CHAPTER XII.
THE BRITISH MAJOR’S PLOT.
A short time after gaining the bottom of the cliffs with his captives, Wacomet the Ottawa paused before what seemed to be a dense net-work of creepers attached to the gray rocks. It was near midnight now, and an ominous silence brooded everywhere. When first the traitor left the cave, he heard Leather-lips and Speckled Snake signaling the other braves; but now the signals were no longer heard, and, fearing that the two wings had come together, the Ottawa hurried his prisoners over the stones faster than ever, taking good care to keep in the shade of the cliffs, for the moon was scaling the eastern horizon, and would soon make objects in the deep ravine easily distinguishable.
The two captives drew long breaths of relief when at last the Indian halted, and Effie found herself wondering if his home was not near, for she was much fatigued, and her feet were sore. She was about to question Wacomet regarding the location of the hidden spot, when he suddenly strode forward toward the tangled vines, and his captives were surprised to see him part the long hangers with his right hand, and display an opening leading straight into the rock.
“The hidden spot,” ejaculated Effie St. Pierre, looking up into the major’s face. “The sharpest spy in the world would pass and repass this place a thousand times and never discover it.”
The sharp ear of Wacomet caught the girl’s words, uttered scarce above a whisper, and he said, as he pushed his captives into the gloom, springing after them himself:
“Yes, the serpent has crawled by Wacomet’s hole in the ground, and never entered, for his sharp eyes saw it not. Wacomet tracked the she-grizzly here once, entered boldly, slew her with his knife, and brought thither his red mistress.”
The corridor leading to the main cave proved a tortuous way; but at last the party reached the termination. A light burned in the center of the apartment, and before it, arranging gaudy feathers in her long black hair, sat Wacomet’s red queen. She arose to greet her master, but when her dark, lustrous eyes fell upon the beauteous Effie St. Pierre, her hands clenched involuntarily, and her lips quivered with passion.
“Who does Wacomet bring to his cave home?” she demanded, a flush of anger mounting to her temples.
“The spies of the accursed Black Snake hunt for the pale flower; they have pierced the fair one’s lover with their balls, but Wacomet saved her and the Briton and they are here till the coming of another night.”
“And they shall go, then?”
“Yes, Wacomet swears it; when the stars sleep and shine again, they shall go.”
Then the outlaw drew Ewana aside, and for a few moments they conversed in low tones.
“Guard the prisoners well until I return,” said Wacomet, in a tone loud enough to reach the captives’ ears, at length, “and at the first show of attempts at escape, shoot them down, like dogs.”
Then, satisfied that he had dissipated Ewana’s jealousies, and that all would go on swimmingly at the cave until his return, the Ottawa glided off to join his comrades in their search for the young She-wolf.
Ewana proceeded to bind the captives’ feet with deer-thongs, and made them separate couches between which she sat, and again resumed the arranging of her hair.
In the silence which followed, Effie St. Pierre, tired and sore, fell back on the pillow of mink-skins, stuffed with the small soft feathers of the river snipe, and soon was fast asleep. Her last thoughts were that the Girl Avenger and Kenowatha would read her writing on the wall when they returned, and would give no rest to their feet until she was snatched from Wacomet’s hands.
The thoughts and condition of Major Runnion were far different from those of the hopeful girl.
Contrary to her, he did not close his eyes, nor did he lie down upon the skinny couch. For many minutes he occupied a half-reclining position, studying Ewana as she arranged her hair. When he had arrived at a certain conclusion, he gently whispered the Shawnee girl’s pretty cognomen.
She turned and moved nearer him.
“Nearer, Ewana,” he said, when she had paused; “the pale flower must not hear what I have to say.”
This drew the red girl to the edge of the couch, where she paused and looked inquiringly down into the Briton’s face.
“What would the scarlet soldier of the king have with Ewana?” she asked, while the major, for a moment thrown from his plots by her radiant, voluptuous loveliness, was contemplating her face, the fairest one save that which he coveted he had ever met in the forest.
“I want to tell Ewana that Wacomet’s tongue has traveled from the trail of truth.”
She shot him a look of indignation, and he saw the flood of jealousy rise in her dark orbs, as she glanced at the pale-faced sleeper.
“It can not be,” she murmured; “Wacomet has lived with Ewana for many moons, yet has his tongue never wandered from the truthful trail.”
“There are times when the best red-skins are false,” continued Runnion, “and this is one of Wacomet’s false times. Now I will tell you the truth, Ewana.”
The narration that followed need not be written here, though the substance might not prove uninteresting. The major dwelt at length, though bespoke rapidly, on Wacomet’s passion for Effie St. Pierre, how he had been driven from the trading-post at the muzzle of old Mitre’s rifle—how he had sworn to make the white girl his bride to the total exclusion of his red mistress, whom he no doubt intended to assassinate when the proper time should arrive. All this Rudolph Runnion poured into the ears of the red girl, whose jealous passions were so aroused that she drew a tiny knife from her bosom, and hissed into the Briton’s ear:
“The Pale Flower shall not nestle on Wacomet’s cheek when he returns; he shall find her withered, beautiful no longer, as cold as the white flowers that grow by the frozen rivers.”
The soldier noted the mad girl’s vengeance-ladened glance at Effie St. Pierre, and his hand closed on the arm that held the knife aloft.
“No, no,” he said, rising himself despite the irritation it caused his wounds, and placing his mustached lips at Ewana’s ear. “The Manitou by other means than the knife will rid the red girl of her pale rival. I have become an outlaw; my people offer a price for my head, and Wacomet has said that he would lead me to them, or them to me. Cut these bonds; then, the bonds of the girl, too, and I will bear the girl away. Over in Canada, the lands of my king, I have strong people, and they will protect me from the white and red man-hunters. Let me carry the white girl from Wacomet’s cave, for if I don’t he will make her his bride.”
For a moment the red girl was undecided how to act; above all things she wished to get rid of her white rival, yet she did not want to incur Wacomet’s hatred. She believed all the soldier had poured into her ears regarding her master’s love, yet she loved him as she had ever done since the days of childhood.
“Haste!” cried Runnion, taking advantage of the girl’s indecision; “Wacomet may return, and then what becomes of poor Ewana! Shall she live to see a white snake steal Wacomet’s smiles from her? I thought Ewana was a Shawnee.”
The glistening knife descended, and the bonds that bound the major’s feet fell apart!
Casting a thankful look into the girl’s face he sprung to his feet. No time was to be lost, for it was now near dawn, and Wacomet was liable to return at any moment. He stepped to Effie’s couch, and touched her arm. She opened her eyes with a start, and for a moment did not comprehend her situation.
“Girl, it is I,” he said. “We must leave at once. Ewana believes that Wacomet loves you—that he intends to murder her and make you his bride. See! she whets her already keen knife upon a stone. I have succeeded in freeing myself, and, girl, we must fly at once. Better in the forest, though it swarm with dangers, than in the power of a jealous squaw. Come!”
Mechanically the young girl yielded; while, obedient to the instructions of the soldier, Ewana did not notice their movements. The soldier supplied himself with hunting accouterments, a quantity of ammunition; then they glided into the gloomy corridor, and out into the recesses of the forest.
“Whither are we going?” asked Effie.
The Briton turned suddenly upon her, and a faint smile played with his sensual lips as he answered:
“I might as well tell you first as last,” he said. “We’re bound for Canada.”
Effie could not repress the light cry that welled to her lips, and the word that followed was hissed forth with all the bitterness she could summon:
“Villain!”