Chapter VIII: An Unexpected Death-Shot

Silver Rifle turned suddenly upon the Destroyer.

“You have trailed with him who has carried the ring long,” she said, in a tone of intense anxiety. “Can you not tell me who I am?”

“Alas,” was the reply. “I can not, girl. He kept his own secrets, and they have died with him.”

A deep sigh escaped Silver Rifle’s lips, and a moment later the voice of Hondurah attracted the attention of all.

“Oagla, where is the pale girl’s ring?” he demanded of the chief. “Let her read life before she dies.”

“Ring bad,” answered Oagla, quailing with shame before the flashing eyes of his stern sachem. “It kill Hawkeye. Oagla fear it kill him, so he throw it among trees. He hate bad ring; Silver Rifle kill him for it, mebbe.”

“Oagla is a coward!” thundered Hondurah, and the flash of his eyes seemed to blast the look of the superstitious and fearful chief. “The Chippewa who is afraid of a shining thing should break his gun and become a squaw. Single out your best trailers now, Oagla, and before to-morrow’s sleep place the ring in Hondurah’s hand, or be a chief no longer among the warlike Chippewas. Hondurah has spoken!”

And, as he resumed his former position, the chief waived aside the savages who had laid hands on the dauntless girl.

Murmurs of dissatisfaction now arose on every side, and the sachem’s eye swept the multitude, as with folded arms he calmly listened to the hoarse growlings of the storm.

“Hondurah is not a dog,” he cried at last. “The ring tells the white girl who she is. She does not know, and she shall not die until she knows whose child she is. When Oagla returns with the ring that talks, then shall die the three pale-faces who have spilled Chippewas’ blood. Peace, warriors; it will not be long. Does Oagla know where he threw the shining talker?”

“Oagla does.”

“Then let him step upon the trail before he speaks again. Wildcat, back to the prison-lodge with the White Tiger, and his mate. Silver Rifle will dwell in Hondurah’s lodge, till the boughs are gathered in the forest.”

While Hondurah spoke, Oagla was moving among the warriors, and presently he left the concourse, followed by six athletic young braves, who were numbered among the best trailers in the village.

The chief smarted under the reproof he had received from Hondurah, for he walked thoughtfully at the head of his warriors, and appeared to be devising a scheme which would bear fruit in the future.

“Silver Rifle learn to love Hondurah’s daughter,” said the chief, as he approached his lodge with the captive of his nation. “She with squaws now; but she come soon when she know that Silver Rifle goin’ to be her bedfellow for one sleep.”

The young trailer was ushered into the sachem’s lodge, and seated herself on a heap of skins, while Hondurah moved to the entrance, in which he stood with folded arms.

Presently Silver Rifle heard him speak; then came the soft voice of woman in reply, and Hondurah stepped back into the lodge leading a beautiful Indian girl by the hand.

“Here Clearwater, Silver Rifle,” he said. “She keep you company now, for Hondurah must go ’mong his chiefs.”

So, as Silver Rifle rose to greet the dazzling vision of aboriginal loveliness, he parted the curtains and disappeared.

Silence reigned between the two girls for several moments.

The pale captive saw that sadness tugged at Clearwater’s heart-strings and kept her silent.

“Why is Clearwater sad when the skies are so bright, and the birds sing so beautifully?” asked our heroine.

The Indian girl looked up, and nestled closer to the bosom on which she had laid her head.

“The light has left Clearwater’s heart,” she said, softly, sadly. “Silver Rifle, he is dead.”

The last words struck a sad, sympathetic chord in our heroine’s heart, and she echoed the words, mournfully—“He is dead!”

“They killed him in the big woods,” continued Hondurah’s daughter. “The mad young braves, headed by Omaha, took him from the prison-lodge last sleep, and put fire about him.”

Silver Rifle started.

Was the girl referring to Ahdeek, the half-breed?

She would know.

“What was Ahdeek to Clearwater?”

“Her sunlight.”

“He slew her people.”

“But he loved Clearwater. He would kiss her in the aisles of the forest, and they have sat by the shores of Gitche Gumee, when Hondurah hunted for the White Tiger.”

“Did Clearwater know that there were two White Tigers?” asked Silver Rifle.

“Ahdeek could keep nothing from Clearwater, he loved her so. He told her that the ring was given him by an old man whose beard was white with the snows of many winters, and that he was to take it to a white girl, who lived beyond the big waters, when he had killed an Indian for every drop of blood which they had spilled from the old pale face’s veins.”

“Is that all he told Clearwater?”

“Yes—no. Old white-beard have much yellow money, which he give to trapper Snowbeard to keep, and papers with writing on, too, he said. Indians kill Snowbeard, and burn down house; so yellow money and talking-papers all gone!”

Silver Rifle sighed.

“Did pale girl see Indians burn Ahdeek?” asked Clearwater, suddenly looking up into her face.

“No. I saw him escape; but Oagla struck me when I cheered the brave fellow on, and when I opened my eyes again we were near the village. So they must have recaptured Ahdeek, and burned him, while I was unconscious.”

Clearwater’s head dropped upon her bosom, and the Girl Trailer heard her murmur away down in her heart:

“Poor, poor Ahdeek!”

“Clearwater, will Oagla find the ring?” asked Silver Rifle, rousing the Indian girl from her reverie.

“Oagla see like eagle, his braves like hawks,” was the response; “but ring hard to find in big woods. Clearwater hate all young braves now. Omaha never call her squaw. He know she love Ahdeek, and he thought he would kill him; then Clearwater must turn to him. But he miss mark very far. He better not cross Clearwater’s path in the forest; she always carry rifle on her shoulder.”

The white teeth met with vengeance over the last words, and Silver Rifle looked proudly down upon the loveless girl.

“Silver Rifle have to tell Indians that Nahma and Renadah died by her hand,” said Clearwater, after a long pause.

“Why, sister?”

“That right. Clearwater and Silver Rifle sisters now. She have to save one who was nothing to her.”

A blush mantled the white girl’s cheeks.

“Ha!” cried Clearwater, smiling, “Hondurah’s child speak wrong. White Tiger is something to Silver Rifle.”

“Girl, I never talked with him until this day.”

Quickly Clearwater placed her hand on Silver Rifle’s breast, and with a curious face looked up as she felt the pulsations of the heart.

“Heart beat fast when Clearwater talk of White Tiger,” said the Indian girl. “Silver Rifle shall not die when Oagla come back.”

“Who can save me, girl?”

“Silver Rifle shall not die when Oagla come back,” repeated the girl, with emphasis.

“Shall _he_ die, then?”

“Silver Rifle see,” and, with sudden impulse, the chief’s daughter sprung from the cot, and stepped to the door. She parted the curtains, and stood face to face with her father.

“Young braves talking bad talk in their lodges,” said Hondurah, as he entered his own wigwam. “But they won’t take prisoners to the hollow to-night. Hondurah stand by strong lodge himself, and Yucata with his old braves and Clearwater guard Silver Rifle.”

The Indian girl crept back to the captive’s couch and whispered:

“Clearwater shoot mad buck when he was driving his horns through Tucata.”

* * * * * * *

“Oagla throw ring somewhere here. He see big oak there, when he throw ring into medicine-bag and pulled out the yellow talker. Braves, separate now, and look sharp. Let your eyes rival the hawk’s, and do not leave an inch of ground unsearched. Oagla must find ring, or—or—” He turned abruptly, and finished the sentence in a whisper: “Or Hondurah steps upon the death-trail. Oagla will never submit to having his feathers torn from his head!”

The party of discovery had reached a portion of the forest which the captors of Silver Rifle, led, as the reader has seen, by Oagla, had traversed a few hours before. The trees stood in profusion here and to some extent lent a gloomy coloring to the ground.

Oagla had concluded that hereabouts he had tossed aside the mysterious ring, without the knowledge of Silver Rifle, never expecting that he would be compelled to hunt for it, with a disgraceful reward promised for non-success.

He had a presentiment that the ring boded him no good, for he had witnessed the fate of Hawkeye, and, to dissipate such thoughts, he had rid himself of the bauble in a summary manner.

The party reached the spot I have briefly described about high noon, and until four o’clock they scoured the ground in vain for the missing ring.

“Wait till the pale queen shines,” said Oagla, suddenly pausing. “Then the little talker will be bright, and the Chippewa can find him easily.”

So the hunt was suspended, and the savages waited for the rising of the moon, which was full and scaled the horizon quite early.

Shadow after shadow gathered among the trees, and the ring-hunters hailed the first approach of the moon with great joy. Her silvery beams dissipated the shadows, and streaming down through the leafy boughs, clothed the ground in a weird light.

Freshened by their rest, the Indians sprung with alacrity to the hunt again, which had scarcely been inaugurated when Omaha darted to the foot of a stunted fir, and stooped, with a wild cry of delight.

Raising quickly, he turned, and something glittered in his upraised hand.

It was the ring!

The Chippewas darted toward him with joyful shouts, and soon Omaha stood in the center of the wild band.

“Now!” cried Oagla, “warriors, back to your lodges. Omaha give Oagla the little talker. He not throw it away now. He—”

The sharp crack of a rifle benumbed every sense, and Omaha reeled from Oagla, whose hand was outstretched to grasp the ring!

And as he reeled, a death-yell pealed from his lips.

Then there was a quick step, a dark figure dashed through the red ranks, jerked the bauble from Omaha’s dead fingers, and was away like a rocket!

All this occupied but a single minute, and when the savages recovered their self-possession, they were staring into each other’s faces.

“Swear!” cried Oagla, in thunder tones, “swear, warriors, that in the village of your people, you will never speak the name of Omaha’s slayer! Swear that you will never breathe it to the old warriors.”

In the ghastly moonlight, and by the name of their Great Spirit, the Indians swore.

“It is well,” said Oagla. “The little talker is gone. Warriors, to your lodges!”

Then, biting his lips with disappointment, he threw himself before his braves and turned his face toward the south.

The ring had fallen into the hands of one entirely unlooked for!