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.

“Shallhedie, 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!

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 townswarmed 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 hiscountenance, 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!”

The first shots which the red grave-diggers fired at the escaping party roused the Indian village.

The braves who guarded Hondurah’s empty lodge sprung to their feet and listened intently.

Suddenly the sound of hasty feet greeted their ears, and a moment the sachem halted before them. He did not speak, but darted to the lodge, and throwing wide the curtains, leaped across the threshold.

Then a cry of rage and disappointment cleft the darkness of the lodge. The guards turned as Hondurah reappeared.

“Where Yucata?” he demanded.

“Gone to catch the owl that hooted.”

“Where Clearwater?”

“Gone to see Omaha put in the ground.”

For a moment the chief was silent.

“Hear rifles in the dark woods?” he said, half interrogatively, and while he finished the sentence, the shots were repeated.

“The pale-faces are in the forest,” he cried. “We catch ’em ’fore day,” and after issuing a few necessary orders, he and ten warriors hastened to the scene of conflict; and a moment after the denunciation which, at the close of our last chapter, rung from Chopah’s lips, they reached the scene of danger and death.

“What means this?” demanded Hondurah, striding into the midst of the baffled party. “Did Chopah allow the pale worms to crawl away? Where are they now? Where is Hondurah’s child?”

His glance fell upon the recumbent forms, and a moment later he sprung to the motionless body of the tomahawked trader.

“Ha!” he cried; “the trader never trade by Gitche Gumeeany more. He kill last Chippewa: there, take that, white dog!”

With the last word, he bestowed a brutal kick on the body and turned to his braves again.

“Chopah, tell Hondurah all,” he commanded; and turning from the young braves whom he had called liars, Chopah, with folded arms, faced his sachem.

Intently Hondurah listened to the narrative until Chopah mentioned the name of his child.

Then he started forward and touched the speaker’s arm.

“Clearwater help whites?”

Chopah nodded.

“No, no, Chopah, don’t tell Hondurah this;” and for a moment the chief hid his eyes in his hands. “Do not tell him that Clearwater is a traitress.”

“Chopah never hides the truth,” was the reply reluctantly given. “The young braves—the braves who have lied—will say that Chopah speaks the right words. Braves—”

He paused suddenly, for the young warriors were gone! One by one, silent and sullen, they had sneaked unperceived from the spot, unable to withstand the anger of Hondurah, when Chopah should denounce them.

Hondurah smiled faintly at the chief’s consternation.

“Let them go,” said the latter chief. “They have basely deceived us, and at some other time they shall pay the penalty attached to deception. Clearwater fell beneath the aim of Chopah’s braves,” continued the chief; “but while we pursued the White Tiger and his tigress, a man came and stole her, and tore from their heads the scalps of our braves.”

“How does Chopah know that a man came?”

“By the mark on the tree.”

The tomahawk pointed to the White Tiger’s mark, and Hondurah stepped nearer and examined it.

“The White Tiger was far away when this was cut?” he asked, curiously.

“He was hunted by Chopah, who heard his flying feet in the forest.”

“Then,” said Hondurah, “helives!”

“The young braves have lied,” hissed Chopah, gritting his teeth, as he gazed upon the mark.

Hondurah folded his arms, drew himself to his full hight, and fastened his eye upon the terrible double cross.

His warriors watched him narrowly, and saw the sinews of anger, black and terrible, that swept across his face.

“Hondurah,” he said at length, “is father to a snake. That snake may live, forhewould hardly bear a corpse away. Warriors, Hondurah is a father no more; he is an avenger. Throw yourselves upon the trails of the pale-faces; but do not touch Clearwater. When you find her hiding-place, speed swiftly to Hondurah, for he, and he alone, shall punish the traitress.”

“Will he slay his own child?” asked an old warrior, meekly.

“Question not Hondurah,” was the stern reply. “Seek the white-faces. He will hunt the traitress, whose fate shall be more terrible than the wolf’s when the brave has trapped him. Watch now the caves of Gitche Gumee. Throw your selves at once upon the trail, and if Yucata crosses it, strike him dead and bring his scalp to me.”

With the last word the chief turned toward the village.

“What would Hondurah do?” questioned Chopah.

“Punish the young braves.”

“Beware, Hondurah,” said the chief. “The young braves are strong; they will strike back if Hondurah raises his hand. Let them go.”

The chief did not speak; but the silent motion of his lips seemed to frame that determined word, “Never!”

Chopah shook his head to his warriors as Hondurah turned for the second time.

He knew that his nation would soon be sachemless if Hondurah lifted an arm against the younger warriors, who certainly needed punishment for an act to be revealed hereafter.

“We divide here,” said Chopah, after a brief consultation. “The trail of the scalper is plain. Clearwater’s blood stained the leaves. The White Tiger rests in one of Gitche Gumee’s caves. We must hunt him there.”

A few moments later the band divided. Chopah and six braves threw themselves upon the fugitives’ trail, while anotherchief, with a like number of savages, followed the blood-marks that crimsoned the forest grass.

Soon the forest resumed its ghostly stillness, and for several hours it was not disturbed.

Then a convulsive movement of Doc Cromer’s arm snapped a twig, and the hand essayed to wipe the blood from his face.

And in the demi-gloom he raised his body on his elbow and looked about. His eyes fell upon the motionless forms of the four dead braves, and with great effort he crawled to each.

“Dead, by hokey!” he ejaculated, with eminent satisfaction. “Here’s the chap what I dropped afore the hatchet spoiled my face; but who’s gone an’ scalped ’em?”

In the pale moonlight the trader had discovered that the corpse was scalpless, and this excited his wonder.

Surely White Tiger and Silver Rifle did not defeat the savages after his fall, else he would not have been left there, even though he had been killed.

“I can’t fathom it,” he said, after a lengthy silence, “and I won’t try any more. Now, the next thing is to get out of this. Jehu, but I’m as weak as a weasel. I must have lost a barrel of blood. My face won’t bleed any more just now, for the blood is hard and shuts the gash.”

Then, with the help of a tree, the trader drew himself to his feet, and tried to walk away; but found himself too weak for the undertaking.

“I’ve got to crawl,” he reluctantly admitted, lowering himself to the ground again. “By heaven, if I ever git over this, somebody’ll hev to suffer.”

He robbed one of the dead Indians of his knife, and then crawled away.

It was a fearful strait to be in. At any moment his actions might betray him to vindictive enemies, and he could expect no mercy at their hands. He brooded over vengeance as he moved along through the forest, as he thought, toward the lake.

“This is slow work,” he said, a thousand times. “I hope I’ll be strong enough to walk like a man after a while. The lake can’t be far off now, for it is near daylight, and—heavens!”

Well might the trader utter the ejaculation and shrink back, for his hand had fallen upon a bare and icy arm!

He drew a long breath before he advanced, and then it was with a curse.

“’Tis the greaser I choked to death,” he said. “Here I’ve been crawling in the wrong direction all the time. What brought me back to this thing?” and, with a sigh of vexation, he threw himself beside the dead.

“It isn’t any harm to kill an Injun,” said the trader, with a smile, which looked ghastly on his bloody face; “but this fellow was sick, for he was as weak as the weasel’s kittens. I wonder if he hasn’t some pemmican about ’im. I’m hungry, an’ while I rest hyar, I might as well take a supper.”

So the Indian’s medicine-bag was drawn from beneath the body, and Doc Cromer’s hand disappeared among its contents.

“There’s not much hyar,” he said; “not an ounce of pemmican; but what’s this?”

Quickly he withdrew his hand, and bent forward to examine the object it clutched.

The prize glittered like gold in the rays of the moon, and all at once a strange cry pealed from the trader’s lips.

“Well, what’s goin’ to happen me next?” he exclaimed. “Hyar’s Silver Rifle’s ring—in the medicine bag of the greaser what I choked to death, when she war at my side! Say, Injun,” and he turned toward the corpse, “whar you run ’cross this? Blast yer ugly picture, ef you don’t tell I’ll knife you, I will, by hokey!”

He shook the body violently, and then laughed at his folly.

“Well, I’ve got the ring, anyhow,” he said, “and, by heavens! I’m goin’ to deliver it to the gal in person. I’m not goin’ to die hyar! no! Doc Cromer, suthin’ guided you to this spot—suthin’ we don’t know any thing about.”

He started at the sound of his own voice, so singularly harsh and strong, and rose to his feet without great effort.

“I’ll strike the lake trail this time,” he murmured. “If I kin but reach the cave, I’ll be strong in a little while.”

Then he moved off, but suddenly came to a halt.

“Hyar they come; them infernal Indian dogs!” he hissed,listening to the tramp of many feet, and the yells that resounded throughout the forest. “I thinned their ranks when I war trappin’; but since the boys are all dead, the dogs will increase. They’re half-starved, I kin tell by their yelps, and they’re comin’ d’rectly toward me!”

The trapper hugged a tree, and listened to the noise of the troop.

The animals, many of which were half-wolf, were snapping and snarling at each other, and ready to tear to pieces any animated object which obstructed their path. The Chippewa dogs, tired of gnawing bones around the lodges, often made incursions into the forest, where they sometimes met and gave battle to their brother—the wolf. More than one Indian had fallen a prey to the wild dogs, when returning from an unsuccessful foray, and of late the young braves had dispatched large numbers of the brutes, when they could do so without its coming to the knowledge of their several owners.

On came the half-starved dogs, and Doc Cromer held his breath.

“They haven’t tasted meat for days,” he said, “and, thank Heaven! they’re passin’ me to the right!”

His ejaculation of joy was quickly followed by an exclamation of terrible anxiety.

The dogs had scented him and had paused.

He dare not move; the slightest action would betray him to the beasts, and he seemed some dark excrescence in the body of the tree.

All at once the leader of the troop, a huge half-wolf dog, walked slowly toward him!

Cromer uttered an oath, and griped his knife firmer than ever.

But a prolonged and peculiar whistle brought the dog to a halt.

His master was calling him!

A dozen like whistles followed the first, and the trader beheld the famished canines stand irresolute.

Had the Indians discovered him, or were they young braves who wished to call the troop nearer, that they might pour a deadly volley into their ranks?

“Heaven keep them from me!” he cried; “but if—they’re comin’ fur me, by Jehu!”

The leader had turned to the trader again, for the calls had died away, and with the nerve characteristic of the trapper and fur-buyer of the lakes, he awaited the onset.

On one of the fingers of the left hand, thrown slightly forward as a shield, glittered Silver Rifle’s fateful ring, while below the tightly clenched members of the right, there was the soft gleaming of yet bloodless steel.

Suddenly, with a half wolfish howl, the big dog sprung forward, upward.

The next instant there was blood on Doc Cromer’s blade, and the mad beasts were leaping at him from all sides.

The savages, as has been seen, pursued the White Tiger and Silver Rifle to the edge of the forest, when the chase was given up, and the fugitives rejoiced to find themselves at liberty.

“We will not remain unmolested long,” said the youth, when they found themselves near the girl’s cave. “Having slain Ahdeek and the trader, the red fiends will give no rest to their feet until they have run us to earth.”

“They will certainly attempt to run us down,” replied the girl, calmly. “But when they bring Marie Knight to bay, they may lose some warriors.”

“So, then, you are a Knight?”

“Yes.”

“And you came hither in quest of the ring?”

“And a father,” finished the girl. “But he must be dead, else that half-breed would never have worn the ring. Did he ever tell you any thing about the ring?”

“But little, girl. He told me that it was a talking ring—that it was given him by an old man whom the Indians slew; that after he had avenged the old man’s death, he would seekyou beyond the lakes and give you the ring that would tell you who you are.”

For a moment the girl was silent.

“But,” she said, looking up, disappointedly, “the ring is lost, and I will never know who I am.”

“Where is your mother?” asked the White Tiger, kindly.

“Dead.”

“Would she not tell you any thing?”

“She told me that on the shores of Lake Superior dwelt a man who possessed a ring which held my life mystery, and on her death-bed she bade me hunt him and demand the ring in her name, which he would restore. She intimated that that man was my father, and I believe he was. My mother would never speak of the past, and whenever I would ask where father was, she would point to the North-west and say, ‘Yonder, perhaps.’ I left Ontario after her death, and once, in these woods, encountered Ahdeek, your brother. He darted by me like a rocket; but I saw a ring on his finger, and knew that it was mine. How I trailed him then; how, not knowing that I was in the country, he eluded me. But,” with a sigh, “the trail is near an end.”

“Girl, I will hunt for the ring,” said the White Tiger, quickly following her last word. “You shall solve the mystery of your life. The ring shall be recovered, though in the search I tramp these woods till doomsday—though the trail leads into the jaws of death, the mouth of hell.”

The girl stopped sudden in the starlight, and put forth her hand.

“You are brave!” she said, her great blue eyes sparkling with tear-pearls. “I have not deserved such sacrifice at your hands. But, sir, give the ring to me, and I will reward you as best I can.”

He returned the pressure which she bestowed, and held her hand until, blushing, she withdrew it, and told him that they had best proceed.

They entered her cave-home with extreme caution, and, to their relief, found it tenantless. The gloom was dissipated by the flint, and igniting a bunch of bark films, Silver Rifle led her companion to the southern corner of the cavern.

“I’ll tell you why I shrieked when that Indian crossed ourtrail in the forest,” she said, pointing to an excavation at their feet. “’Twas here that I buried Dohma and Renadah. See, but one remains—’tis the giant. Dohma escaped from his tomb, and when I beheld him in the wood, believing him a ghost, I betrayed our presence. I wonder if the trader killed him?”

“He is dead; they never escape whom Doc Cromer chokes,” answered the White Tiger, shuddering at the thought of a man digging out of his own grave. “He has repeatedly choked panthers to death, so, of course, there is no hope for the Indian.”

“Oh, had I but known that Dohma was not dead when I buried him!” said the girl, in genuine regret. “But he lay so still that I was completely deceived. He saved my life, as I have told you, and I would have rewarded him. We will hope that Cromer did not slay him.”

“Are there no avenues of escape from this cave save that by water?” asked the youth, when they had returned to the fire.

“There is one other,” was the reply, “and I will make you acquainted with it.”

So she drew a torch from the fire, which they deadened, and led the way from the main cavern. Past the grave of Renadah and into a narrow, rocky corridor the twain walked, and, after many tortuous windings, felt the cool lake breeze on their faces.

“We have journeyed three miles under ground,” said the girl, thrusting her torch around a rock, that its light might not attract the attention of foes who, perhaps, were abroad on the lake. “There are places in the corridor where we could successfully defend ourselves against a tribe of red-men. We are below the pictured rocks now, having passed almost directly beneath the chapel. I seldom use this entrance, because bears and panthers have been known to lodge in the corridor, and I would not encounter the brutes unawares. Shall we return now?”

“Yes, it is getting light on the water,” said the youth, “and perhaps our presence is needed in the great cave.”

“I hope no one has entered during our absence. Dohma, to my knowledge, was the first Indian who ever visited it; then came Renadah.”

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