Read Ebook: The Wood King; or Daniel Boone's last trail by Badger Jos E Joseph Edward

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Ebook has 391 lines and 25575 words, and 8 pages

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.

Though Lightfoot knew it not, jealous eyes were upon him. The rapturous meeting with Feather-Cloud had been witnessed by a young warrior, who was now creeping closer, his ear strained to catch their words. And he soon heard enough to know that an enemy had entered the village of his people.

The Kickapoo's first intimation of danger was in a shrill yell that rung out close behind him, and then a heavy form precipitated itself full upon his back. Staggered by the rude awaking as much as the shock, Lightfoot reeled and fell to the ground.

But his surprise was only momentary. Scarce had he touched the ground when all his faculties returned.

The Osage clutched his throat with suffocating force, his yell of alarm ringing through the village with startling distinctness, only to be taken up by a score of throats as the warriors sprung in a body toward the spot.

The sinewy hands of Lightfoot rose and clutched the throat of his antagonist, his fingers almost meeting in the yielding flesh, while the bones fairly seemed to give way beneath the enormous pressure. Quivering in every fiber, the Osage relaxed his grasp, and casting his enemy from him like a child, the Kickapoo sprung upon his feet, knife and tomahawk flashing in his nervous grip.

Not a moment too soon. From every quarter came the Osage warriors. Behind them flocked the squaws and children. All were yelling in confused chorus. It seemed a scene from Pandemonium.

Uttering his thrilling war-cry, the outcast chief leaped forward, without awaiting the onset. With a motion rapid as thought, the heavy tomahawk fell; when it rose again it was stained a bright-red hue, and ruby drops fell from the once untarnished blade. Again and again it descended, now drinking the life-blood of an Osage, now parrying some deadly blow aimed at its wielder's life.

Fiercely, desperately Lightfoot fought, now out in the full glow of the firelight. At first his life had been aimed at, and despite his wondrous skill and celerity, more than one weapon had tasted his blood. But then the name of the outcast was echoed from lip to lip, and the cry arose to capture him for the torture-post.

Choosing rather to die at once, Lightfoot sprung upon the Osages with desperate fury, dealing his blows with lightning rapidity, leaving behind and around him a swath of dead and wounded. With superhuman strength, he slowly pressed through the cordon, and then, with one triumphant whoop, he cut down the last warrior that barred his road to freedom, and darted forward toward the friendly forest, where, once it was gained, he would be comparatively safe.

But even in the moment of triumph he was foiled. A boy flung himself in the way, clasping the Kickapoo's legs with all his members--even biting at them like a bull-dog.

Lightfoot fell heavily to the ground. Before he could arise, or regain the blood-stained weapons that were torn from his grasp by the fall, half a score Osages were upon his back.

A confused struggle--then Lightfoot was lifted up, bound hand and foot. The Osage yell of triumph rung out loud and clear.

Lightfoot smiled grimly as he glanced around. He had carved his name in broad and deep letters upon their ranks. Their victory had been a costly one.

At this moment a cry came from the forest. The Osages answered it. A few minutes later, a considerable body of Indians--both Osages and Pottawatomies--entered the village. One approached and spat in Lightfoot's face. It was the White Wolf--Seth Grable.

Making no reply, the Kickapoo glanced quickly around. A ferocious fire filled his eye as he caught a glimpse of a white woman being led into a cabin. In the firelight, her hair, floating loosely over her shoulder, shone with a golden gleam.

The savages gathered together, and the White Wolf addressed them in hot, forcible words. Others followed him, the majority supporting his argument.

Lightfoot listened to them, his features composed and cold. Though his life swung in the balance, he appeared to take no interest in the matter.

Grable called for the outcast's immediate death--his death by the fire-torture. In answer to those who advocated delay until the entire tribe were assembled, he pointed out the great esteem--almost adoration--in which Lightfoot had been held by his tribe before his recent sentence, and hinted that the Kickapoos might interfere to save him, when the Osages who had fallen by the traitor's hand must go unavenged.

This argument carried the day, and in the blood-thirsty yells of the savages Lightfoot read his doom.

The warriors who held him now securely bound him to a post, then hastened off to assist in the preparations for the torture. Lightfoot strained at his bonds with all the strength of his mighty muscles, but in vain. The bonds were too stout to break, too well applied to slip or come untied.

He saw the Osages collecting fuel and placing it round a post, at a little distance from where he was bound. Escape seemed impossible.

A figure shrouded in a blanket glided past him, a fold of the garment touching his person. Instinctively he glanced up. The figure abruptly turned and repassed him, uttering two words:

The glance from a bright eye explained the meaning to the captive. The figure was that of Feather-Cloud. She was working for his life.

As though suspecting something of the kind, two braves came and stood beside him, watching the growing of the death-pile. The respite was rapidly shortening. Would Feather-Cloud be able to carry out her plan?

As this thought flashed through his mind, Lightfoot felt a gentle touch upon his arms where they passed around the post behind him. He was answered. The Indian maiden was even then at work, unsuspected by the warriors who stood by, within arm's-length.

Lightfoot felt the bonds yield upon his feet, then upon his hands and arms. Something cold and firm was slipped between his fingers. One hand clutched the haft of a knife, the other that of a tomahawk.

The lips of Feather-Cloud touched his hands, and then she glided away. The time had come for action!

Like lightning the double blow fell--death-stricken, the Osage braves reeled back, uttering their quavering death-yells. Shrill and triumphant rung out the war-cry of the Kickapoo as he turned and darted toward the forest.

He was nearly clear of the village before the Osages recovered from their surprise. The pursuit was made, swift and instant.

From before the fugitive two bright flashes illumine the scene--two sharp reports break the air, and the pursuers falter as the death-missiles break their ranks.

But only for a moment--then they once more dart forward in deadly pursuit.

SURROUNDED BY DEATH.

A shrill yell of exultation burst front Lightfoot's lips as he heard the death-shrieks behind him, and right deftly did he improve the advantage given him by the momentary hesitation of his pursuers, darting forward with the speed of a well-conditioned race-horse. It needed not the clear voice that shouted encouragement to him from out the gloom, to tell him who were the daring marksmen. Lightfoot knew that Boone and Dare had ventured from the forest in order to create a diversion in his favor.

But the savages quickly recovered from the confusion these shots had thrown them into, and knowing--if only from there coming no other reports--the number of the enemy, rushed forward with augmented fury. Side by side the three scouts entered the woods; close after them the Indians, yelling like very fiends.

"Sep'rate--we'll meet you at the cave--by the river, chief," jerkingly uttered Boone.

No reply was made, but Lightfoot abruptly veered to the left, while Boone and Dare ran on side by side. All thought of caution was abandoned. The pursuers were too close for the fugitives to attempt dodging, or trying to lessen the noise of their crashing footsteps. So close were they that, when Lightfoot turned aside, the pursuers also divided, resolved to win their prey by stern, desperate racing.

For nearly a mile Lightfoot held his vantage with comparative ease, thridding the tangled forest with the skill and ease that none but a thorough woodsman can ever hope to attain. After that, he came upon smoother traveling, breaking from the wood out upon a level, grassy tract of open ground, fully a mile in width.

The race, thus far, had not breathed the iron-limbed scout, though thoroughly warming him up, removing the soreness he had begun to feel from his wounds and bruises. And now as he entered the open, a clear, exultant cry broke from his lips, and inhaling a deep draught of the cool night-air, he bounded away over the level space with the litheness and agility of a deer.

With answering yells the Osages followed, straining every nerve to overtake Lightfoot before he should reach the further side. Swift of foot were they--some of them of wide renown--yet, foot by foot, the outcast chief left them behind.

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