: The Wood King; or Daniel Boone's last trail by Badger Jos E Joseph Edward - Adventure stories; Missouri Fiction; Dime novels; Boone Daniel 1734-1820 Fiction; Potawatomi Indians Fiction; Kickapoo Indians Fiction; Osage Indians Fiction

@FreeBooksThu 08 Jun, 2023

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s, the stars twinkled brightly though the moon had not yet risen.

"It's all understood, then," said Boone, with an uneasy glance at Abel. "The chief is to enter the village an' find out whether the gal is in there or no. We're to wait for him outside."

"Yes--but it seems to me a coward part to play," muttered Dare, fingering the knife at his belt.

Dare grumbled something about its being hard to be forced to remain idle while others worked, but agreed to obey. Then the trio cautiously glided down the hillside and neared the outskirts of the Indian village.

This was a permanent place of habitation, where the Osages had lived for many years, and was of a substantial nature. The village was pitched amidst hills, to protect it from the cold winds of winter, close to a creek that wound through the valley, only a few hundred yards from the forest that furnished them with fuel for their meals. Most of the huts were built of mud, with bark roofs--a few were of stone rudely held up with clay mortar. Beyond the huts rose a stout, commodious horse-corral, with boundaries defined by high walls of timber, fallen trees dragged into place, strengthened by stakes planted firmly in the ground.

At the edge of the clearing Lightfoot left his comrades, and glided out from the trees. Crouching low down in the gloom, he glided rapidly toward the corral, then partially skirting the village.

Gaining the wall, he paused to reconnoiter. The village was all alive. A number of fires burned brightly. The savages were hastening to and fro, or gathered in little knots, gossiping. There seemed little likelihood of their settling down for the night. To enter the lighted street was almost certain discovery, and that meant death to the Kickapoo, now. Yet he did not hesitate long. A quick gesture, and he was changed. A moment's fumbling altered his scalp-lock into that of a Fox. His form seemed to sink into itself, becoming less tall, more squat. In the grotesquely distorted features, one could scarcely recognize the handsome Kickapoo chief.

A moment later and he was within the lighted village, stalking leisurely along, brushing shoulders with his most deadly enemies, unsuspected. Yet, though he had almost completed the circuit of the village, passing within earshot of each group of gossips, lingering near each cabin, Lightfoot gained no knowledge of the one he sought. Could it be that she was not in the village?

He paused beside one of the cabins and listened intently. The sound of low voices reached his ear, though but indistinctly. There seemed something familiar in the tones of one of the speakers that sent a thrill through his veins. With bated breath Lightfoot hearkened.

The voices ceased, and the chief heard a light footstep. Mechanically he started erect, but instead of seeking cover, he stood out in the full glow of the firelight, once more Lightfoot, the handsome war-chief of the Kickapoos. The footsteps came nearer--a light form turned the corner of the cabin, then paused, with a faint exclamation of surprise. Only for a moment; then the plump form was clasped tightly to the breast of the Indian scout, as he drew back into the deeper shadow.

Lightfoot forgot his mission, the peril he ran, every thing save the presence of the Indian maiden who yielded herself so freely to his warm embrace. Forgetful of all else, he poured soft words into her ears, for the moment acting like a true lover, no longer the cool, calculating warrior.

Feather-Cloud was the daughter of a Kickapoo sub-chief. She had won Lightfoot's love a year since, but the opposition of our friend to the tribal alliance prejudiced the old chief against him. That Feather-Cloud was now on a visit to some friends among the Osages, is all that need be said.

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