringing intonation and the loud reports of the other two. All distinctly heard the zip of a bullet as it whistled over their heads.
All? No, not all. One did not hear that speeding bullet. He who was the central figure in this tragic scene, he who had doomed the Christians might have seen that tiny puff of smoke which heralded his own doom, but before the ringing report could reach his ears a small blue hole appeared, as if by magic, over his left eye, and pulse, and sense, and life had fled forever.
Half King, great, cruel chieftain, stood still for an instant as if he had been an image of stone; his haughty head lost its erect poise, the fierceness seemed to fade from his dark face, his proud plume waved gracefully as he swayed to and fro, and then fell before the Christians, inert and lifeless.
No one moved; it was as if no one breathed. The superstitious savages awaited fearfully another rifle shot; another lightning stroke, another visitation from the paleface’s God.
But Jim Girty, with a cunning born of his terrible fear, had recognized the ring of that rifle. He had felt the zip of a bullet which could just as readily have found his brain as Half King’s. He had stood there as fair a mark as the cruel Huron, yet the Avenger had not chosen him. Was he reserved for a different fate? Was not such a death too merciful for the frontier Deathshead? He yelled in his craven fear:
“Le vent de la Mort!”
The well known, dreaded appellation aroused the savages from a fearful stupor into a fierce manifestation of hatred. A tremendous yell rent the air. Instantly the scene changed.
CHAPTER XXVI.
In the confusion the missionaries carried Young and Edwards into Mr. Wells’ cabin. Nell’s calm, white face showed that she had expected some such catastrophe as this, but she of all was the least excited. Heckewelder left them at the cabin and hurried away to consult Captain Williamson. While Zeisberger, who was skilled in surgery, attended to the wounded men, Jim barred the heavy door, shut the rude, swinging windows, and made the cabin temporarily a refuge from prowling savages.
Outside the clamor increased. Shrill yells rent the air, long, rolling war-cries sounded above all the din. The measured stamp of moccasined feet, the rush of Indians past the cabin, the dull thud of hatchets struck hard into the trees—all attested to the excitement of the savages, and the imminence of terrible danger.
In the front room of Mr. Wells’ cabin Edwards lay on a bed, his face turned to the wall, and his side exposed. There was a bloody hole in his white skin. Zeisberger was probing for the bullet. He had no instruments, save those of his own manufacture, and they were darning needles with bent points, and a long knife-blade ground thin.
“There, I have it,” said Zeisberger. “Hold still, Dave. There!” As Edwards moaned Zeisberger drew forth the bloody bullet. “Jim, wash and dress this wound. It isn’t bad. Dave will be all right in a couple of days. Now I’ll look at George.”
Zeisberger hurried into the other room. Young lay with quiet face and closed eyes, breathing faintly. Zeisberger opened the wounded man’s shirt and exposed the wound, which was on the right side, rather high up. Nell, who had followed Zeisberger that she might be of some assistance if needed, saw him look at the wound and then turn a pale face away for a second. That hurried, shuddering movement of the sober, practical missionary was most significant. Then he bent over Young and inserted on of the probes into the wound. He pushed the steel an inch, two, three, four inches into Young’s breast, but the latter neither moved nor moaned. Zeisberger shook his head, and finally removed the