The Zane Grey Megapack. Zane Grey
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him loose,” yelled Jonathan.
Baffled, he ran wildly around the wrestlers. Time and time again his gory tomahawk was raised only to be lowered. He found no opportunity to strike. Girty’s ghastly countenance gleamed at him from the whirl of legs, and arms and bodies. Then Wetzel’s dark face, lighted by merciless eyes, took its place, and that gave way to Deering’s broad features. The men being clad alike in buckskin, and their motions so rapid, prevented Zane from lending a helping hand.
Suddenly Deering was propelled from the mass as if by a catapult. His body straightened as it came down with a heavy thud. Zane pounced upon it with catlike quickness. Once more he swung aloft the bloody hatchet; then once more he lowered it, for there was no need to strike. The renegade’s side was torn open from shoulder to hip. A deluge of blood poured out upon the moss. Deering choked, a bloody froth formed on his lips. His fingers clutched at nothing. His eyes rolled violently and then were fixed in an awful stare.
The girl lying so quiet in the woods near the old hut was avenged!
Jonathan turned again to Wetzel and Girty, not with any intention to aid the hunter, but simply to witness the end of the struggle.
Without the help of the powerful Deering, how pitifully weak was the Deathshead of the frontier in the hands of the Avenger!
Jim Girty’s tomahawk was thrown in one direction and his knife in another. He struggled vainly in the iron grip that held him.
Wetzel rose to his feet clutching the renegade. With his left arm, which had been bared in the fight, he held Girty by the front of his buckskin shirt, and dragged him to that tree which stood alone in the glade. He pushed him against it, and held him there.
The white dog leaped and snarled around the prisoner.
Girty’s hands pulled and tore at the powerful arm which forced him hard against the beech. It was a brown arm, and huge with its bulging, knotted, rigid muscles. A mighty arm, strong as the justice which ruled it.
“Girty, thy race is run!” Wetzel’s voice cut the silence like a steel whip.
The terrible, ruthless smile, the glittering eyes of doom seemed literally to petrify the renegade.
The hunter’s right arm rose slowly. The knife in his hand quivered as if with eagerness. The long blade, dripping with Deering’s blood, pointed toward the hilltop.
“Look thar! See ’em! Thar’s yer friends!” cried Wetzel.
On the dead branches of trees standing far above the hilltop, were many great, dark birds. They sat motionless as if waiting.
“Buzzards! Buzzards!” hissed Wetzel.
Girty’s ghastly face became an awful thing to look upon. No living countenance ever before expressed such fear, such horror, such agony. He foamed at the mouth, he struggled, he writhed. With a terrible fascination he watched that quivering, dripping blade, now poised high.
Wetzel’s arm swung with the speed of a shooting star. He drove the blade into Girty’s groin, through flesh and bone, hard and fast into the tree. He nailed the renegade to the beech, there to await his lingering doom.
“Ah-h! Ah-h! Ah-h!” shrieked Girty, in cries of agony. He fumbled and pulled at the haft of the knife, but could not loosen it. He beat his breast, he tore his hair. His screams were echoed from the hilltop as if in mockery.
The white dog stood near, his hair bristling, his teeth snapping.
The dark birds sat on the dead branches above the hilltop, as if waiting for their feast.
CHAPTER XXVIII.
Zane turned and cut the young missionary’s bonds. Jim ran to where Nell was lying on the ground, and tenderly raised her head, calling to her that they were saved. Zane bathed the girl’s pale face. Presently she sighed and opened her eyes.
Then Zane looked from the statuelike form of Wingenund to the motionless figure of Wetzel. The chief stood erect with his eyes on the distant hills. Wetzel remained with folded arms, his cold eyes fixed upon the writhing, moaning renegade.
“Lew, look here,” said Zane, unhesitatingly, and pointed toward the chief.
Wetzel quivered as if sharply stung; the cold glitter in his eyes changed to lurid fire. With upraised tomahawk he bounded across the brook.
“Lew, wait a minute!” yelled Zane.
“Wetzel! wait, wait!” cried Jim, grasping the hunter’s arm; but the latter flung him off, as the wind tosses a straw.
“Wetzel, wait, for God’s sake, wait!” screamed Nell. She had risen at Zane’s call, and now saw the deadly resolve in the hunter’s eyes. Fearlessly she flung herself in front of him; bravely she risked her life before his mad rush; frantically she threw her arms around him and clung to his hands desperately.
Wetzel halted; frenzied as he was at the sight of his foe, he could not hurt a woman.
“Girl, let go!” he panted, and his broad breast heaved.
“No, no, no! Listen, Wetzel, you must not kill the chief. He is a friend.”
“He is my great foe!”
“Listen, oh! please listen!” pleaded Nell. “He warned me to flee from Girty; he offered to guide us to Fort Henry. He has saved my life. For my sake, Wetzel, do not kill him! Don’t let me be the cause of his murder! Wetzel, Wetzel, lower your arm, drop your hatchet. For pity’s sake do not spill more blood. Wingenund is a Christian!”
Wetzel stepped back breathing heavily. His white face resembled chiseled marble. With those little hands at his breast he hesitated in front of the chief he had hunted for so many long years.
“Would you kill a Christian?” pleaded Nell, her voice sweet and earnest.
“I reckon not, but this Injun ain’t one,” replied Wetzel slowly.
“Put away your hatchet. Let me have it. Listen, and I will tell you, after thanking you for this rescue. Do you know of my marriage? Come, please listen! Forget for a moment your enmity. Oh! you must be merciful! Brave men are always merciful!”
“Injun, are you a Christian?” hissed Wetzel.
“Oh! I know he is! I know he is!” cried Nell, still standing between Wetzel and the chief.
Wingenund spoke no word. He did not move. His falcon eyes gazed tranquilly at his white foe. Christian or pagan, he would not speak one word to save his life.
“Oh! tell him you are a Christian,” cried Nell, running to the chief.
“Yellow-hair, the Delaware is true to his race.”
As he spoke gently to Nell a noble dignity shone upon his dark face.
“Injun, my back bears the scars of your braves’ whips,” hissed Wetzel, once more advancing.
“Deathwind, your scars are deep, but the Delaware’s are deeper,” came the calm reply. “Wingenund’s heart bears two scars. His son lies under the moss and ferns; Deathwind killed him; Deathwind alone knows his grave. Wingenund’s daughter, the delight of his waning years, freed the Delaware’s great foe, and betrayed her father. Can the Christian God tell Wingenund of his child?”
Wetzel shook like a tree in a storm. Justice cried out in the Indian’s deep voice. Wetzel fought for mastery of himself.
“Delaware, your daughter lays there, with her lover,” said Wetzel firmly, and pointed into the spring.
“Ugh!” exclaimed the Indian, bending over the dark pool. He looked long into its murky depths. Then he thrust his arm down into the brown water.
“Deathwind tells no lie,” said the chief, calmly, and pointed toward Girty. The renegade had ceased struggling, his head was bowed upon his breast. “The white serpent has stung the Delaware.”
“What