Chapter XIV: Two Scenes in a Tree Top

It is, perhaps, necessary that the fate of Doc Cromer should be told here, and some mention made of Dorsey Webb, whose disappearance so excited Mossuit and his braves.

The trader found himself in the midst of the wild dogs, after dispatching their ferocious leader.

They sprung at him with the fury of famished wolves, and he struck right and left with deadly effect, until the sharp teeth pulled him to earth, and then, unable to resist any longer, he gave himself up for lost.

But at this juncture the sound of human yells rose above the yelps of the dogs, and a moment later a volley was poured indiscriminately into their ranks. With howls of pain the canines recoiled from their victim; then a few more shots sent them howling through the woods.

More dead than alive, Cromer was lifted from the ground by the rescuing Indians, who uttered cries of triumph when they recognized him.

It was plain to them that a man so badly mangled would not live to reach the village, so they decided upon immediate torture.

With one ear gone—the ear afterward picked up on the field of battle by Hondurah—an arm and side lacerated by the sharp teeth and claws of the brutes, and otherwise injured, Doc Cromer was in no condition to fight his executioners; but notwithstanding all this, he staggered to his feet, called for a knife and dared his red foes to mortal combat.

“Doc Cromer kin whip a nation of skunks, yit,” he cried. “If ye don’t b’lieve it, come at ’im an’ try. I don’t thank ye a cussid bit for savin’ of my life. I’d sooner die among real dogs than counterfeit ones.”

He said this in a great measure to irritate his foes. He was suffering unspeakable pain, and forgetting the ring which the blood covered, he hoped that a tomahawk might terminate his existence. But the blow did not come.

After a brief consultation two Indians ascended a tree and lowered a rude rope, which was fastened about the trader’s body. Then he was drawn up among the branches, until he was near fifty feet above _terra firma_.

“Injuns leave trader here now,” said one of the braves, as they lashed him to the limbs. “By ’m by big birds come and pick holes in his body. Trader ’feared to die?”

“Not much,” was the response. “Men hez to peg out some time, and my time ar’ hyar now.”

He would speak no more; he left the taunts of the savages unanswered, until, while tying his feet, one shot in his face an epithet that sent the hot blood to the remotest recesses of his brain.

“That’s more ’n humanity kin stand!” he hissed, “so, dog, take thet!”

With the last word, he tore one foot from the fastenings, but half secured, and furiously, mercilessly hurled his insulter from the limb.

Down, down shot the unfortunate brave, wildly clutching at the boughs, until he struck a root in the midst of his companions below, quivered once, then died—neck-broken!

The remaining Indian in the tree rose before the trader, with a yell of vengeance.

He struck the gory head with his tomahawk, and in less than a minute afterward, had torn the scalp away and was descending!

He encountered half a dozen braves climbing up to butcher the slayer of their brother; but the scalper told them that he was already dead, and they rejoined their companions.

Then the band moved away, leaving the trader lashed to a tree-top, scalped and bleeding.

It rained before day, and amid the darkness of the storm Doc Cromer opened his eyes, he thought, in another world.

He was burning with fever, and tried to quench his thirst with the rain that dropped from the black clouds.

“My God, shall I perish here with the ring that contains the mystery of a life?” he groaned. “Oh, if I could but slip it from my finger and drop it down to the ground.”

But this he could not do, for his arms were not free, and so he lay through the night and the day that followed.

The buzzards saw him and descended until they perceived that life was not extinct. Then they would fly away, wait awhile, and return.

Terrible was that day, and the trader hailed the approach of night. He began to hope now—to hope against hope, because he had not perished during the day; but when the stillness of death settled over the wood, he thought he would cease to endure the suspense, and yield up the ghost.

It might have been midnight—he thought it was—when he became aware that something was climbing the tree.

Now, he thought, the death for which he had ofttimes prayed during the last twenty-four hours was near, and the ring—he did not want to think about the bauble, which seemed to be the death of every person into whose hands it fell.

At first he thought the climber a bear; but he soon discovered that it was a human being.

How eagerly he bent forward to catch a glimpse of the intruder, in the beautiful moonlight that streamed through the sparse branches overhead.

At length he remarked the outlines of his visitor—an Indian, probably one of the band which had placed him in the tree; but what had brought the savage back to his victim?

The new-comer drew himself up on a limb just below the trader, and then started back with an ejaculation of horror.

Doc Cromer recognized the tone.

“Ahdeek’s ghost!” he gasped.

The climber, reassured, approached again.

“Ahdeek no ghost,” he said. “He stop by foot of tree to rest, and heard trader groan. Then he climb up to see who in tree-top.”

“’Tis old Doc Cromer, boy,” was the feeble reply. “He’s on his last trail. They’ve took the scalp that was gettin’ white with honorable hairs, an’ it’s too much for him.”

“No, no, Ahdeek save trader; cut him loose an’ take him down.”

“I tell ye it’s too late, boy. I’m goin’ to peg out right in this tree. What’s my right ear? Them infernal dogs chawed it up. What tore my arms? Them sneakin’ Injun wolf hounds. But I finished ’bout ten ov ’em afore the Injuns took me off. Now, Ahdeek, look hyar.”

The half-breed bent nearer, but reluctantly, as though he knew what was coming.

“Ahdeek, thar’s a ring on my hand.”

The Tiger sprung at the member, and uttered a cry of delight when he discovered the bauble.

“No, don’t take it off, chief. Listen to me. I swore that that hand should give the gal her ring, an’ by hoky! it must do it. So you’ll cut my hand off, won’t you, boy, and give it her thus?”

With manifest reluctance the young half-breed promised.

“Sech promises won’t do Doc Cromer,” said the trader. “I want to hear you swear it, and see the hand come off now.”

“Trader not dead yet,” said the horror-stricken half-breed.

“No difference. Take that hand off at the wrist, and swear that you will give it, with the ring, to Silver Rifle. Do this, Ahdeek, or by heaven! I’ll come back from Manitou land, and haunt you till you die.”

Thus terribly threatened, the superstitions Ahdeek drew his knife, and amputated the hand of the trader, who watched the proceeding with a grim, triumphant smile.

“Now I know you’ll do the balance, boy,” he said. “’Tis lucky that the red villains didn’t see the ring. Now, Ahdeek, tell me something before I die. Tell me whose death you’ve been avenging.”

The half-breed hesitated.

The threat of haunting came again.

“The old trader in Watchemenetoc glen.”

“Why, he died three years ago.”

“Yes.”

“What was he to you?”

“He was Ahdeek’s father.”

“Your real father?”

The half-breed hesitated again.

“Tell me if that old man was your real father, and the secret of the ring—for you know it. Don’t lie to me now, boy, for in your sleep, in the cave, you told me that you knew the secret of the ring. Now tell me.”

“Will the trader die then?”

“Yes.”

“Then Silver Rifle is—,” the half-breed paused, for the trader’s head fell heavily on his breast, and lay there still.

Ahdeek raised it, but the meaningless stare in the eyes told him that Doc Cromer was dead, beyond peradventure.

The youth sat in the tree-top for an hour before he stirred a limb. Then upon the dead breast he made the cross which the Jesuits had preached to his Indian brethren, and slowly descended.

The hand, with its treasure, reposed in his medicine-bag, and he assured himself of its safety many times as he hurried from the ghastly tree.

* * * * * * *

The White Tiger was not knocked wholly insensible in the cave by Mossuit; but he perfectly simulated insensibility, while the savage ran with him through the forest.

Soon, however, the chief encountered the same band which had disposed of Doc Cromer, and the youth, apparently still unconscious, was left under the charge of two warriors while Mossuit returned to the cave with the remainder of the new band.

The boy heard their steps die away in the distance, and in silence nerved himself for a hazardous task. On account of his seeming unconsciousness he was not securely bound, and at an hour when the two guards, seated on the ground, thought not of an attack, he sprung erect and felled one with a club which fortunately lay at his hand.

The second savage rose, but was met with his comrade’s gun, which crushed his head and placed him forever _hors de combat_. Then two scalps were torn away, and the double cross of the White Tiger marred the foreheads of the fallen braves.

“Now for the cave,” murmured the victor. “The red fellows shall pay dearly for this night’s work.”

He saw the flash of the four Indian guns on the cliff, heard the battle between his friends and the savages in the mouth of the cave, but knew that he could not help them.

He saw Mossuit emerge with his captives, and followed the band, though at a respectful distance.

The death of Oagla was accomplished before the youth’s eyes, and while Mossuit faced the mad braves, and dared them to advance upon Silver Rifle, he heard the clicking of a rifle-lock.

It emanated from a spot not far away, where a footstep, which he had thought belonged to some animal, had died; but now he knew that the prowler was a man.

“Surely the Indian does not know aught of my presence,” he muttered, “for I was here before he came to yon tree. However, we will soon see for whose heart he cocked his rifle.”

He tried to see the body of the foe, and once or twice, believing that the savage saw him, he drew up to shoot, trusting to luck but lowered the weapon, undetermined how to act.

All at once a sharp report rent the air, and the youth saw Silver Rifle fall, as witnessed in the last chapter.

He could scarcely repress a cry of horror, for the unseen Indian was the slayer.

“Curse me for not shooting!” he hissed. “I might have dropped the fiend, and then—”

The savage, flying from his crime, was bounding toward him!

White Tiger’s heart took a great leap for exultation, and a moment later, with the butt of his rifle, he scattered the young brave’s brains far and wide!

“Oh, heaven, does Silver Rifle live?” he cried, starting impulsively toward the group about the fire. “That I have learned to love her, must she be snatched from me now?”

He saw Mossuit face the menacing braves, with Silver Rifle hanging heavily on his arm, and then he heard the sub-chief’s voice.

“Warriors, I will be obeyed now,” cried the young Chippewa. “Hondurah is dead, and Oagla, who should have stepped into his shoes, lies before us. The Chippewas are chiefless. In the council-house we must say who shall be chief in Hondurah’s stead. Now turn upon your heels. Back to the council-house; and when we have a chief, the captives shall die.”

Without a word the rebellious warriors turned abruptly on their heels, and the march through the forest was resumed.

Mossuit walked erect, with the stricken girl in his arms.

He gloated over the thought that he had conquered Oagla’s braves, and was planning his elevation by chicanery to the chief sachemship of the Chippewa nation.

The mind of each was absorbed in dark plots, which smacked of the rifle, knife, tomahawk and stake, nor did they bear the footsteps of the White Tiger, who trailed them through the dim aisles of the forest.

The wood drama was drawing to a close; the curtain was rising on the last acts.