The light that broke upon the lake after the night of storm and tempest greeted a calm.
The white crested billows had returned to their strongholds, but the lake shore was strewn with their handiwork. Strong trees, which the wind had uprooted on islands, had been dashed upon the beach, and in some places tree was heaped on tree, lending a terrible aspect to the stony shore. Such storms are frequent visitors to Lake Superior, even at this late day.
In the branching top of a young fir, which lay at the edge of the water, not far from Chapel Rock, something scintillated like a diamond, in the strong light.
Its brightness would have dazzled the eyes of a beholder, and, with the belief that it was something very valuable, he would have been drawn to the spot.
As the sun climbed the eastern horizon and darted its beams over the “pulpit,” directly upon the shining “thing,” the fir-limbs moved as though something imbued with life lay beneath them, and possessed the curiosity.
The woods and shores of Superior swarmed with Indians, and it is not surprising that from the cliffs above, a red hunter riveted his eyes upon the particular spot described. Evidently the young brave had lately reached the hights, for his dress showed proofs of a long journey, and the results of a late war expedition, in the shape of a snowy scalp, hung at his deer-skin girdle.
He had approached the cliff with that proverbial caution characteristic of his people, and almost the first thing that met his gaze was the shining object among the fir boughs. He started at the unexpected sight, and when, at last, the thing resolved itself into a silver star, he rose with a cry of mingled wonder and exultation, and prepared to descend. Perhaps he had caught a glimpse of something other thanthe bright star, for an anxious expression overspread his face, and he looked cautiously about while he clambered down a great fissure in the cliffs. All signs of fatigue had left him now; he seemed the fresh warrior of a fortnight since, and, after walking erect toward the fir awhile, he suddenly dropped on all fours, and moved forward again, like a wary animal.
He reached his objective point at last, and, parting the verdant boughs, peered through upon the highly ornamented butt of a light rifle!
The next moment the young Indian’s eyes fell upon the owner of the weapon.
She lay near the polished barrel, only deeper among the fir, and the hue of a corpse rested upon her fair face and slender hands.
The peeping lids gave the savage a glimpse of blue eyes, and the masses of golden hair, darkened by the water they held imprisoned, must have captivated him.
Motionless, breathless she lay on the stony ground, and the hand which the Indian touched was as cold as ice.
He shook his head sorrowfully as he tenderly lifted the body from the ground.
“Silver Rifle dead! She no be Dohma’s now! Why she come to Gitche Gumee? To die by the big waters an’ be buried by the Chippewa whose heart she stole three moons ago? Dohma go bury Silver Rifle in big hole, far from bad waters.”
He did not neglect the beautiful rifle, as he moved down the lake shore with his burden, for he bore it in the same hand that griped his own.
A few minutes’ walk brought him to one of the Superior’s numerous caverns, which he entered by wading to his waist in the cold water. Soon he found himself in gross darkness, through which he groped his way for several hundred feet.
At length he paused, and laid his burden on the ground.
Then, with the aid of his flints, he kindled a fire among some dried fir-boughs, into the light of which he bore his silent prize.
“No Injun strike Silver Rifle,” he murmured aloud. “She fell into water, and the big waves around her. Dohma followher long time to tell her he love her; but he never catch her till—now!”
While he spoke he was unconsciously chafing the bare arms which the loose-fitting sleeves revealed, and all at once he started to his feet, and gazed with all the Indian superstition in his dark eye, upon the girl.
The eyes had opened and closed with a dreaminess not of earth.
A minute later and Dohma was at her side again.
“Silver Rifle live for Dohma!” he cried with joy. “She no dead, now. The Great Spirit has heard the prayer of the young chief!”
Once more he fell to the work of restoring the girl to consciousness with renewed vigor, and at last found her staring into his swarthy face. For several moments she seemed to be recalling certain reminiscences of the past, and then, all at once, she rose to her feet, and deliberately picked up her silver rifle.
“Silver Rifle no shoot,” said the Indian, with a smile. “Powder all wet, flints make fire, but won’t burn powder.”
She flung the rifle aside, and her hands dropped to her girdle.
“Knife gone, too,” said the Chippewa. “Silver Rifle no weapons.”
Then, like one in a dream, she moved to the Indian’s side, and stood over him in silence. She had not fully recovered her senses.
“Silver Rifle come to Dohma?” he said, gently, taking her hand. “He find her among fir, and bring her to cave.”
She did not resist, and the young savage drew her down to his side, and looked lovingly into her eyes.
Slowly but surely her reason returned, and while the Chippewa was in the midst of a recital of his hunt for her, a footstep sounded on the flinty floor.
Quickly Dohma’s hand shot forward to his rifle, and wheeling as he leaped to his feet, he confronted a huge Indian, a foot taller than himself, and with the physique of a Hercules.
For a moment the two Chippewas faced each other amid dead silence, and then Dohma extended his hand, which the giant griped as he glanced at the girl.
“Silver Rifle and Dohma live in cave?” he said, with a sneer, which, although scarcely perceptible, did not escape the young chief’s notice.
“Dohma find Silver Rifle dead by the big waters. But he bring her back to the world,” was the calm rejoinder.
“Now what Dohma goin’ to do with Silver Rifle?”
“Teach her to love him!”
The giant bit his nether lip.
“Dohma is a Chippewa, so is Renadah,” he said, after a minute’s angry silence. “Dohma is brave, but his aim is not so long as his big red brother’s.”
“But it is as strong!” retorted Dohma, with determination, and as he spoke he calmly stepped between Silver Rifle and the tall chief.
“Dohma is a young fir; Renadah is the great oak that grows in the big woods. He could crush Dohma with one limb.”
“Let him try it!”
“He would not harm his red brother. Our great king, Pontiac, needs brave red-men now; but Dohma, if he would help exterminate the hated English, must do one thing.”
The young Indian did not speak, but noted the glance which Renadah threw over his shoulder at Silver Rifle.
“He must give to Renadah the woman he loves!”
Dohma heard a low cry of horror part a pair of pale lips, and caught a glimpse of Silver Rifle as she recovered her weapon.
“Dohma will not give Silver Rifle to Renadah,” he said, calmly. “He found her dead and brought her spirit back from Manitou-land—so, she ishis!”
“She is Renadah’s! The wildcat of the Chippewas saw her before Dohma knew that she was near Gitche Gumee.”
“Renadah lies!”
A cry of rage parted the tall chief’s lips, and he strode forward as his smaller enemy retreated with drawn tomahawk.
“Renadah, Silver Rifle can belong to but one of us,” said Dohma. “We will fight for her!”
“So be it!” cried Renadah, contemptuously. “Back beyond the fire, Silver Rifle, touch the wall and be a stone there. Dohma and Renadah fight for you.”
Without a word the girl hurried to the wall of the cavern, and surveyed the red duelists.
On either side of the fire they stood with ready weapons, and at a signal from Renadah the tomahawks were uplifted.
A second signal quickly followed, and the hatchets went crashing through the air like thunderbolts.
Silver Rifle saw Dohma’s tomahawk miss his enemy’s head by an inch, and a wild shriek that quickly followed, told her that the giant’s aim had been truer.
Dohma threw up his arms, and while he spun round like a top, his antagonist shot toward him with a cry of triumph!
The single spectator sprung from the wall, and, rifle in hand, darted toward the mouth of the corridor.
But Renadah saw the movement, and, relinquishing his victim, turned and pursued.
A few bounds brought him near the girl, whose limbs were bruised by the rocks against which the waves had hurled her unconscious body, and suddenly, still in the firelight, she stopped.
She saw the giant form that swooped down upon her, and as the red arm leaped forward to claim the prize which it had just won, she struck with the butt of her rifle!
“Coocha!” shrieked Renadah, recoiling from the blow, which had driven the flint to the bone of his arm. “Silver Rifle—”
The girl’s action broke the sentence, and he threw up his arm again to ward off the second stroke.
But the shield was useless, for Silver Rifle seemed to spring into the air as she dealt the blow, and with a cry closely allied to a death-groan, Renadah staggered back and dropped beside his victim!
“Free again!” said the victor, surveying the work of rifle and hatchet. “Little did Dohma think that he was bearing me to my stronghold when he brought me hither! Noble red youth, you saved my life to-day; would to heaven I could have saved yours! The giant must have seen me borne home, and so he followed. Dangers thicken fast—dangers and love,” and a smile played with her lips. “I did not seek this wild land for lovers—especially red ones. No, I came hither to find a father, or a ring that will tell me much. Silver Rifle,the Girl Trailer, will find the ring! The White Tiger of the lakes wears it on his hand, and she has commanded him to give it to its owner. He shall comply or die!”
With the last word a sound startled her, and she glanced toward the savages.
Dohma was sitting bolt upright!
The girl darted forward.
“Dohma, our fates are inseparable,” she cried, washing the blood from his face. “Heaven tells me they are. Together we will hunt the White Tiger and find the ring.”
The Indian smiled, and looked up into Silver Rifle’s face inquiringly.
“Silver Rifle lose ring?”
“Yes,” eagerly, anxiously.
“Yellow ring with pretty stone?”
“Yes, Dohma. You know something about it!” almost shrieked the girl.
“Dohma find ring in big wood just ’fore he find Silver Rifle; but he no put it on his finger. See there, pale girl?” and with the question, the Indian held up his left hand, the third finger of which was missing.
“Dohma find ring once, put it on finger. Ring no come off when white trader want it, so chief cut off Dohma’s finger to get ring. When Dohma saw pretty ring in woods, he said bad word, an’ let it lay.”
Silver Rifle groaned.
“Could you find it again?” she cried, eagerly.
“Dohma go right to it. It near two big oaks, close to Gitche Gumee.”
“Then we’ll find it!” cried the girl. “Soon I will know who I am; soon I’ll lift the vail of mystery that enwraps my birth. How came the ring in the forest? Have the Indians killed the White Tiger? or did he drop the ring?”
“White Tigers live,” said the Indian.
“There is but one, Dohma.”
“Dohma saw two White Tigers last dark. One was not white like his brother.”
“The youth’s mind is wandering,” mused Silver Rifle. “There is but one White Tiger, and he is a half-breed.”
“Half-breed and White Tiger dress alike. Make Indiansthink there is but one,” said Dohma, who had caught Silver Rifle’s last words. “But,” and he raised his hand to the frightful wound inflicted by his rival’s tomahawk, “Renadah struck deep. Dohma feel sick now. Hatchets bad medicine.”
The girl saw an ashy pallor sweep over the Chippewa’s face, and reached forth her hands to support him. But he eluded them, and fell backward with a groan.
“Oh, heavens! is he dead?” she cried; “and has the secret of the ring’s hiding-place died with him?”
With pallid face she leant over the youth, and raised his head, which seemed to her a lump of iron ore.
“Dead—dead!” she groaned. “The trail which seemed ending grows longer than ever now. ‘Near two oaks, by the lake,’ he said. There lies the mystery-prisoning ring. I’ll hunt it till I die! I’ll tear it from the hands of the chief in the midst of his people, if I encounter it there. Heaven give me strength to meet the dangers which are to come!”
There was no denying the fact—Dohma, the Chippewa, was dead. At least the girl would have sworn he was.
Silver Rifle held his head in her lap a long time before she gave him up.
She did not want to lose the young Indian when she needed him most, and now that he was gone, she feared that she would never find the ring.
“I’ll bury the foes side by side,” she murmured, relinquishing the heavy head, and approaching the fire. “They’ll not quarrel about me in the grave, I hope.”
She supplied herself with a torch from the fire, and moved to a spot some distance beyond the dead Indians, where earth instead of stone formed the floor of the cavern.
Selecting a long and sharp piece of slate, she digged orscooped out a large grave, and with Herculean strength dragged the two savages from the light. Tenderly she wrapped Dohma in a blanket, and placed him beside the furious chief who had sent him to the hunting-grounds of his people.
“I’m going to rest awhile, now,” she said, in a long-drawn breath, after finishing the work of burial, “and then I’m going into the woods again. Dohma was mistaken. But one White Tiger lives; there can not be another. I saw him on the lake one night, and since, I have seen him in the woods. He is a half-breed, too. If I meet him, he must pay for losing the ring, for undoubtedly the bauble which poor Dohma found in the forest was mine.”
When the sun sunk behind Chapel Rock and the shadows of night swept over lake and forest, Silver Rifle glided from the cave.
At the mouth of the entrance she found a strange boat, which belonged to Renadah, who had fallen before her arm. Doubtless he was on the water when Dohma bore his prize to the cave, and had followed in his canoe.
Quietly she stepped into the boat and sent it flying through the rocky gateways out into the calmer waters.
She coasted toward Chapel Rock, which she sounded, and presently, having scaled the cliff at a feasible point, found herself in the forest above. The canoe had been hidden among the fallen firs on the beach, and was secure from savage prowlers’ eyes.
The moon was giving tokens of an early visit to the nocturnal heavens, as Silver Rifle darted into the dangerous wood, apparently having some objective point in view.
She knew where two gigantic oaks grew side by side, and to this particular spot she was hastening.
The rising moon found her hurrying along the cliffs, and after traversing several miles, she suddenly wheeled to the left and advanced with caution.
Once or twice she stopped among the ghostly shadows, for the cry of a night-bird had greeted her ears, and she quite naturally associated the sound with the presence of enemies.
But no answering signals were heard, and she advanced again until she stood beneath the boughs of the trees she had sought.
Surely these were the two oaks mentioned by Dohma; they were the only two which stood together near the lake-shore.
“The ring will greet me with its glitter,” she muttered, searching around the trunks of the trees, and gradually describing larger circles, which drew her nearer the edge of the cliffs.
A pale moonlight flooded the ground, and more than once Silver Rifle was momentarily deceived by the glitter of lake pebbles, which by divers means had found their way into the forest, so far above their rocky bed.
“These are not the oaks!” she said at last, in despair, as she suddenly paused in her search. “Dohma meant other trees than these. And— Ha! what is yon dark object, and did it not move?”
Quickly her rifle dropped from her left arm, and the flint was gently drawn back, while her eye remained riveted upon the object which had startled her.
As she looked, the shape grew into the figure of a beast, and she at length concluded that it was dead. So she moved forward, and at length stood over the body of the panther which had wounded Ahdeek’s shoulder with his sharp teeth. She saw evidences of a struggle on the earth about the dead beast, and discovered that white and red had met there at no remote hour.
The discovery somewhat startled the girl, and as she rose to her feet, the cry of the night-hawk sounded terribly distinct in her ears. It seemed to emanate from a spot not twenty feet to her right. Slowly but deliberately she turned toward the spot, and the next instant several dark forms leaped from behind trees, and advanced upon her!
“Keep off, red-men!” she cried. “I have as yet spilled but little Chippewa blood, for I trail not your people. Stand off, I say, else there be—”
Her sentence was cut short by a shriek, for she found herself in the grasp of a stalwart savage who had approached her from the rear, while the trio engaged her attention in front.
“White girl no shoot Chippewa now,” laughed her captor, and presently Silver Rifle found herself standing in the midst of a war-party, hideously disfigured by paint. “White girl same as Dohma hunt,” quickly continued the chief. “Dohmatell Oagla he love girl whom he call Silver Rifle. White girl see Dohma?”
The girl shook her head, and the savages laughed.
“Dohma come home by um by an’ find Silver Rifle in Chippewa lodge.”
“Alas!” thought the girl, “Dohma would never return to his people.”
“Pale girl got pretty rifle,” said a tall young Indian, who wore a head-dress of hawk-feathers. “She have heap silver in her lodge. Let Hawkeye see rifle.”
With the last word the Chippewa put forth his hand, when, with a startling cry, the girl started violently back.
Something glittered in the moonlight on Hawkeye’s tiniest finger.
“What frighten pale girl?” demanded the chief, not wholly unfrightened himself.
“My ring! my ring!” cried Silver Rifle, starting forward. “Hawkeye, you’ve got my ring! Give it here!”
She pointed to the ring as she spoke; but the savage drew back, with an Indian oath.
“Ring Hawkeye’s,” he cried. “Him find it here by dead panther. Sequesta grabbed ring when Hawkeye saw it; so they fought for it, and Sequesta sleeps in Gitche Gumee. Girl shan’t have ring. It’s Hawkeye’s. Too pretty for Silver Rifle.”
“Then the price I shall pay for my own property shall be your blood!” cried the determined girl. “The glitter of that ring has drawn me from the white man’s greatest city. I will have it, and, for the last time, I demand it. Take it from your finger, Hawkeye!”
“Hawkeye keep ring,” was the determined response, and it still quivered his lips when the girl’s rifle cleared a space about her.
The savages saw they had a demoness to deal with, and admired her bravery as they shrunk from the clubbed rifle. She was but a girl—a young tigress in nature, among twenty braves, and they would humor her as the cat does the mouse.
All at once the butt of the weapon dropped to her shoulder, and the next instant a sharp report shot over the cliffs.
Hawkeye, with a groan, reeled in the throes of death, like a drunken man.
Through the smoke, which obscured her form, the brave huntress sprung, and, before the savages could recover from their surprise, she had wrenched the ring from the warrior’s finger, and was flying through the forest like a deer!
Hawkeye was dead. The little ring, which was to be the price of more than one life, had ended his days of savage glory, and the slayer was seeking safety in flight.
The eldest members of the war-party, recovering first, had started in pursuit, and the younger were not far in their rear. Once or twice they paused and tried to bring the girl down with the rifle; but she flitted in and out among the trees so as to destroy their aim.
One hand griped her silver rifle, the other held the ring, and more than once she shut the member tighter than ever to satisfy her heart that the prize was still her own.
She ran toward the spot where she had left Renadah’s boat, and at length disappeared in the rugged path that led down to the lake shore.
For some time she had not heard the footsteps of her pursuers, and, after hiding an hour among the rocks, she approached the beach. Quickly she drew the light craft from its hiding-place, and as she placed it in the water the click of a rifle-lock sounded above her head.
With a cry of horror she dropped the oar, and griped her rifle.
Half way up the path she saw a tufted head, and caught the glitter of a rifle-barrel before a jet of fire dazed her eyes.
A second later she lay motionless beside the boat, and the air resounded with yells of fiendish triumph.
Down the rugged path they came, and the foremost lifted Silver Rifle from the ground.
“Ball cut girl’s head!” he cried; “but,” looking up with eyes beaming with devilish satisfaction, “she no dead.”
The Indians crowded round with “ughs” of surprise.
“Silver Rifle no dead,” continued the warrior, “She live to die among the squaws. Oagla take ring. Him wear it now.”
At first Oagla’s hand shrunk from contact with the ring.
He thought of Hawkeye lying dead in the forest; but when he saw smiles of derision, with looks of covetousness, all about him, he took the ring, and dropped it into his medicine bag.
“Now, braves, back to the war-path!” he cried. “Omaha carry Silver Rifle. Oagla glad he did not kill her now. See that she does not escape; if she does, Omaha steps upon the death-trail.”
Then the band ascended to the forest again, Omaha, the giant, bearing the still unconscious girl in his arms, as though she were a babe.
In single file, through the ghostly forest, the Indians advanced, and by and by the body of Hawkeye was added to the train.
“Tell me where I am!” suddenly cried the captive, startling every Indian with her voice. “I recollect the boat, the red-skin on the cliff, then— Oh, heavens, am I really in the clutches of the fiends?”
“Silver Rifle in Omaha’s arms,” said the jailer, with a faint smile. “Indian shoot when girl go to get in boat.”
“And the ring! Where is that ring, chief?”
Omaha looked up and encountered Oagla’s eye.
“Ring in Gitche Gumee,” he answered. “It lost forever now.”
“Omaha lies!” boldly cried the Girl Trailer. “I saw the look your chief shot at you. He has the ring, and unless he gives it back to me he shall fall as Hawkeye fell.”
“Pale girl shoot Injuns no more,” was the response. “She die when she git to Chippewa’s lodge.”
“We’ll talk more of dying when we get there,” said Silver Rifle. “Fortune—”
Oagla suddenly turned toward the band, with uplifted hand, which broke the captive’s sentence.
Instantly every savage seemed to grow into a dusky statue.
From a spot quite a distance to the right, faint cries emanated, and the forest was tinged with a light that indicated a fire.
The savages remained silent for several moments, when Oagla started toward the spot.
“The Chippewas hold a prisoner,” he cried. “We will see him burn and hear his death-song.”
Obedient to their chieftain’s words, the savages started forward, and presently gained the summit of a wooded knoll which overlooked the torture-glen.
This spot was distant several miles from the Chippewa village, and had witnessed some of the most fiendish tortures ever inflicted by savage hands. When an enemy fell into the hands of the young braves, he was brought hither and tortured, and more than once they had spirited captives from the village and burned them here.
The war-party saw a white man lashed to a tree near the foot of the hill.
The flames were leaping at his throat with the ferocity of famished wolves, and he was boasting of fierce, vengeful triumphs over the kindred of his torturers.
“Ahdeek burns, but the White Tiger will avenge him!” cried the captive.
The savages on the hill looked into each others’ faces in surprise.
“He is the White Tiger,” said Oagla, “and yet he says he is not.”
Omaha was puzzled, and Nahma’s words rushed over Silver Rifle’s mind—“There be two White Tigers!”
Now she thought he spoke truly. Here was one; where was the other?
Her thoughts were broken by a wild cry, sent simultaneously from fifty throats.
The captive had leaped from the stake, kicked the firebrands into the faces of his torturers, and was running for life through the funereal recesses of the woods.
During his narration of daring deeds, he had been tugging at his cords, and success had crowned his efforts.
With yells of dismay and vengeance, the Indians gave chase, and Oagla’s braves joined them with cries at once understood.
Suddenly Silver Rifle, who had witnessed the change of fortune with a smile, jerked the jaunty mink-skin cap from her head, and waving it aloft, sent a hearty cheer of encouragement after the fugitive.
“God help the brave fellow!” she cried. “Chippewas,he’ll pay your young demons for this night’s work! And I’ll help him if we ever meet.”
The next moment Oagla stepped before her with a cry of hatred, and she went to the earth beneath his clenched hand.
He paid dearly in the future for that blow.
“Well, they’ve got Doc Cromer cornered at last. He fooled ’em completely when they pounced down upon his shanty like buzzards, an’ he’s goin’ to try an’ fool ’em ag’in. Boy, them red devils war watchin’ the cave, an’ when they saw me, they couldn’t hold ’emselves longer, so erbout twenty let drive ter once, an’ I felt a sting in my leg. Jehu! how I sent the boat through the water then, and of course they follered. I didn’t ’spect to find both you chaps to home, fur I thought the half-breed was still off on the powder errand.”
“He returned a few hours prior to our fight. I saved his life in the woods, and broke an oath by such action.”
“How, boy?”
“I had sworn to Ahdeek that I would never appear to the Indians while they saw him. You see, Doc, I never had any great grudge against the reds, but Ahdeek is avenging the death of somebody—he won’t tell me who. True, the greasers have bothered my traps, and that set me against them, and the boy made me swear that I would assist him to avenge the death of that mysterious personage, also, as I have further said. The Indians know thatI, and not Ahdeek, am the real White Tiger. I told them so when I saved the boy’s life. Doc, among the murdered traders I possessed many staunch friends, and if I ever escape from this difficulty, those brave fellows shall be remembered when I strike.”
Doc Cromer spoke quickly.
“And are we to die here?” he asked.
“I trust not.”
“Say ‘No,’ boy.”
“No!”
The trader rose to his feet.
“Dorsey, something’s going on among the young braves,” he said. “They’ve been hobnobing in groups for several hours, and p’r’aps they want to take one of us three down to the hollow.”
“Should they take us, we’ll escape, Doc.”
“Yes, but we’ll not be taken. Our guards are old fellows, and the young Chips will not interfere with them. Ahdeek’s guards are young larks, and mind I tell you, if they take anybody ’twill be the dark boy. For that reason they separated us; the old warriors knew that the young ’uns would want a victim, an’ so they set Ahdeek aside for them.”
“They won’t kill the boy,” said the White Tiger, confidently. “He’ll elude the red devils.”
“Yes, he’s too much for ’em. Dorsey Webb, I’m the last of the traders,” and the speaker ground his teeth till the guards, attracted by the grating sound, moved nearer the wigwam and listened.
After the battle in the White Tiger’s cave, the three captives were conveyed to the Chippewa village, and thrust into wigwams which were strongly guarded.
Nothing definite concerning their fate had been revealed. The Indians were reticent; but their lowering looks and the clamorings of the squaws foretold a dark future.
Cromer’s wound had been rudely dressed by a Chippewa doctor, and he felt much relieved while they conversed in their prison.
“It must be near day,” said the trader, after a long pause, “for it looks so dark out. The village is asleep.”
“Do the guards slumber?” questioned the White Tiger in a whisper.
“Not much!” said Cromer, lightly. “When you catch a Chippewa asleep when he’s entertaining such visitors like ourselves, you’ll see it rain scalps. Now it’s getting lighter we’ll soon learn if they took Ahdeek out last night.”
With the dawn of day excitement entered the village. Old warriors were seen conversing excitedly, and a strange, knowing smile played with the lips of the younger ones.
“I told you so,” said Doc Cromer, turning from a crack to young Webb, who reclined on a couch of wolf-skins. “They took Ahdeek last night.”
The White Tiger sprung to his feet, a painful expression crossing his face.
“Did they kill him?”
“Don’t know; the torturers haven’t come back. Some suspicious old greaser has just discovered the boy’s empty lodge.”
“Curse the fiends!” grated the Tiger. “Ahdeek was the best friend I had in the world. I loved him as a brother and—here, Doc, untie my hands and let me gripe a knife. By Heaven! I’ll make a red pathway through this accursed den of devils for last night’s work.”
“Don’t do it, boy,” answered the trader, quietly and with a smile. “My hands are in a delicate situation, too. S’pose we ask one o’ the guards to cut us loose.”
The youth bit his lip and threw himself down on the couch again. Then he rolled over on his face and recalled the past, which he associated with Ahdeek, and thought of the dark boy’s doom.
Several hours flitted over him in that position, while Doc Cromer continued to peer through the crack upon the Indian village.
Suddenly a distant shout fell upon the latter’s ear, and he turned to the boy.
“Boy, did you hear that?”
“No,” answered the Tiger, starting up. “If it was a cry, Doc, what did it mean?”
“It war a cry, and it meant that a gang of Injuns is comin’ into town with a captive.”
“A captive? Who can it be?”
“I’m puzzled,” said Doc. “The traders ar’ dead, an’ Injun don’t fight Injun in this war. Come hyar an’ look through this crack. We’ll see presently who’s comin’.”
The youth rose and moved to a crack below the one through which his fellow-prisoner had been taking observations, and in silence they watched for the returning band.
The great council-square of the village soon thronged with Indians of both sexes and all ages, whose eyes were turnedto the north, from which direction the shout had emanated.
“There they come, down the hill,” whispered Cromer, as a dark body of Indians descended a rise among the suburbs of the town. “They’ve got a captive, but not Ahdeek.”
A few minutes later, the band joined their comrades in the “square,” where the red ranks broke at a signal, and the gaze of the prisoners fell upon Silver Rifle!
“The Spirit of the Lake!” cried the White Tiger, starting from his post.
“True, by hokey! Not much ghost there, boy. I wonder how they came to catch ’er? Surely they won’t killher—she’s too pretty. Some chief’ll take her for his squaw.”
“Not if I can drive a knife to his heart!”
Cromer turned quickly upon the fiery speaker.
“You claim her, then!” he said, with a smile.
“No; but she sha’n’t be an Indian slave. I never met her with a word. She knows I live, that is all, and she may see me die.”
“True as Gospel. But let the gal alone. Think of John Burton; he tried to cheat an Ottawa out of a white gal, an’ got his everlastin’ fur his trouble. Gals ar’ dangerous things—worse nor rattlesnakes to fool arter. Therefore, let that white piece out thar alone.”
“Doc, I thank you always for advice, whether I take it or not. But see how she faces the demons.”
“She’s grit, no doubt, but then she’s got to make the best of her situation. I don’t care much for her, though I’d like to know what they’ve done with Ahdeek.”
“Your curiosity and fear are no greater than mine, Doc,” answered the Tiger. “But we’ll soon hear.”
The last words were called forth by the return of a guard, who had evidently been sent to the crowd to learn something concerning the new captive and the fate of the half-breed.
Doc Cromer, whose knowledge of the Chippewa language was quite extensive, applied his ear to the crevice and listened.
“Where dark White Tiger?” asked one of the sentries.
“Dead,” was the reply. “He break from stake and run,but the young braves catch him, bring him back and burn him.”
“Who Oagla catch?”
“Silver Rifle. She hunt for ring in big wood near Gitche Gumee, when Chippewas slip up and catch her. Hawkeye wear ring gal lookin’ for, and she killed him for it.”
Doc Cromer waited to hear no more, but turned quickly upon the boy, who was waiting with painful anxiety and interest for him to speak.
“Ahdeek is dead,” he said, gently, and with a sigh. “And the girl has killed the bravest of the Chippewa chiefs.”
“Then there’s but little hope for her.”
“Precious little,” was the reply. “She made a desperate attempt to get the ring.”
“What do you know about the ring, Doc?”
“Nothing, only the girl war looking for it, when they surprised her. Hawkeye had the ring, an’ she killed him to get it.”
“Then some Indian has it now?”
“I rather guess so.”
“Poor Ahdeek! he’ll never get to fulfill his vow. But”—in an undertone—“I’ll fulfill it for him.”
“You’ll do what, boy?”
Dorsey Webb started and colored to the temples.
“Nothing!” he stammered.
“True as Gospel. But— Hello! what does this mean?”
The newly returned guard had thrown back the door of the prison wigwam, and confronted the captives.
“Hondurah want pale-faces in big place,” he said. “Want to say much to them.”
“Wal, lead on, an’ don’t stand hyar blabbin’. I’m anxious to hear what Hondurah has to say.”
“Pale-face won’t talk so big when sun sleeps, mebbe.”
The trader made no reply; the Indian’s words had set him to thinking, and, guarded by the warriors, the twain found themselves on the way to the “square.”
Doc Cromer limped somewhat, on account of his wound, but the White Tiger walked bravely erect at his side, with his eyes fixed upon the motley, revengeful crowd that awaited him.
Suddenly he saw the captive girl turn toward him, and her gaze fastened itself upon his face. A moment later she started back, with a light cry, which he could not understand.
“Therearetwo White Tigers,” she said. “Hespoke the truth when dying.”
Presently the red crowd admitted the whites to the circle in which Silver Rifle stood, and Hondurah, a noble specimen of the North American Indian, stepped forward, with folded arms.
“Hondurah will be brief,” he said, fastening his dark eyes upon the young White Tiger, who, with head thrown back in lofty defiance, met his look with unblanched cheek.
“Dohma and Renadah left their lodges five sleeps ago for the trail. They were to return last sleep. White Tiger, where are the chiefs?”
“They never crossed my trail,” was the quick, but measured reply. “Hondurah, if I slew Dohma and Renadah, I would not lie about it. Neither was their blood upon my darker brother’s hands.”
Murmurs of incredulity ran round the red circle, which impulsively contracted.
“White Tiger lies,” said the chief, slowly, but with rising indignation. “A forked tongue will do him no good here. Let him speak the truth, or die before yonder fiery Manitou sleeps below the waves of Gitche Gumee.”
“I have spoken the truth, red devils,” the boy hissed with such bitterness that Doc Cromer stepped reprovingly toward him. “I will not say there is blood on my hands, when there is none. Make the best of my answer. I can die but once.”
Hondurah’s tomahawk shot from his girdle.
“White Tiger, you have killed many Chippewas,” he hissed. “We have hunted you long, never dreaming that you were a twin. Your twin brother is dead; the young braves stole him from the lodge last sleep, and burned him in the forest. You may not tread the long trail to-day by taking the forked tongue from your mouth and putting one in that is not forked. Now Hondurah asks for the last time. Where are Dohma and Renadah?”
“I don’t know!” shouted the youth. “If I possessed aknife, Hondurah, you’d never call another white boy a liar!”
The sachem almost cracked his teeth with anger.
“Chiefs,” he cried, turning to several Indians who stood at his left, “to the torture-tree with the pale liar. He shall not see the sun sleep. When he burns he will tell where lie our stricken brothers. Hondurah has spoken. Away.”
The chiefs had sprung forward to obey the mandate, when, with a great bound, Silver Rifle threw herself between them and the doomed boy.
“Let Silver Rifle speak first!” she cried. “In the great cave near the Manitou’s chapel, sleep Dohma and Renadah, side by side. They fought for Silver Rifle—fought with tomahawks for the white girl. Dohma died, and then Renadah fell beneaththisarm!”
She paused, and howls of rage broke from the savage band, and as Hondurah sprung toward her, scores of scalping-knives and tomahawks flashed in mid-air, and the click, click, click of rifle-locks resounded on every side.
“The innocent,” she cried, “shall not suffer for the guilty! If the blood of Dohma and Renadah demand a victim, I am here. But, ere I die, let me clutch the ring that Oagla holds, for I would know who I am.”
The gaze of many flitted to Oagla, who thrust his hand into the medicine-bag at his side.
For a moment he rummaged among the ocherous stones, and then withdrew his fingers.
His face told a story.
The ring was gone!
“Villain!” cried Silver Rifle, “you’ve thrown it away! Oh if I could live to pay you for that act!”