Chapter VIII: Escaping

Oagla’s band reached the Indian village about nine at night.

They placed the corpse of Omaha on a mat in the center of the council-house, and when the population of the town swarmed about it with vengeful looks and mutterings, the chief rose and addressed the assemblage.

He said that a great night bird, with sharp eyes, had darted from a tree and seized the ring as he was about to pick it up, and that they had followed the feathered thief through the woods until he flew toward the lake, and thus they lost sight of him. Omaha was shot, he said, by an unseen foe, of whose person they were unable to get a single glimpse.

All this, as the reader knows, was a cunning lie. The elder warriors drank it in with great credulity, for Oagla was noted for veracity; but the younger braves whispered to one another, and glanced with faint smiles at the red speaker.

Probably a trader, who had escaped the late massacre, was the slayer, as Oagla suggested, and Hondurah swore to hunt the avenger down.

The gathering broke up with the decision that the white trio should be tortured during the coming day, and a few Indians remained to wrap Omaha in his blankets and bury him.

The young men had promised that the captives should not be disturbed during the night; but Hondurah, who had seen so many like promises broken, smiled knowingly as he shook his feathered head, and stationed the guards as he had previously designated.

Silver Rifle saw six dark forms encircle her lodge, and heard Hondurah tell them that their lives would be taken by his hatchet if she escaped. Sternly the war-tiger of the Chippewas spoke to his daughter; he loved her, he said, but despite the affection she might have for the Girl Trailer, if she assisted her to evade the stake, he would give her, his only child, over to the vengeance of his people.

The interior of the chieftain’s lodge was clothed in Cimmerian darkness. Clearwater said that Silver Rifle wanted to sleep, and dream for the last time of the birds and flowers that sung and grew beyond the straits of Gitche Gumee.

Several hours passed away, and nothing came to disturb the Indian village. Even the noisy dogs were silent; but Clearwater sat before her father’s lodge, and conversed in low tones with Yucata.

That she had broached a subject which was quite unpleasant to the old commander of the guards, was noticeable in his countenance, and many times he slowly shook his head while she talked with her lips close to his ear.

“Yucata owes Clearwater a life,” said the old Indian, in a low tone; “but he can not meet Hondurah in the light, and say ‘Silver Rifle outwitted him.’ No, no!”

“Then let Yucata go, too; Pontiac fights the English at Detroit; let him join his king, and fall, if he falls at all, with his face to the red-coats.”

“Yucata will do as Clearwater has said,” said the Indian, suddenly starting forward. “Now, let her go to her work.”

Quickly Clearwater sprung to her feet and re-entered the lodge, from which, half an hour later, she emerged and walked rapidly away.

When she had disappeared, Yucata summoned his sub-alterns to his side, and composedly lit his pipe.

“The white girl sleeps,” he said. “Clearwater has gone to weep over the gave of Omaha, for whom her young heart bled.”

The savages seated themselves on the ground before the lodge, and Yucata led them into an animated discussion of the war which was then raging. The old chief seemed to advance strange ideas, for the sake of argument, and so intently were the Indians engaged in their war-talk, that the dark, girlish figure that glided through a long slit in the rear of the lodge, walked away erect and unnoticed.

The savages continued to talk, and at last a sub-chief, who was relating a story, suddenly paused in the midst of his narrative.

The hoot of an owl which emanated from the adjoining forest had caused the interruption.

Yucata started and raised his head.

“’Tis something,” he whispered. “Yucata will see the eyes of that owl,” and cautioning his braves to watch the lodge, but not to disturb the occupant, he rose to his feet and hurried away.

Once beyond his companions, he walked faster than ever, and all at once turned to the left and ran at the top of his speed. He soon reached the last lodge that stood in the northern portion of the village, and waved a farewell with his hand.

“Yucata traitor to Hondurah,” he said; “but Clearwater brought his oath back, and he could not forget it. Yucata never come back here any more.”

Then he turned again, plunged into the wood, and was lost to view.

The owl-hoot meant much.

It told Yucata that he might fly from the lodge which had sheltered him long, and that the cunning of one woman had outwitted the sharpest chief of the Chippewa nation.

“Lead us to the lake, girl,” said a low, but strong voice. “Once there, we’ll defy the sagacity and bravery of your people. I want to be loose once more; I want to remind the scarlet fiends that they have tortured Ahdeek.”

A sorrowful sigh escaped the lips of the figure that walked beside the speaker, and she paused and touched his arm.

“Look up, White Tiger.”

He obeyed.

A single star glittered overhead, the others were obscured by clouds.

“That star, Ahdeek,” said a whispered voice. “He tells Clearwater not to spare young braves. She spare ’em not.”

Four figures flitted through the darkness that enwrapped the Indian village; they were Clearwater, Silver Rifle, the White Tiger, and Doc Cromer, the trader.

Clearwater had led the trio to comparative freedom. Her cunning had outwitted her own father, and, like Yucata’s braves, he guarded an empty lodge. The hunters were not unprepared for rescue, for, during the day, Clearwater, while talking to a dandyfied brave who guarded the lodge, had managed to smuggle a piece of bark to the captives, upon which were traced Indian characters which, from their acquaintance with savage life, they easily deciphered.

By a stratagem Hondurah and his warriors were thrown off their guard, for the old chief did not dream that his daughter would attempt treachery before his very eyes, and presently the whites found themselves free.

Noiselessly they left the hoodwinked Indians, and soon joined a single figure, dressed like Clearwater. It was Silver Rifle.

Then the owl-hoot which drove Yucata away pealed from Clearwater’s throat, and the quartette moved on.

One or two Indian dogs which came smelling about them were noiselessly dispatched, and, as the party reached the summit of a knoll, and were beginning to breathe freer, they came upon the burial of Omaha.

The best trail to the lake led by the Chippewa burying-ground, and the night interment of the slain savage was unknown to the chief’s daughter. Several torches threw their ghostly light upon the scene, and the escaping party dropped to the earth which they hugged closely, and watched the burial.

They were within thirty feet of the group, and held their breath while the Indians lowered Omaha into his grave, incumbered, as he was, by his rifles, hatchets, knives, and well-stocked medicine bag.

“We must go,” whispered Doc Cromer; “they will smoke over him, and pow-wow an hour. Let us try the right. Tell the gal.”

The Destroyer spoke to Clearwater.

“We must crawl like the cat,” she said. “Clearwater would sooner wait till the Indians go. But she will lead the pale faces to the right, on a little trail covered with leaves.”

Slowly and painfully, then, the four vacated their position, and with eyes fixed on the Indians, crawled down to the right. Fortune favored them, however, and they were congratulating themselves, when the most terrible adventure of the night occurred.

The party was suddenly brought to a halt by a low sign of danger from Clearwater, who led the van.

They were crossing a spot of ground upon which dimly fell the light of the funeral torches.

“What’s up?” whispered Doc Cromer, who covered the little band.

“Somebody’s abroad,” answered the young avenger. “We lie on the brink of destruction now.”

The footsteps which had startled Clearwater’s acute ear came nearer, and told that something was walking painfully slow.

It came from the north west, directly toward the breathless quartette, who griped their knives with determination.

At last they saw the outlines of the night-hawk.

It was an Indian.

He was making for the torches of his scarlet brethren, and our imperiled ones felt a sense of relief when they beheld him swerve to the right and bid fair to miss them.

The brilliant eyes of the solitary red-man saw nothing but the tableau over the grave; but he was soon called to another scene.

The eyes of Silver Rifle had been riveted upon him from the first, and when his every feature became plainly visible, when he could have touched her with his hand, a terrible cry rose from her lips, and she leaped to her feet, looking like one who had suddenly encountered a ghost.

The Indian stopped, and the next moment Doc Cromer, like a tiger, sprung upon him.

The red-man was as a babe in the grip of the stout trader; but he shrieked before the great brown hand closed over his mouth!

To the ground went white and red, and Silver Rifle leaped toward them as the Indians turned from Omaha’s grave.

“My God! girl, what have you done?” cried the White Tiger, springing up and cocking his rifle, as he glanced from their enemies at Silver Rifle.

She did not hear him, for she was trying to pull Doc Cromer from the Chippewa.

“Don’t kill him, Doc,” she cried. “He saved me, and he’s—”

The trader sprung erect.

“I’ve choked the skeleton to death, I guess,” he said, looking down upon the savage, who lay motionless at his feet. “What made you holler fur?”

He shot her a maddened look, as he put the question, not destined to be answered then, and turned as two rifles cracked at his side. He saw a brace of Indians drop in the woods, and then the remainder of the band sprung to trees.

“We must run!” cried the White Tiger. “The whole village will be down here in a minute.”

The next moment the quartette turned and dashed toward the lake, still three miles distant.

“You’ve dropped one—I haven’t,” cried Cromer, pausing in his race for life. “I must kill one greaser afore day, with the rifle. Choking red-skins to death is no fun.”

He faced the pursuing savages, some fifteen in number, who, confident of an easy capture, were following with torches through the thinly-timbered wood, and threw his rifle to his shoulder.

“Quick, Doc, quick! We’re losing time!” cried the Destroyer.

“Hold a moment,” was the calm reply. “I want to bore a brain!”

Seemingly not realizing their danger, the rash trader took matters very calmly, and, as his finger touched the trigger, Webb leaped forward with a startling cry.

“A panther!”

As he shrieked the name of the beast, he hurled the trader aside, completely spoiling his aim.

The next second a yellow body alighted on the spot where Cromer had stood.

“Curse your yellow hide!” yelled the mad hunter, as with uplifted rifle he bounded upon the animal. “I’ll teach you how to interfere with my business.”

The rifle descended, the panther received the blow on his head, and staggered back with an almost human groan.

With a glance at the Indians, the trader sprung over the stunned brute, and rejoined his friends.

“Now for life!” said Webb. “This delay may prove dangerous.”

The words had scarcely left his lips when the forest resounded with rifle-shots, and Clearwater dropped over a fallen sapling.

The Destroyer darted to her side and raised her up.

A stream of blood gushed from her mouth, and all at once she threw her arms about his neck, completely depriving him of his balance. He went to the ground beneath the wounded girl, and Doc Cromer and Silver Rifle sprung to his aid.

The trader jerked the Indian loose, and then leaped forward, with an oath.

The savages were upon them!

Boldly among the red demons sprung the trio, fighting with that determination and despair of a person driven to the wall.

The trader had dropped two warriors, when a tomahawk, thrown by a young brave, struck him in the head, and he dropped his rifle, as he sunk back without a groan.

“Girl,” cried the White Tiger, who had witnessed the fall of the trader, “we can but die; then let us fall in the run for life.”

Suddenly they whirled to the right, and parrying several blows, furiously given, dashed through an opening, which they had made in the red ranks, and darted toward the lake once more.

The Indians were surprised at this move, and for a moment could not realize the unexpected state of affairs.

That moment proved of value to the fugitives; they had put many rods between them and their foes, and after a chase which terminated near the lake-shore, the latter returned bootless to the scene of battle.

Here they were greeted with mystery and horror. Their dead had been scalped during the last pursuit; the body of Clearwater was missing, and upon the giant tree at whose foot she had lain, was the dreaded mark of the White Tiger, lately cut, with a bloody tomahawk!

The warriors gathered around the tree with bated breath, and stared at the deeply cut double cross.

“Clearwater plays the White Tiger,” said a young brave, at length.

“Clearwater!” yelled a gray-haired chief, turning fiercely upon the speaker. “Clearwater’s arm was weak, and the tomahawk went through the bark. A man’s muscle drove the hatchet;” and then, raising his thunderous voice to its highest pitch, he swept the young braves with a finger of scorn. “Chopah knows all!” he cried. “The young warriors have lied!”