CHAPTER IV.
THE YOUNG SHE-WOLF AND KENOWATHA.
“Listen!”
“Kenowatha! Kenowatha!”
The call came full and clear from the Indian village.
“The White Ottawa calls Kenowatha.”
“He may call till he is hoarse. Kenowatha, like the dead bird to its sorrowing mate, comes not.”
“There! he has ceased calling; he is hunting for Kenowatha now.”
“Let him hunt.”
And for many minutes the twain stood on the river’s bank, listening to the confused sounds that the night-wind bore from the Ottawa “town.”
And while they—Nanette Froisart and Kenowatha—stand there, let us narrate the deeds that transpired between Joe Girty’s exit from his lodge and his return with the vengeance-hunters of the allied tribes.
The first speech, delivered after the opening of the council, caused Girty’sprotegeto turn in disgust from the assembly. He listened to that speech with the blood coursing through his veins like molten lava, and, as he turned away, he determined to carry out a project he had formed long before.
No longer would he dwell among the savages, though a sub-chief; no longer would he be called the son of one who had perhaps butchered his parents. He would that night fly the village; he would seek the advancing legions of Wayne, and avenge the kindred whom he believed to be dead. As far back as he could recollect his thoughts were associated with Joe Girty and his squaw wife, with the death-dance, war-path and forest chase. The renegade told him that his parents were dead, that he had snatched him, then a mere babe, from the hands of an Indian who was about to dash his brains out against a tree. At nine years of age, to all outward appearances, he became an Ottawa. His skin was dyed with paint, he received the feathers of a young sub-chief, and an Indian name—Kenowatha, or the White Fox.
He had reached his seventeenth year now, was faultlessly formed, becoming of countenance, and instead of the black locks that crown the red-man’s head, a wealth of auburn tresses, inclined to curl, touched his shoulders.
“No more will I live among those who strike against my people,” murmured Kenowatha, in a determined tone, as he walked toward the rough cabin that had sheltered him for years. “This night sees me free, and ere long Mad Anthony will see the White Fox among his spies. Oh, that I could encounter Captain Wells in the forest! I will get my rifle. Loosa is asleep—full of his rum, and he is far away. Then—”
A footstep in that silent portion of the village broke his sentence, and a moment later, while he crouched upon the ground, the form of Joe Girty flitted past him.
There was no mistaking the burly figure of the renegade, and the young fugitive noticed the burden that the villain bore. He saw the white face that seemingly looked at him over Girty’s shoulder.
The renegade did not perceive his adopted son, though he might have touched him with his outstretched hand, and Kenowatha immediately rose and glided after him.
Through a crevice in the cabin the white Indian witnessed the scene between the renegade and his wife, and resolved to free the beautiful terror of the red-men, though he lost his life in the action.
For many months he had roamed the forest, hoping to meet the young She-wolf—not to send a bullet to her heart and thus rid his tribe of their pest; but to unite his life with hers—to fly to the white settlements, forgetting the wildwood and its bloody scenes. But she had successfully eluded him, though at times he had reached the bodies of her victims, while the blood still flowed from the dreaded crescent mark.
But now they were to meet under truly thrilling circumstances.
Kenowatha waited until Joe Girty’s steps died away toward the council-house, then he rose and entered the cabin.
Loosa started up with cocked pistol; but when she saw who had entered she smiled, and pointed to Nanette Froisart, whose eyes were fixed upon the white Indian.
“Why did Kenowatha leave the council?” she asked.
“The big pain has entered his head,” answered Kenowatha, ruefully, putting both hands to his head. “He will return to the council soon; but first he must rest. May he lie upon the couch beside the young She-wolf?”
“No!” thundered Loosa, who was just drunk enough to arouse the angry and suspicious part of her nature. “The White Fox would cut the She-wolf’s bonds, and then the White Ottawa would tear Loosa’s tongue from her head. Go back to the council!”
The mad squaw’s quivering finger pointed to the half-open door; but instead of obeying the command, Kenowatha shot forward like a ball, and Loosa rolled upon the floor. Before she could recover, Kenowatha’s knife severed Nanette Froisart’s bonds, and with a cry of astonishment, at the unexpected action, the Girl Avenger bounded to her feet.
Kenowatha had thrown himself upon Loosa, whom of himself he could not conquer, for the frantic woman, sobered by her situation, possessed the strength of a tigress. Seeing this, the girl sprung to his assistance; but before she could lend any aid, the stalwart woman hurled the White Fox from her, and sprung erect.
It was a critical moment for the youthful twain.
Kenowatha glanced at the young She-wolf as he rose to his feet.
She stood against the door, armed with her scalping-knife, which she had snatched from the corner into which Joe Girty had tossed it.
With a cry of rage—summoned perhaps by the thought of the doom adjudged her should the girl escape—the renegade’s squaw sprung upon Nanette. A dirk, similar to the formidable one Girty wore, glittered in her bony hand.
The girl met the mad onset calmly; her left arm skillfully warded off the blow that the mad squaw aimed at her, and her right hand, preceded by a glitter of steel, shot forward.
It was a deathful blow.
The dirk fell from Loosa’s hands; she staggered back, and Kenowatha, who had bounded to Nanette’s aid, caught her and lowered to the ground his adopted mother, from whose hand he had received many a hard blow.
“Come!” he said to Nanette, in the Indian tongue, when they had equipped themselves with their own arms, “the white Ottawa is liable to return at any moment. Shall we go to the river?”
“Yes, to the low place,” replied the Girl Avenger, “and then I’ll guide you to my home.”
Without another word they left the cabin, and in time crossed the river at the same ford over which Nanette had been borne as a doomed prisoner.
Immediately emerging from the stream, they heard the turmoil before Girty’s cabin, and the loud voice of the renegade calling Kenowatha.
When the noise died away, Nanette’s hand stole into Kenowatha’s.
“Come and see the young She-wolf’s den,” she said, looking up into his face, and away they hurried through the forest, silent, and hand in hand.
They must have traveled rapidly for three hours, when the glitter of waters greeted their eyes. The silvery liquid sped lazily, a hundred feet below them, toward the Maumee.
The limestone banks were almost perpendicular, and with her fingers still entwined around Kenowatha’s hand, Nanette began the descent. A misstep would send both to a dreadful death upon the rocky bed of the shallow stream far below, and the descent was extremely dangerous, for the rays of the moon but illy penetrated the branches of the overhanging trees, to show them the way.
Kenowatha trusted in the young She-wolf. He felt that she would guide him safely.
The twain reached a dark aperture that led into the cliff, and Nanette uttered a cry of delight.
“This is your home?” said Kenowatha, half interrogatively.
“My home and my citadel,” responded the Girl Avenger, and a moment later she was leading Kenowatha through a series of gloomy, tortuous passages, in which one not accustomed to the place would be hopelessly lost.
At length the girl dropped the white Indian’s hand, and presently a spark from two flints ignited a pile of bark-linings.
The fire revealed the avenger’s home.
The apartment proved a large and almost square room, whose walls seemed to have been hewn to an even surface, by the hands of giants. The limestone floor was devoid of rubbish, and in one corner of the room lay a couch, several old muskets, camp-kettles, etc., while above them, on strong sinews, between thirty and forty Indian scalps were strung.
Kenowatha heard the bubbling of crystal waters, and tried to discover their whereabouts.
“If the White Fox is athirst,” said Nanette, “let him drink from the spring that bubbles from the rocks yonder.”
She pointed toward one corner of the subterranean apartment, and Kenowatha walked from the fire.
“I’ll surprise the white girl now,” he muttered, as he knelt before the spring, and scooped some of the water up in his hand.
Then he applied the clear liquid—strongly impregnated with lime, to his face, until he felt that the paint had yielded to the ablution.
With a smile upon his lips, he turned toward Nanette, who was cooking a piece of venison over the crimson blaze.
She did not notice his moccasined steps.
“Girl,” he spoke, in the English tongue.
She looked up and sprung to her feet.
“A pale-face!”
“Yes, Kenowatha is a pale-face, though for many years he has been a red Ottawa.”
Nanette took his hands.
“And they slew your loved ones, too?” she cried.
“Yes.”
“Then we unite our fortunes!” she said: “side by side we will avenge the death of our loved ones. For every hair that crowned their heads a red-skin shall fall.”
“Yes, yes,” cried Kenowatha. “White girl, Kenowatha’s life has grown into yours. He will hunt the red murderers with you, and the mark that he shall make upon their brows shall become as terrible as yours. Oh, our parents shall be terribly avenged! God nerve me to the task!” and the youth’s hand was lifted heavenward.
“I swear again, Kenowatha—let us swear together,” and a minute later the cave resounded with the most terrible vow that was ever taken by the enemies of the red-man.
It was the oath of children orphaned by the tomahawk.