CHAPTER XIII.
WACOMET’S DEATH-SONG.
The Briton had not escaped any too soon, for, ere a half-hour had passed, the Ottawa’s form darkened the opening. Advancing hurriedly to the chamber he paused, his face contorted with sudden passion. Then a half-howl, half-shriek burst from his lips.
Startled by the cry, Ewana sprung to her feet to find a great hand closed upon her beautiful throat, and a choking sensation almost rendering her unconscious.
“Where’s the white girl and the red-coat?” shrieked Wacomet, as he shook the girl at arm’s length, still griping her throat. “Tell Wacomet what’s become of his captives, or he’ll shake Ewana till her eyes drop from her head.”
He released her throat to clutch her arm with his left hand, while his clenched right one itched to beat the life out of her frame.
“Now speak!” he hissed, “speak before the Ottawa’s hand gives you but one eye.”
As he uttered this threat he raised his iron fist.
“They’re—gone,” she said, gaspingly, instinctively shrinking from the irate chief. “Wacomet intended to make the white girl his squaw, and so the red-coat bore her from his cave.”
“Where was Ewana, then?”
“Braiding her hair,” was the truthful reply, couched in a courageous tone.
“And you let them go?” yelled Wacomet, at the top of his voice, for his passion was now utterly ungovernable. “You listened to the tale that lying dog breathed into your ears and turned your face away while they went?”
“Ewana did all this—she did it because she loved Wacomet—because she did not want a White Rose to nestle in his bosom.”
A shriek of rage that would have done credit to demons was the Ottawa’s reply, and his clenched hand descended upon the girl’s face once, twice, thrice in rapid succession.
Then he hurled her from him, drew his tomahawk and darted upon the body.
But not to strike.
Two pairs of eyes had followed his steps through the woods and two pairs of stealthy feet had penetrated the dark corridor.
Kenowatha and the Girl Avenger were there!
As the Ottawa whirled his weapon to strike it was knocked from his grasp by a blow that broke his strong right arm.
With a shriek of mingled rage and pain, he dropped the senseless girl, and turned upon his antagonists. The Girl Avenger’s rifle covered his heart, while Kenowatha looked upon the dramatic tableau with folded arms!
“Wacomet, your time has come at last,” said the Girl Avenger, calmly, yet with an unconcealed tone of triumph. “One night four years ago, come the 24th of November, a band of red-skins surrounded a cabin near the mouth of the Maumee. The flames of their happy home was the first warning of the inmates’ danger, and when they sprung from their beds the butchery had begun. A father, crippled by disease, an aged mother, two brothers, and three sisters, fell beneath the hatchets of the red demons, and but one of that sweet household—one destined by God to be the avenger of her race—escaped the work of death. Unseen by the butcherers she flew to the forest, and has since been a terror to your accursed race. Wacomet, you were there; I saw you strip Josie’s golden scalp from her baby head, and I swore that this hand should take yours.
“Of all who participated in that dark night’s work, but three are left: yourself, Turkey-foot, and Joe Girty, the white dog, for in the woods, this night we have met and slain the wolf’s whelp, Leather-lips. Not one has died a natural death—all have fallen by my hand—these fingers have torn their black scalps from their heads. Your time is here, and as you are the bravest chief in the red tribe, I grant you what I have granted to no red-man—time to sing his death-song. Therefore, Wacomet, soon to see Watchemenetoc, if you would, sing while there is yet time.”
The Girl Avenger spoke in the Ottawa tongue, but not a muscle moved on the doomed chief’s face. He knew that his last hour had come, knew, too, that his doom was just, and presently from his lips pealed the first notes of his death-song. He did not make it tedious; in few words, he recounted his warlike deeds, craved a corner in the Manitou’s lodge, besought victory for his countrymen again Wayne, regretted that he could not prove a red whirlwind against the pale-faces in the coming struggle, and then closed.
The avenger of her slaughtered race glanced at Kenowatha, as the chief finished, then her gaze flitted along the glistening barrel, and a report no louder than the bursting of a percussion-cap broke the stillness, and Wacomet was with his fathers!
“But two left!” she murmured, as she turned to Kenowatha, “and ere many hours they, too, will be gone. But, boy, we must rouse that girl and gain from her all the information we can about Effie and that villainous major. I scarcely doubt but that ere this he has struck the Canada trail.”
A moment later the twain bent over senseless Ewana, whom they at length restored to herself.
“Speak fast, Ewana,” said Nanette. “Where are the White Rose and the red-coat?”
“In the great woods going toward the homes of the king’s white people,” was the reply, when the girl recovered from her astonishment, at seeing the two forms bending over her.
“When did they leave, Ewana?”
“Just before Wacomet came to his cave. What! ishedead?” and her eyes flashed with triumph, when they fell upon the motionless form of the Ottawa. “Then Ewana can go back and kiss her old father before he dies.”
The death of the chief whom she once loved now seemed a relief to the poor red girl.
“We must leave Ewana,” said Nanette, “and she can now go back to her parents. We seek the White Rose and the red-coated dog.”
The Indian girl stretched forth her hands, the youthful avengers grasped them in a silent, fervent pressure, and left her alone with her dead chief.
“They can not be far away,” said the Girl Avenger, as she and Kenowatha glided through the dark corridor. “We will soon overtake them, and should the red-coat raise his hand against us or the girl, there’ll be no hanging in Fort Miami. I’m so glad that it is broad daylight now, for we can follow their trail faster than they can travel.”