CHAPTER IX.
When Ross Douglas regained consciousness, it was still night; but the heavens were clear and starlit. The snow had ceased to fall; the air was still and cold. A thin mantle of spotless white covered the earth. In the uncertain light, the bare tree trunks looked like files and squads of ghostly soldiers.
The wounded man attempted to change his position, but the pain in his right breast warned him to lie still. His attempted movement attracted the attention of his faithful, four-footed friend, who was sitting by his side. The hound whined plaintively, and licked his master’s face. Ross put out his hand and patted the dog’s head. This so pleased Duke, that he frisked about and barked joyfully, doing his best to entice his beloved master from his icy bed upon the frozen ground.
Douglas instantly remembered what had occurred, and fully realized his forlorn and helpless condition. But he was not one to yield to despair. Lying there desperately wounded—in a wilderness full of savage enemies, and far from any settlement—he resolved to outwit death or die gamely. He began an examination of himself and his surroundings. He found that he still lay at the foot of the tree where he had fallen. His wound had ceased tobleed, but his hunting-shirt was stiff with frozen blood; and the saline taste of the crimson life-tide was yet in his throat. Every breath caused him a pang; and a deep inspiration gave him excruciating torture. But he could move his arms and legs without much pain or difficulty. Again he essayed to arise, but fell back with a groan; he was too weak from fasting and loss of blood.
“If only I could get upon my feet!” he murmured. “I shall freeze here.”
Seeing that his master could not arise, Duke had returned to his former position. Now he tilted his muzzle aloft and bayed mournfully.
“There—there, old fellow!” Ross said soothingly. “Keep up your courage. Things are not entirely hopeless so long as we two are together. Ah! Perhaps you can help me to get up. Here, let me get my arms around your neck. That’s it. Now, Duke, pull—pull!”
The bloodhound was accustomed to obeying his master’s every command. Digging his claws into the flinty earth, he stretched his lithe, muscular body, in an attempt to do the bidding of the being he loved. Ross clung tenaciously to the noble animal’s neck. The result was he was dragged to a sitting posture. The effort cost him much pain, but he gained his object. Duke was delighted; he ran about in a circle and barked vociferously.
Leaning his back against the tree-trunk, Douglas panted:
“This is better! I’m off the flat of my back—half-wayupon my feet. After a short rest I’ll make a further effort. What should I have done without my faithful dog?”
In attempting to shift himself to an easier position, he placed his hand upon his gun, which was lying where he had dropped it. With a joyful exclamation, he caught it up and feebly dragged it across his lap. Then, taking the skirt of his hunting-shirt, he carefully wiped and dried the weapon, remarking to himself as he did so:
“I have a gun—I have ammunition—I have flint and steel. If I can manage to light a fire, I shall be in no danger of freezing. Then, perhaps, I may be able to shoot some animal for food—provided it comes near my camp. I must have something to eat.”
He sighed breathlessly. Then drawing his legs well under him and using his gun as an aid, he commenced slowly to arise to a standing posture, all the time keeping his back firmly pressed against the tree-trunk. The task was a herculean one; but after several failures he succeeded. Duke simply went wild with delight, rolling over and over in the snow and barking frantically.
After resting a few minutes, Douglas, leaning heavily upon his rifle, tried to take a few steps. His legs trembled and threatened to give way under him, and every fiber in his body ached and quivered; but he resolutely put out one foot after the other. His head swam, and he reeled and tottered like an infant. But he succeeded in makinghis way to another tree, against which he leaned, gasping for breath. Standing there, he tremblingly reloaded his rifle.
“Better than I expected!” he whispered with bloodless lips. “Much better! Now I shall seek a sheltered spot and build a fire.”
Putting his resolution into action, he slowly and painfully worked his way to a small depression, a short distance from the scene of conflict. It was half-filled with drifted leaves and snow, and almost surrounded by bushes and briers. Near it were the dead and dry limbs of a fallen tree.
Staggering into this natural shelter, Ross dropped upon the ground. Duke accompanied him. The wounded man laboriously cleared the cave of the accumulated mass of snow and leaves. When he had finished his hard task, he took out his flint and steel, and, after several discouraging failures, succeeded in starting a fire. Upon the tiny flame he piled sticks from the fallen tree-tops, which soon were ablaze. With a sigh of relief and comfort, he fell back and closed his eyes.
After a time, however, the genial warmth penetrated his chilled and stiffened frame and aroused him from the partial swoon into which he had fallen. Sitting erect, he held out his hands to the welcome blaze and murmured tremulously:
“What a mancan do! Oh, this cough! It almost strangles me; and the pain is awful. Still I’m better off than I was—much better. I shall not freeze, at any rate. But I must have food. Iamsoweak. Let me see,”—rolling his eyes heavenward,—“the stars indicate that it’s after midnight. I’ll rest by the fire until morning; then I’ll do what I can to procure something to eat.”
Again he coughed spasmodically—hackingly. When the paroxysm had passed, he continued his whispered, broken monologue:
“I wonder what became of Bright Wing and Joe. I’m glad they thought me dead. They’d have sacrificed their lives by staying; and done me no good. They may be dead; they may be prisoners among the Winnebagoes; or they may have escaped. If they got away unharmed, they’ll return to Franklinton and report my death. My God! My God! Amy—dear girl! The news will break her heart. And—great heavens! She may be persuaded to marry George Hilliard!”
Bowing his head upon his hands, he groaned. He was suffering mentally and physically. His temples were throbbing; his skin was hot and dry. The demon of fever was dancing through his arteries.
For some time, he sat silently staring into the depths of the fire. Above him the stars winked pitilessly; around him the lean shadows glided among the trees and eerily mocked him. No eye but God’s was upon him; no hand was stretched forth to save him.
He mused mumblingly—half deliriously:
“Even God will not help me. He would not, if he could. He has laid down inflexible laws for the government of the universe; he will not alter them to accommodate the individual. But I’ll not despair—Iwillnot! I will overcome all obstacles; I will cheat fate. The snow has concealed all signs of our encounter with the Winnebagoes; has covered our trail. Bradford and his braves will never find me. On the morrow I’ll procure food; then I shall be stronger. I’ll work my way eastward, by easy stages. Now I’ll lie down and try to snatch a few hours of natural sleep. Oh! This terrific cough and pain! And my head!”
He piled more dry wood upon the fire, and stretched himself upon the ground. Duke nestled at his back and helped to keep him warm. The red blaze crackled cheerily; the smoke and sparks ascended in gyrating columns. The wounded man lay and watched them until his eyelids closed.
When he awoke it was broad daylight. The fire had burned down; only a few gray embers and charred bits of wood marked its place. Duke, with bristles erect, was sitting by his master’s side, growling mutteringly—warningly. It was this sound that had awakened the sleeper.
Ross rubbed his eyes and sought to arise. But his limbs were as lead; his blood was as ice. He stirred; and a thousand needles pricked his flesh. By great effort he sat erect. His head gave him keenest torture; his eyes threatened to drop fromtheir sockets. His sight was dim. Strange noises rang in his ears. He tried to take a deep breath; but the pain in his chest caused him to moan aloud. His heart was thumping tumultuously. Thor’s hammer was beating in his brain.
Again the bloodhound uttered a hoarse, rumbling growl; and this time, sprang to his feet and advanced a step or two from his master’s side.
“Someone or something is approaching,” was Douglas’s mental comment. Then aloud: “Watch them, Duke—but do not leave me!”
But the dog had no intention of deserting his charge. Rigidly erect, menace and defiance in his attitude, he stood his ground. Ross listened intently, and thought he heard stealthy footsteps beyond the fringe of bushes that shut him in. But, through the interstices in the brush and brambles, he could see no one. Once more the hound growled, and more sharply than before. Then Douglas caught the patter of moccasined feet upon the snow-covered leaves, and the buzz of whispered words. A moment later the bushes parted and a painted Shawnee peeped into the glade.
Duke’s bristles quivered; his wicked eyes blazed. Revealing a double row of ivory fangs, he snarled savagely and crouched for a spring. Excitement lent strength to Douglas’s limbs. In some way—he never knew how—he got upon his feet and flung his heavy gun to his shoulder. With a grunt of surprise and terror, the Indian instantly withdrew his painted visage.
Ross sank in a heap upon the ground, whispering brokenly:
“Too weak—too weak! I’m at their mercy. Ah! Duke, old fellow, our time has come—for you will die fighting for me!”
And closing his aching eyes, he lay gasping.
Then came a thunderous rush among the bushes; and a half dozen savages stood within the cove, and as many rifles were pointed at the form of the prostrate and helpless man. Duke leaped at the throat of the nearest brave, and with him rolled upon the ground. At that moment a husky voice bellowed:
“Stop, you cowardly curs! Would you murder a wounded and helpless man? Harm a hair of his head, and I’ll have the life of the last one of you! Didn’t I tell you he was to be taken alive? Out of my way!”
It was the voice of Hiram Bradford. Douglas had just enough consciousness left to realize what was occurring, just enough strength remaining to call off his dog. Then he swooned.
Bradford shoved the savages right and left, and bent over the form of the unconscious man. He placed his hand over Douglas’s heart and listened to the faint, irregular respiration. He gazed earnestly, sadly, upon the pain-contorted features of the young man. His own face was pale; his brown, sinewy hand trembled. Arising, he said to the savage band he commanded:
“Start a fire; and be quick about it!”
Then to the Pottawatomie, whom Duke had attacked and who was now threatening to kill the dog, as the animal lay whining at the feet of his senseless idol:
“You shall not touch the dog. If you do, I’ll shoot you dead in your tracks. The brute did his duty—that’s all. He was protecting the life of his defenseless master. He is a noble specimen of his race. I command you to let him alone.”
The Pottawatomie sullenly obeyed. Bradford again turned his attention to Douglas.
“Poor boy!” he murmured softly to himself, his lips quivering. “Although you hate me, and would kill me now, perhaps, had you the opportunity—I love you. God knows I’ve wronged you enough in the past. Yet, when you had the chance, you did not kill me. Would you do it now? Heaven knows! Oh! Why didn’t you stay with me? Then this would not have occurred. Now you are wounded unto death—dying, I fear, before my eyes. No! you shallnotdie. I’ll save you—Iwill! And who has done this monstrous deed? Is it the work of white men or red? Whichever it be, they shall pay for it, if I have to follow them to the ends of the earth. I vow it before God! Shot through the breast, there you lay in the ice and snow, until you regained consciousness. Then you pluckily made your way here and built a fire, bravely fighting against all odds. Somebody left you for dead—somebody deserted you. But your faithful dog stayed by you. I have hated the brute;nowI could kiss his surly face. Yes, my boy, I can read it all; you have left in the snow a record of your desperate fight for life!”
The strong man bowed his head. The savages, engaged in building a fire and preparing to cook some meat, did not notice the agitation of their leader. His features worked spasmodically, and the scar upon his cheek twitched painfully, as he continued to whisper to himself:
“God of heaven, tell me who has done this awful thing! The snow has hidden all signs of the conflict—if conflict there was. It, also, covered your trail, my boy, and I stumbled upon you by chance. But, my God! Of what am I thinking? Do I mean to let you die without an effort to save you?”
Like one electrified, he leaped to his feet. All his emotion had vanished. Once more he was himself—the cool, firm, diplomatic leader of savage men. His ordinarily husky voice rang out sharp and clear as he cried:
“Listen, braves! This man is not dead—he mustnotdie. You have done well—you shall have the gold I promised you. In addition, each one of you shall have five pounds, if you do all in your power to help me to get him to camp alive. Stir yourselves! Cook your meat quickly. Then cut boughs and prepare a litter on which to carry him. Here, Long Gun, assist me.”
By this time a huge fire was roaring, that rendered the cave warm and comfortable. A part ofthe company raked red coals from their bed, and upon them commenced to broil slices of meat; while others began to cut limbs and withes, and weave and bind together a strong and elastic litter.
Bradford seated himself and took Douglas’s head upon his lap. Then he produced a flask of brandy, and with Long Gun’s help succeeded in pouring a small quantity down the unconscious man’s throat. A second and third time he repeated this, ere there were any signs of returning life. At last the feeble heart began to beat more regularly and forcibly. The pulse at the wrist became perceptible; color commenced to creep into the marble face. A long-drawn respiration heaved the wounded chest, and a low moan escaped from the blue lips. The white lids lifted; but there was no intelligence in the fever-bright eyes. The wan demon of death had yielded his throne to the riotous imp of delirium.
Bradford shrunk back and shuddered as these words fell upon his ear:
“Ah, Hiram Bradford, we’ve met at last, in a death-struggle! Now I have you at my mercy. You kept me a prisoner against my will—you kept me from the woman I love. You have wounded me—starved me—frozen me. Now you shall die—die!”
Douglas’s hands were clenched as though he held an enemy by the throat.
“Ugh!” ejaculated Long Gun. “The Great Spirit has robbed the young paleface of his senses.Like a dog dreaming of the chase, he fights in his sleep.”
The Shawnee understood but little Ross said, but read aright the meaning of the wounded man’s tone of voice and expression of countenance.
“Silence!” Bradford commanded sharply.
Then, caressingly smoothing the flushed face of the delirious man, he murmured soothingly:
“Don’t fret yourself. Your enemies are gone; you are with friends now. I’ll take care of you.”
“Who are you?”
The bright eyes opened very wide.
“Don’t you know me?” Bradford asked, anxiety in his tone and manner.
“Yes—yes, I know you, Joe Farley. Of course I know my old friend. I was sure you would come back. But where is Bright Wing?”
“He’ll be here soon,” answered Bradford, sighing deeply.
“And Duke—surelyhehasn’t deserted me—where is Duke?”
At mention of his name, the hound crept forward and licked his master’s hand. The dumb caress appeared to soothe and assure the sick man more than anything else could have done. For, with a sigh of contentment, he closed his eyes and whispered feebly:
“Oh, yes! Duke, old fellow, you are still with me. You’ll not let the Winnebagoes return and scalp me. Watch over me, good dog, for I’m sleepy—sleepy——”
Then he lay quiet. But his breathing was hurried; his pulse, bounding; and he continued to moan occasionally, and mumble and babble words that could not be understood.
“The Winnebagoes!” Bradford muttered, scowling darkly.
Arising, he began to hasten the preparations for departure. He partook of the parched corn and broiled venison the savages had prepared. Afterward he took a small portion of the tender meat, pressed its savory juices into a drinking cup, and poured the liquid down his patient’s throat. Ordering the litter brought to him, he stripped off his own hunting-shirt—unmindful of the chill atmosphere—and rolled it into a pillow for Douglas’s head. Carefully and tenderly placing his charge upon the springy bed, he covered him with a ragged, scarlet blanket which one of the Pottawatomies had worn around his shoulders; and selecting four of the most stalwart warriors and giving them minute instructions how to carry the litter, he ordered the band to start upon the return journey.
“Do we go back to Wildcat Creek?” Long Gun inquired.
“No,” Bradford answered, “we go to the villages of the Miamis, upon the Mississinewa.”
“But are our people there?”
“Yes, by this time.”
“Ugh!” was the satisfied rejoinder.
And Long Gun relapsed into his wonted silence.
All day long, the band trudged through thesheeted woodland, stopping only at noon. The Indians occasionally conversed in guttural undertones, but Scar Face maintained a moody silence. A stillness as of death reigned in the forest, unbroken save for the sharp rattling rap of a woodpecker now and then, or the startling whir of a partridge’s wings.
Bradford walked beside the litter and looked after the welfare of his patient. He gave him frequent doses of brandy, and at noon succeeded in getting him to swallow a little shredded meat. Douglas coughed almost continuously, and groaned at every sudden jolt of his swinging bed. A circular bright-red spot appeared upon each cheek, and the arteries of his temples and neck pulsated visibly. The wound he had received and the consequent exposure had done their work but too well. He was suffering from pneumonia.
At one time during the afternoon, he became violently excited and made repeated attempts to arise from his couch. In vain Bradford sought to soothe and quiet him. Apparently understanding the need of his presence, Duke trotted to the litter and fondly licked the hot hand that was frantically threshing the air. With a smile upon his face, Ross lay back and wearily closed his wild, staring eyes.
“Wonderful!” Bradford muttered aloud, sadly shaking his head.
“Wonderful—wonderful,” repeated the delirious man, in a monotonous, parrot-like voice. Then with animation:
“Oh, Amy! you here? No, it’s La Violette—orisit Amy? La Violette—Amy; La Violette—Amy. I don’t know.”
His words became an unintelligible jargon; but his fit of violence had passed.
At nightfall the Indians went into camp. Bradford placed the litter near the fire, and had a screen of boughs erected to shelter its occupant from the night wind. Again he got his patient to take a small portion of shredded meat and a little of the expressed juice. The supply of brandy was almost exhausted; and he wisely resolved to save what was left for an emergency. All night he sat by Ross’s side, giving him water, for which the poor fellow begged piteously at frequent intervals, and protecting him as best he could from the cold.
Duke fared well. Seeing his unparalleled devotion to his master, the Indians took a fancy to the intelligent animal, and fed him all he would eat.
At daylight the wearisome march was resumed; and at noon the party was drawing near the Miami village upon the Mississinewa. As they entered the town, hundreds of savages swarmed around them, and gazed in stupefaction upon the unusual spectacle of four grave and dignified warriors bearing the litter of a wounded paleface.
Pushing his way to the center of the village, a large collection of well-built lodges and cabins upon the eastern bank of the stream, Bradford asked for the Prophet. Tenskwatawa’s domicile was pointed out to him. Unceremoniously pushing aside thecurtain of skins, he entered the dark hut. The Prophet lay stretched upon a fur rug near the center of the floor, his feet to the fire that alone lighted the dismal interior. He did not offer to arise at Bradford’s entrance; but greeted him with a grunt of recognition. The intruder went straight to the point, by saying:
“My prisoner escaped. I have recaptured him and brought him here. But he is badly wounded; and I want the largest and most comfortable cabin in the village, in which I may place him and nurse him back to life.”
The Prophet arose to a sitting position, before replying. Then he made the heartless rejoinder:
“Let the young paleface die! He is a member of the Seventeen Fires—he is an enemy. His death will subtract one more from the number that ere long will appear against us, to do battle.”
“He shallnotdie,” Bradford returned firmly.
“Why?”
“Because I will not have it so.”
“Why does Scar Face so much desire to save the young man’s life?” the Prophet inquired, with a cunning leer.
“Why I wish to save his life—why Iwillsave his life—concerns no one but myself,” was the bold reply.
“Tenskwatawa, there is no use in our re-threshing old straw. I have told you that this young man is my friend. I repeat it. You know me well enough to realize that I will have my way—that Iwill not be balked in whatever I undertake. Let’s have an end of all parleying. I want the largest and best cabin in the place. Can I have it?”
“Scar Face asks for what is not mine to bestow.”
“What do you mean? Be quick. I have no time to waste in idle diplomacy.”
“This is the village of the Miamis,” was the shrewd answer. “The lodges are theirs. They have granted my people the privilege of staying here, but we must erect lodges for ourselves. When that is done, Scar Face shall have one placed at his disposal.”
Bradford’s anger was rising. His face flushed, then paled; the red scar upon his cheek quivered tremulously and twitched the corner of his mouth. He nervously fingered the trigger of his rifle—which he again had in his possession—as he said huskily:
“An end to your lies, Tenskwatawa! You cannot deceiveme. The Miamis are a part of your family. You are here in one of their cabins. Tecumseh has another; and your braves are busily engaged in erecting others. I want the best one in the village; and I am going to have it. Do you understand?”
The Prophet’s repulsive face became more repulsive. He was angry—afraid. He bent his head in reply, but did not open his lips.
“Well, go and give the order!” Bradford roared impatiently. “Hurry!—before I lose control of myself and stamp the life out of your miserable carcass!”
Tenskwatawa slowly arose. His limbs were shaking; his lips, trembling. The arrant coward was desperately afraid his companion would carry his threat into execution. And no help was at hand. When he could command his voice, he said:
“But the best lodge has been given to La Violette and the woman who attends her.”
“What of the council lodge?”
“I have made it a temple of the Great Spirit. You cannot have it.”
And the Prophet flung up his head, with a gesture of weak defiance.
Bradford was furious. He was on the point of giving full sway to his seething passion, and beating the brains out of the miserable wretch before him; but he thought of the wounded man upon the litter outside, and checked himself.
“Where is La Violette?” he hissed fiercely.
As if in answer to the question, the curtain of skin was pushed aside, and the young woman stepped into the room. Bradford turned at her entrance. By the dim light of the flickering fire, he saw that she was pale and excited.
“Hiram Bradford, what is the meaning of this?” she cried sharply.
He thought she referred to his presence in the Prophet’s hut, and was attempting to frame a suitable reply, when she imperiously stamped her little foot and demanded:
“Answer me! Why have you killed that young man? And you claimed to be his friend!”
“Do you mean Ross Douglas?” Bradford returned wonderingly.
“I mean Fleet Foot—Ross Douglas—yes.”
“He’s not dead,” Bradford hastened to explain, “but he’s——”
“Desperately wounded,” she completed in icy tones.
“Yes.”
“Why did you do it?”
“You wrong me. I didn’t harm him——”
“No,” she interrupted angrily, “but you permitted the warriors you had with you to shoot him, when he was trying to regain his liberty. It was murder! For shame! You are worse than a wild beast!”
As she finished speaking, her breast was heaving and tears were in her violet eyes.
In a few words Bradford explained to her what had happened, and asked her for the use of the cabin she occupied. The cloud partially lifted from her face, and she answered quickly:
“I am glad that neither you, nor the warriors under your command, committed this awful deed. For I have learned to look upon you as a brave man, and merciful even to your bitterest enemies.”—Bradford winced slightly.—“You can have the cabin I have occupied, on one condition.”
“Name it,” he said promptly.
“That I be permitted to nurse your—your friend, shall I say?—back to health.”
For a moment she keenly eyed him, to note theeffect of her words. Then, seeming to realize that she had made an unusual proposition, she continued confusedly:
“I—I promised when he saved my life, to do all in my power to set him free. I meant to keep my word. But his friends came to his rescue, and he regained his freedom without my assistance; only to lose it again. Now he is in great need of tender care; and I want to repay him for risking his life in my behalf. I feel that I am indebted to him. Do you accept my proposal?”
“Gladly,” Bradford answered quickly, a strange light flashing in his blue eyes. “Nothing would please me more than to have your assistance.”
“Then it is settled,” she returned quietly. “Carry him to the cabin at once. I will come soon.”
The Prophet witnessed all that passed; but he offered no opposition to the arrangement. Perhaps he felt it would be useless to do so.
After thanking the young woman, Bradford withdrew and had the wounded man carried to the place agreed upon. As he placed his charge upon a couch of soft furs and strove to make him as comfortable as possible, the older man whispered to himself:
“Oh, if I can save his life! If I can save his life! Fate is playing into my hands. All will yet be well. I shall realize my desire. But he mightdie! Oh, God! Hemustnot, heshallnot!”