CHAPTER XIV.
WHAT HAPPENED IN A RAVINE.
When Rudolph Runnion struck the military trail, leading around the western shore of Lake Erie to the Canadas, he quickened his gait, for it was his desire to get beyond the Maumee valley as soon as possible.
He knew that the commander at Fort Miami had set a price upon his head, that a number of his comrades had doffed their scarlet for the Indians’ paint, that they might be the better able to crown their hunt for him with success. All this, and much more, had he learned from Wacomet, and, therefore, must avoid even his old comrades if he would escape the assassin’s doom—for an assassin he was, having killed Firman Campbell in cold blood, with little or no just provocation.
After the discovery of his treachery, Effie relapsed into silence, though now and then she shot him a look of scorn which caused him to avert his eyes.
At length, while the first beams of day were penetrating the wood, they reached a spot where the trail entered a ravine, through which it ran a short distance, and then emerged again in the forest, striking boldly toward the north. The major entered the ravine with no small degree of apprehension, for he was now upon especially dangerous ground.
The banks of the ravine were not high, but were covered with a thick growth of underbrush, which now and then revealed a fissure large enough to contain several men. Before entering this place, and he could not avoid it, the Briton looked carefully to the priming of rifle and pistols, and loosened his knife and Wacomet’s tomahawk in his girdle.
One-half of the journey through the ravine was accomplished before either uttered a word, when a cry suddenly broke from Effie’s lips:
“Indians!”
As the Briton turned his gaze to the point indicated, the clicking of rifles smote his ears, and he caught a glimpse of a plumed head before it was withdrawn, beyond the orifice of one of the fissures. Instinctively he looked about for a point of defense, and fortunately found himself at the mouth of one of the fissures, almost concealed by the surrounding underbrush.
“Girl, spring into that hole; I’ll follow,” he said, without looking at Effie. “Once within that, we can whip all the Indians in the Maumee valley. I’m somewhat acquainted with the fissures in these rocks; each one is but the opening to an impregnable natural fort. Go, girl!”
Almost before the last command had left his lips, Effie had a current of cool, fresh air passed his lips—or was it fancy? No! it was truth.
Even in such a moment, he reasoned clearly and logically. If there was a constant draught, then there must be an opening to the outer air. If the air could find a passage, might not he, as well?
He breathed more and more free. Hope was reviving him, nearly as much as the fresh air. He listened for his comrade—he fancied he heard a faint groan, at no great distance. He called aloud; but only the moaning gasp replied. Holding an arm over his mouth, he staggered to his feet. The flannel shirt was saturated, and to his great joy, Cook found that he could breathe through it with comparative ease.
He staggered on until he fell over the senseless body of his young comrade. Exerting all his strength, the Californian dragged Dane to the water, and bathed his face. Ten minutes later the young man had recovered his consciousness.
Then Cook whispered his hope—and that too reinvigorated Dane. Together they examined the end of the passage before them; by the sense of touch. All their torchwood was out.
The dirt felt loose—as if it had lately been placed there. And then, standing upon Cook’s bent back, Dane found that the surmise was true—that a portion of the roof had caved in, thus blocking up the passage.
Only for a very brief time could they stand erect; the smoke was dense, hot and suffocating. But the water proved an invaluable ally. Through its aid they were enabled to live, to breathe, to work.
It was a long task, for the cave had been considerable but at length they bored a hole through to the passage beyond, large enough to admit their persons. Then thoroughly soaking their clothing, they boldly ventured on through the darkness.
The draught seemed to increase as they progressed, and the air to be less laden with smoke. Or that may have been fancy, now their hopes were rising. Still it was a bitter struggle, and they nearly sunk beneath it. Yet, as we know they succeeded in reaching safety.
Jaded, completely exhausted, they dared not venture entirely away from the cave, knowing that such bitter enemies were near, and sheltered amidst the fringe of bushes, they lay down and slept long and peacefully.
It was day when they awoke. Nearly the first object that met their gaze as they peered forth upon the slope, was a party of Apaches filing by. That told them the folly of venturing forth, and fearing the worst had befallen their friends, they returned to the cave, and sought out a snug place of concealment. This they found—and more besides. But of that anon.
Through that day they suffered hunger and thirst rather than run any risks. Expecting a search for their bodies would follow as soon as the rocks cooled after the fire, they had not dared even indulge in a pipe, but the day passed by without their hearing or seeing any thing more of the Apaches. The reader, doubtless, knows why this search was not made. The Apaches had their hands full of other work.
The Californian looked grave as he arose from examining the wounded man. Jessie shuddered as she read his face.
“There is no—no hope?”
“I am sorry to say it, but a lie would do no good now,” sadly replied Cook, for something in this woman stirred his heart strangely. “You may bid him good-by; an hour hence may be too late.”
The injured man stirred—slowly raising his head, supporting his weight upon one hand. As he gazed wonderingly around, a brand broke in two and a bright flame momentarily flashed up, clearly outlining the party.
Minnie shrunk back in horror. In this man she fancied she beheld the murderer of her father. The long, matted hair and beard—the shaggy dress of skins, now torn and tattered by the wolf-jaws all corresponded to the picture drawn by John Temple.
“Jessie—where are we—what does this mean?” muttered the man, in a wondering tone, as the woman knelt beside him.
“Thank God! you know me—you remember, William?”
“Yes—why shouldn’t I?” I remember all—how those he felt his already greatly impaired strength deserting him. Now and then a contrary current of wind would drive the smoke away and enable him to see his exulting enemies; but this was only for a moment, and before he could drop one with his pistols, he would be forced to resume the coat and fight the smoke again. The heat was as intolerable as its black accompaniment. The undergrowth fringed the very edge of the fissure, and when it took fire great blisters appeared on the felon’s skin, and the flames scorched his coat.
There seemed but one result to the startling drama. The foes in the ravine watched their work with self-congratulations of triumph, for they already felt the daring culprit in their grasp, and in fancy saw him paying the penalty of his crime between heaven and earth in Fort Miami.
A short distance from the main body of painted braves, stood a man easily recognizable as Mitre St. Pierre. Though not clad in the nudity that characterized his followers, he wore a head-dress that proclaimed him a chief among the Ottawas. True to his word, given to Mark Morgan, in the heat of passion, he had joined the Indians against the Americans, found himself elevated to the dignity of a chief at once, and entered into the work of blood, with the avidity of the jungle hyena. Upon the morning when he and his band discovered the major and his captive on the Canada trail, he was hunting for one of Mad Anthony’s spies, who had ridden through the Ottawa village in the broad light of day, and who was supposed to be in the neighborhood of the ravine.
“Girl, where are you?” called out Rudolph Runnion, somewhat alarmed at the silence that succeeded his harsh reply to her suggestion of surrender. “Speak, and let me know if you’re living yet. The end is near at hand, and a bloody ending it’s going to be.”
No answer greeted his listening ears, and determined to ascertain the situation and condition of the woman for whom he had risked so much, he left his station and darted back into the smoky gloom. He turned the angle when his foot struck the object he sought, and his hand touched Effie’s face. The lips were cold, the white hand in the same condition; but he had no time to investigate further, for a series of yell told him that the bloodthirsty band was at the mouth of the little cave. With the cry of “dead!” he dropped Effie’s lifeless hand, and turned to sell his life with the price demanded by the tigress when brought to bay.
He found no smoke in the main part of the cave, for a gust had blown it from the fissure, which was now filled with a mass of dark forms.
In an instant his pistol spoke and a light gleamed beyond the opening thus made, at the cost of two lives. But the ranks were soon closed, and again the remaining barrels of the weapon sent down two more braves. Then the desperate Briton, with his keen knife between his clenched teeth, threw himself forward, and he disputed the entrance with the strength and courage of the lion.
“You will not get me alive, though I know you will gain the day in the end,” he hissed into the teeth of the foe, whom he now drove back and who in turn now forced him from the entrance, bleeding as he was, from many a desperate wound. “The girl is dead. Oh, if I had her body, I’d drive you to hell with it!”
At this juncture several rifles from beyond the cave lent their voices to the roar of the conflict, in which one struggled against twenty, and three Indians staggered from the fissure, and fell headlong to the bottom of the ravine.
This unexpected attack in the rear caused the band to turn, and as they did so another rifle caused a fourth to join his silent companions.
Mitre St. Pierre glanced in the direction of the fatal shots, and beheld four figures reloading rifles with a dispatch that astonished him. They stood on the top of the bank at a densely wooded spot, diagonally opposite the attacked cave, and three of his new foes he recognized as Mark Morgan, Kenowatha and the Girl Avenger! The fourth was no doubt another of Wayne’s spies, perhaps the very one in quest of whom he had reached the present spot!
“Curse the white dogs!” grated the Frenchman as he surveyed his new enemies. “Had they not come we should have caught the red-coated hound; but now we must fly. Oh, I want to meet them when white meets white and red! Braves, fly! fly! they load!” he cried to his braves, who needed no such command, for while he spoke they were flying down the ravine, and darting into fissures from which they knew that the ingenuity of no pale-face could dislodge them.
Before the quartette on the bank could prime their deadly weapons the fiendish trader followed the example of his band, and just as he darted into a cavernous opening the Girl Avenger’s rifle cracked, and his arm fell at his side!
Then the four left the trees and entered the ravine. Before the cave they counted twelve dead bodies which attested the desperate nature of the man against whom they had fought. Perhaps a man never battled as Rudolph Runnion had done, for his neck was near the hangman’s noose, and if a man will not fight to escape such disgraceful doom he must be a coward indeed.
But now the Briton had struck his last blow; the avengers had arrived too late to complete the work of death, for not a sound came from the cave as they advanced. The smoke, what remained of it, was being driven down the ravine by a strong west wind, which filled the cave with a rejuvenating atmosphere.
They had crossed the pebbly bed of the dry stream-course, and had reached the bank leading to the cave, when a husky voice, that spoke every syllable with the distinctness of determination, startled every ear.
“Back! my rifle is aimed at one of your hearts. I will not surrender, nor will I be taken alive. I have five loads left, four for you, the last for myself. The girl is here, but cold as ice.”
The last words drew a cry of horror from Mark Morgan’s lips, and nothing short of the united strength of his friends prevented him from rushing to certain destruction beneath the Briton’s rifle.