Chapter V: 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.

Over two hundred yards in advance, Lightfoot plunged into the forest again, uttering a taunting cry that half-crazed his pursuers. It seemed as though his escape was fully assured--even the Osage braves began to despair of overtaking him.

And yet, even in the moment of his seeming triumph, an accident occurred that threatened to prove fatal to Lightfoot. He had not run fifty yards after leaving the open when his foot struck a stub or projecting root, hurling him violently against a log. He lay as he had fallen, motionless, senseless, as if dead.

No longer yelling, but listening eagerly for the sound of footfalls, the savages rushed on, knowing that, by pausing to hearken, their last hope of overtaking the fugitive would be banished. On they dashed, scrambling over the fallen tree brushing unconsciously past their senseless foe, even casting a shower of decaying leaves upon his body, so narrowly did they miss him.

For fully an hour Lightfoot lay there, like one dead. But then consciousness gradually returned, and he struggled to a sitting posture, still clutching the limb that had broken short in his hand when he fell. Slowly recollection came to him, and he recalled the events of that night; but clearer than all these, a golden-haired woman stood out before his mental vision, appealing to him for assistance.

This thought seemed to put new life into his veins, and he sprung lightly to his feet. His brain throbbed violently, and he glided to the edge of the open ground, and peered keenly forth. Not a living soul was to be seen. The moon now shone clear and brightly. A stiff breeze was blowing. After a swift glance around, Lightfoot glided out from the shadow, and began recrossing the natural meadow.

_He was returning to the Osage village!_

It seemed a foolhardy act, but the chief firmly resolved to again enter the village, to rescue Yellow-hair, if it lay in his power. He felt assured that she was there--that the captive brought in by Seth Grable was none other than Edith Mordaunt.

He was not acting without due reflection. The deed would be easier on that night than any succeeding one, for several reasons. Nearly, if not quite all of the braves had set forth in pursuit of himself and friends. Even if not, they would scarce suspect a second attempt, after the first having so nearly proven fatal. Nothing would be further from their minds than that he would again venture into the village. For these reasons Lightfoot resolved to make the attempt. He had vowed eternal fidelity to Yellow-hair; he had abandoned his people because of her--he would save her from the White Wolf's fangs, though it should cost his life.

Across the meadow he glided. In this lay his greatest danger. It was not likely that the Osages had yet given over searching for him. Were any of them gazing out upon the meadow, they must see him.

Nearing the other side, he slackened his pace. When within arrow-shot, he turned abruptly to the right, and ran at full speed for several hundred yards, then darted into the woods. By this move he hoped to escape any ambush that might have been laid for him. Yet no sound gave token that such was the case, as he hastened on through the forest.

Ten minutes later he stood gazing out upon the Osage village. The fires were still smoldering, a few forms could be seen, but the place was very quiet. Evidently the warriors had not yet returned.

There seemed little fear of his being discovered, but Lightfoot feared taking the time that must be consumed by crawling up to the log huts, and, crouching low down, he glided along in a circuit that would bring him up behind the corral. This he gained in safety, undiscovered, and then crept toward the village in the shadow cast by the rude fence.

Though he could plainly distinguish several braves sitting behind the smoldering fires, lazily smoking, Lightfoot gained the outer row of lodges unseen, even by the wolfish dogs that skulked round the village. Here he paused to locate more perfectly the cabin into which he had seen the captive maiden hurried. A few moments sufficed for this, but then a black frown corrugated his brow.

A fire smoldered before the cabin door. Beside it an Indian crouched; one of the smokers he had before noticed. Fate seemed conspiring against the bold Kickapoo, for while this guard remained on duty, he could not hope to accomplish his aim.

Lightfoot glanced keenly around. Only one other form met his eye--that of the second smoker. All others in the village appeared buried in slumber.

A determined expression settled over Lightfoot's face. He had decided. Too much had been dared to hesitate now. He might never again succeed in entering the village. He dared not risk delay, lest the lamb should be sacrificed to the lust of the wolf.

Prostrating himself, like a shadow he glided over the ground, nearing the cabin he felt assured contained Yellow-hair. The progress of a snake could not have been more noiseless. 'Twas the perfection of skill.

A moment more satisfied his doubts. In range with the guard, Lightfoot saw that a cabin hid the smokers from each other. Could he silence the one without attracting the attention of the other, he might succeed in freeing the captive. The risk was very great, yet he resolved to dare it.

At that moment he longed for his trusty bow. With it he could easily dispose of both these braves, without alarming the sleepers. And now he had only knife and tomahawk to depend upon.

Without alarm, he gained the cabin, then crawled to the corner. The fire was but a few feet from the door. A single leap would place him beside the drowsy guard. Yet he feared to risk it. A single cry--nay, a gasp--a groan would be sufficient to arouse the other watch, and then a whoop would alarm the sleepers. This Lightfoot reasoned as he silently moved out from the shadow into the light, a bright blade gleaming in his hand.

Slowly, silently, scarce perceptibly, a veritable shadow of death, the Kickapoo lessened the distance separating him from the drowsy sentinel. Nearer, still nearer until, with extended arm, he could have driven the long blade to the haft between the savage's shoulders. Yet the stroke was withheld.

Noiselessly Lightfoot drew himself together. Then his left arm was gradually extended. The moment was at hand.

The eye could scarcely follow his motions. His left hand closed like a seal upon the Indian's mouth, bearing him forcibly backward to meet the deadly blow dealt by the free hand. A peculiar _gritting_ sound as the keen blade was _pressed_ lower, was all.

And yet the sound met the ear of the second watcher, and Lightfoot heard a suspicious grunt as he arose from beside the fire. Discovery seemed inevitable, yet the Kickapoo did not seek safety in flight.

With a sudden movement he threw a corner of the dirty blanket over the wound, then crouched low down behind the corpse, supporting it in a lifelike position, peering out from beneath a corner of the blanket. He saw the savage step round the corner of a cabin, then pause, as if undecided. By the dim light he could not detect the blood that was slowly soaking through the blanket.

"Did you call?" he demanded, presently.

"No--I coughed, nothing more," promptly replied Lightfoot, suiting the action to the words.

As if satisfied, the Indian turned away. The Kickapoo smiled grimly. Noiselessly he removed the well-filled quiver from the dead brave's back, intending, with it and the bow that lay at his side, to prop the body in a lifelike position to guard against suspicion, while he attempted the release of Yellow-hair.

But a new danger threatened the scout. As he worked, a dark form was gliding nearer and nearer, coming from behind, as though copying the example set by the Kickapoo.

Then it darted forward with a malignant sound, half-yelp half-bark, its long fangs closing upon the spy's shoulder. It was a dog--one of those fierce, treacherous, slinking, skulking, wolfish curs that can only be found among the Indians.

An involuntary cry broke from Lightfoot's lips as he felt this attack, and he sprung to his feet, tearing the cur from its hold, crushing him to the ground with a force that snapped its bones like pipe-stems. The slain sentinel fell forward, the plumes and long hair igniting in the flickering blaze, sending up a bright, crackling flame.

A cry came from beyond, and Lightfoot glanced up. An Osage brave stood out in full view, evidently astounded by the scene. And then from the surrounding cabins came an increasing bustle that showed Lightfoot his peril.

Stooping, he caught up the bow and quiver. With wonderful adroitness the loop was fixed and an arrow notched. But, with another whoop, the Osage sprung behind the cabin.

Two cat-like bounds carried Lightfoot to its corner. The Indian was hurriedly fitting an arrow to the string. 'Twas his last action in life; a sharp twang--a shrill yell: the Osage lay struggling in death agonies, transfixed by the feathered shaft, and Lightfoot darted away toward the forest, with the speed of one who knew that life depended upon his exertions.

The village was aroused by the alarm; warriors hastily snatched up the nearest weapon and hastened into open air. The fires were smoldering, but the moon shone brightly.

A lithe figure darted past them with the speed of thought. Was it that of friend, or of an enemy? Not until Lightfoot had passed the last cabin and rent the air with his shrill, taunting whoop, did they suspect the truth. But then pursuit was immediate. Burning with rage, they darted after the fleeing form. Twice that night had he bearded them--he should not live to boast of it. Were the Osage braves dogs that a degraded outcast should thus throw dirt in their faces? The deadly, vindictive yells answered _no_!

On Lightfoot dashed, a feeling of contempt for his pursuers banishing that of chagrin at his double failure. But gradually the fact of his being in danger forced itself upon him. He could hear the loud tramp of the Osages close at his heels as he dashed through the forest; could hear others spreading out by degrees upon either side to guard against his doubling upon them. Were these braves swifter than any he had before encountered? No. The change was in himself.

He was weakened by long toil and little rest; by the loss of blood as well. The arrow shot in the thigh of the day before; the numerous but smaller hurts received in the furious _melée_ at the village; the gash upon the head inflicted by his fall--all combined served to weaken his frame, to render his muscles less elastic. Every energy was brought into play, yet he ran heavily, with difficulty, far different from his usual light, springy leap.

Still on he fled, running for life, with the yelping hunters close upon his track. Through the forest, over the meadow, winding through steep hills or crossing them direct as the nature of the ground demanded; still on he fled, desperately holding his own, though unable to increase his brief advantage.

Still on, until an anxious look overspreads his face. The Osages yell with increased malignancy. The ground is comparatively open, now, and Lightfoot can see the folly of attempting to diverge from a straight course. The savages chase him in the shape of the new moon. Only in a direct course can he hope to escape them. And yet before him lies a trap. This knowledge calls up that look--this knowledge draws the yells of exultation from the lips of his pursuers.

Clenching his teeth tightly, the Kickapoo sprung forward with increased speed. Such a pace could not long be maintained, but he knows the end is close at hand. His fingers tighten upon the bow--brings the quiver round upon his breast. If the end is death, he will die as he lived--a terror to his enemies.

Across an open tract, he turned and glanced back. The Osages yelled loudly; they fancied him securely trapped. Sending back a yell of defiance, Lightfoot darted up the abrupt slope, forcing his way through the thicket of scrubby pines and cedars. Beyond this lay a few yards of open ground; then came empty space.

Leaping out Lightfoot knelt down, an arrow fitted to the string, another held between his teeth. Thus he waited the approach of the Osages.

He crouched upon the very brink of a precipice, at whose base, nearly one hundred feet below, roared the Osage river. Its surface was dark now, wrapped with shadows of the cliff, but the Kickapoo well knew how it looked as the sullen roaring came to his ears.

Plainly as though at midday he could see the swift current tearing madly along, dashing itself into spray over the sharp, jagged crests of scores of bowlders that had, from time to time, dropped from the face of the cliff. The passage was not an easy one for a boat in broad daylight; what then would be the fate of a swimmer in midnight darkness--if one should leap down from the hight above?

The Osages came on boldly enough, though they knew that, at bay, an awkward customer awaited them. But they had been sorely smitten that night--they thirsted for this man's blood with a vengeance that overpowered the fear of death.

As the first head showed above the thicket, the hunted outcast's bow twanged loudly, and a muffled yell, as the head sunk down, told how steady had been his nerves. Maddened to frenzy, the dead man's comrades leaped out upon the open, resolved to end all by one desperate rush. But another _twang_ mingled with their cries--another dusky form reeled back, the death-yell dying out in his throat in a husky gurgle.

And then the hill was occupied by the Osages alone!

As he loosed the second death-winged arrow, Lightfoot turned and boldly sprung over the precipice, his wild war-cry sounding strangely thrilling as it soared up from the depths below. It ceased abruptly. Then came a peculiar sound. Was it the sullen plunge of a body into the water, or the dull _thud_ of a human form striking flatly upon some of the jagged bowlders that pierced the waters surface?

These questions asked the Osages. But not long did their indecision last. With eager cries they ran along upon the precipice-edge, making for a point where the river-bank was low. Dead or alive they resolved to recover the body of their terrible foe.

But Lightfoot was not dead. Besides the great distance, he had to run the risk of falling upon some of the immense bowlders, which, in the gloom, were invisible. Knowing this, he yet retained his presence of mind, and, though expecting death to follow, leaped for life.

Straight down, feet foremost he descended, one hand clutching the arrow in his quiver, though with arm pressed close to his side. Striking the water with almost stunning force, he sunk until his feet struck bottom with a force that doubled him up in a ball. But then he shot up, springing half out of the water, half-stunned, bewildered, confused, but alive!

With barely consciousness to keep afloat, he made no effort to avoid the rocks. And perhaps 'twas as well, for the current carried him through the perilous passage in safety, though more than once the sharp, knife-like edges of the flinty rock cut through his skin.

Then the river-bed widened, and the stream flowed more quietly. Lightfoot had partially recovered from the stunning shock, and now swam rapidly on, hearing, above the sullen roar of the waters, the yells of the Osages upon the bank above. He easily divined their purpose, but felt little doubt but that he could balk it.

As the bank grew lower, he was forced to keep close in to the shore to avoid the moonlighted space beyond, and the race was so close that he could hear the rapid tread of the Osages as they rushed toward this point. Still he passed the danger in safety, and then turning upon his back he glanced back. Several Indians were already in the water, eagerly looking for some trace of their enemy. Grimly smiling, Lightfoot swam on, little heeding his aching bones.

Half a mile below, he reached the ford, mention of which has so frequently been made in this story. As he stood erect in the shallow water an acute pain ran through his left leg, and he fell forward. A quick examination told him the truth. His ankle was badly sprained; so severely that further flight was not to be thought of. To save his life he could not have walked a half-mile.

Then Boone's parting words flashed upon his mind, naming the cave by the river as the rendezvous. It was possible that his comrades were even then awaiting his coming.

Sinking down in the water Lightfoot swam toward the entrance, uttering as he did so a signal often made use of between himself and the Wood King. But no reply came; again, with the same result. He knew then that the old hunter had not arrived, and, despite his own danger, a thrill of pain agitated his mind. He had learned to almost worship the noble-hearted woodsman.

Swimming into the cavern, Lightfoot crawled up on the sandy beach, half-fainting from pain and exhaustion. His labor that night had been really Herculean.

But then he turned and peered out upon the river that lay half in darkness, half-revealed by the silvery moonlight. He gave a start and dashed the dripping hair from his eyes. Two black dots were visible upon the surface. Then two human forms reared themselves upright, standing in the shoal water. They were Indians--Osage warriors. Their object was plain. They had swam down here to intercept their foe's escape, if alive, to secure his scalp if his dead body should float down the river.

Lightfoot frowned deeply and felt of his weapons, for the darkness rendered eyesight useless. The bow was still strung, though the string was somewhat lax, from being water-soaked. Rubbing this forcibly, he succeeded in rendering it fit for use. The quiver still retained its arrows; the girdle at his waist still supported the hatchet and knife given him by the faithful Feather-Cloud. Again he smiled grimly. Though crippled, he could yet make a stern fight for life.

But then a new thought struck him. He would avoid the fight if possible; and the tree above offered him the means of hiding until all search was over, as he believed.

Along the cave floor he crawled, reaching the hollow tree with difficulty. Creeping inside, he loosened enough of the decayed wood to cover up the entrance, then clutching the grape-vine, dragged himself up to the mouth of the hollow. Ensconcing himself securely among the dense boughs, he drew up the vine, coiling it beside him. And then, utterly exhausted, he sunk into a sort of stupor, for it could scarcely be called sleep.

This stupor lasted until the sun was up, and was then only broken by a shout from below. Bewildered, half asleep, he listened. Voices come to his ear up through the hollow tree. He knew then that the cave had been searched while he slept, and that the enemy had discovered the passage he had used. And then he saw what a fatal accident his sudden awaking had caused.

His start had dislodged the coiled grape-vine, so that it fell down into the hollow trunk. And now it became taut, jerking from side to side as an Indian tried to drag himself up. Desperate, Lightfoot drew his hatchet, and at one stroke severed the vine. A muffled yell came up from below, then a heavy fall, followed by shrill cries of triumph as the Osages discovered the cleanly severed vine. They had found their prey.

Instinctively Lightfoot clutched his bow and started to descend the outside of the tree. But a twinge of pain reminded him that escape by flight was useless. And then a yell from the hillside below called his attention to a number of Osages running up to surround the tree.

Coolly the Kickapoo waited until the savages were within a score yards of the trunk, then his bow sent a feathered shaft deep into the breast of the foremost brave. Startled, the survivors broke for cover, but another missile overtook them, and Lightfoot yelled defiantly as another victim was added to the heavy price demanded for his life.

For a time all was still. Not an Indian could be seen; not a missile was discharged at the Kickapoo, though his position could be fairly defined. Once their chiefs had doomed Lightfoot to the stake; now they resolved that a similar death should be his.

A whiff of smoke came curling up the hollow shell. Lightfoot drew back. The Osages yelled madly. The sport was fairly begun. How would it end? How could it end but in the death of the hard-hunted outcast!

Thicker and more dense grew the smoke. A dull, sullen roaring was audible as the flames entered the shell, eating greedily into the rotten wood. The leaves began to shrivel and turn black. The intense heat drew great beads of perspiration from the skin of the Kickapoo. The forked flames shoot out of the hollow top. Still further back draws the outcast, now fully exposed upon a limb. His hair begins to shrivel, his flesh to crack. His torture is excruciating, yet he, with a defiant shout, echoes back the yells of the Osages.