THE WOOD KING. (continued 2)

"Did you call?" he demanded, presently.

"No—I coughed, nothing more," promptly replied Lightfoot, suiting the action to the words.

As if satisfied, the Indian turned away. The Kickapoo smiled grimly. Noiselessly he removed the well-filled quiver from the dead brave's back, intending, with it and the bow that lay at his side, to prop the body in a lifelike position to guard against suspicion, while he attempted the release of Yellow-hair.

But a new danger threatened the scout. As he worked, a dark form was gliding nearer and nearer, coming from behind, as though copying the example set by the Kickapoo.

Then it darted forward with a malignant sound, half-yelp half-bark, its long fangs closing upon the spy's shoulder. It was a dog—one of those fierce, treacherous, slinking, skulking, wolfish curs that can only be found among the Indians.

An involuntary cry broke from Lightfoot's lips as he felt this attack, and he sprung to his feet, tearing the cur from its hold, crushing him to the ground with a force that snapped its bones like pipe-stems. The slain sentinel fell forward, the plumes and long hair igniting in the flickering blaze, sending up a bright, crackling flame.

A cry came from beyond, and Lightfoot glanced up. An Osage brave stood out in full view, evidently astounded by the scene. And then from the surrounding cabins came an increasing bustle that showed Lightfoot his peril.

Stooping, he caught up the bow and quiver. With wonderful adroitness the loop was fixed and an arrow notched. But, with another whoop, the Osage sprung behind the cabin.

Two cat-like bounds carried Lightfoot to its corner. The Indian was hurriedly fitting an arrow to the string. 'Twas his last action in life; a sharp twang—a shrill yell: the Osage lay struggling in death agonies, transfixed by the feathered shaft, and Lightfoot darted away toward the forest, with the speed of one who knew that life depended upon his exertions.

The village was aroused by the alarm; warriors hastily snatched up the nearest weapon and hastened into open air. The fires were smoldering, but the moon shone brightly.

A lithe figure darted past them with the speed of thought. Was it that of friend, or of an enemy? Not until Lightfoot had passed the last cabin and rent the air with his shrill, taunting whoop, did they suspect the truth. But then pursuit was immediate. Burning with rage, they darted after the fleeing form. Twice that night had he bearded them—he should not live to boast of it. Were the Osage braves dogs that a degraded outcast should thus throw dirt in their faces? The deadly, vindictive yells answered no!

On Lightfoot dashed, a feeling of contempt for his pursuers banishing that of chagrin at his double failure. But gradually the fact of his being in danger forced itself upon him. He could hear the loud tramp of the Osages close at his heels as he dashed through the forest; could hear others spreading out by degrees upon either side to guard against his doubling upon them. Were these braves swifter than any he had before encountered? No. The change was in himself.

He was weakened by long toil and little rest; by the loss of blood as well. The arrow shot in the thigh of the day before; the numerous but smaller hurts received in the furious melée at the village; the gash upon the head inflicted by his fall—all combined served to weaken his frame, to render his muscles less elastic. Every energy was brought into play, yet he ran heavily, with difficulty, far different from his usual light, springy leap.

Still on he fled, running for life, with the yelping hunters close upon his track. Through the forest, over the meadow, winding through steep hills or crossing them direct as the nature of the ground demanded; still on he fled, desperately holding his own, though unable to increase his brief advantage.

Still on, until an anxious look overspreads his face. The Osages yell with increased malignancy. The ground is comparatively open, now, and Lightfoot can see the folly of attempting to diverge from a straight course. The savages chase him in the shape of the new moon. Only in a direct course can he hope to escape them. And yet before him lies a trap. This knowledge calls up that look—this knowledge draws the yells of exultation from the lips of his pursuers.

Clenching his teeth tightly, the Kickapoo sprung forward with increased speed. Such a pace could not long be maintained, but he knows the end is close at hand. His fingers tighten upon the bow—brings the quiver round upon his breast. If the end is death, he will die as he lived—a terror to his enemies.

Across an open tract, he turned and glanced back. The Osages yelled loudly; they fancied him securely trapped. Sending back a yell of defiance, Lightfoot darted up the abrupt slope, forcing his way through the thicket of scrubby pines and cedars. Beyond this lay a few yards of open ground; then came empty space.

Leaping out Lightfoot knelt down, an arrow fitted to the string, another held between his teeth. Thus he waited the approach of the Osages.

He crouched upon the very brink of a precipice, at whose base, nearly one hundred feet below, roared the Osage river. Its surface was dark now, wrapped with shadows of the cliff, but the Kickapoo well knew how it looked as the sullen roaring came to his ears.

Plainly as though at midday he could see the swift current tearing madly along, dashing itself into spray over the sharp, jagged crests of scores of bowlders that had, from time to time, dropped from the face of the cliff. The passage was not an easy one for a boat in broad daylight; what then would be the fate of a swimmer in midnight darkness—if one should leap down from the hight above?

The Osages came on boldly enough, though they knew that, at bay, an awkward customer awaited them. But they had been sorely smitten that night—they thirsted for this man's blood with a vengeance that overpowered the fear of death.

As the first head showed above the thicket, the hunted outcast's bow twanged loudly, and a muffled yell, as the head sunk down, told how steady had been his nerves. Maddened to frenzy, the dead man's comrades leaped out upon the open, resolved to end all by one desperate rush. But another twang mingled with their cries—another dusky form reeled back, the death-yell dying out in his throat in a husky gurgle.

And then the hill was occupied by the Osages alone!

As he loosed the second death-winged arrow, Lightfoot turned and boldly sprung over the precipice, his wild war-cry sounding strangely thrilling as it soared up from the depths below. It ceased abruptly. Then came a peculiar sound. Was it the sullen plunge of a body into the water, or the dull thud of a human form striking flatly upon some of the jagged bowlders that pierced the waters surface?

These questions asked the Osages. But not long did their indecision last. With eager cries they ran along upon the precipice-edge, making for a point where the river-bank was low. Dead or alive they resolved to recover the body of their terrible foe.

But Lightfoot was not dead. Besides the great distance, he had to run the risk of falling upon some of the immense bowlders, which, in the gloom, were invisible. Knowing this, he yet retained his presence of mind, and, though expecting death to follow, leaped for life.

Straight down, feet foremost he descended, one hand clutching the arrow in his quiver, though with arm pressed close to his side. Striking the water with almost stunning force, he sunk until his feet struck bottom with a force that doubled him up in a ball. But then he shot up, springing half out of the water, half-stunned, bewildered, confused, but alive!

With barely consciousness to keep afloat, he made no effort to avoid the rocks. And perhaps 'twas as well, for the current carried him through the perilous passage in safety, though more than once the sharp, knife-like edges of the flinty rock cut through his skin.

Then the river-bed widened, and the stream flowed more quietly. Lightfoot had partially recovered from the stunning shock, and now swam rapidly on, hearing, above the sullen roar of the waters, the yells of the Osages upon the bank above. He easily divined their purpose, but felt little doubt but that he could balk it.

As the bank grew lower, he was forced to keep close in to the shore to avoid the moonlighted space beyond, and the race was so close that he could hear the rapid tread of the Osages as they rushed toward this point. Still he passed the danger in safety, and then turning upon his back he glanced back. Several Indians were already in the water, eagerly looking for some trace of their enemy. Grimly smiling, Lightfoot swam on, little heeding his aching bones.

Half a mile below, he reached the ford, mention of which has so frequently been made in this story. As he stood erect in the shallow water an acute pain ran through his left leg, and he fell forward. A quick examination told him the truth. His ankle was badly sprained; so severely that further flight was not to be thought of. To save his life he could not have walked a half-mile.

Then Boone's parting words flashed upon his mind, naming the cave by the river as the rendezvous. It was possible that his comrades were even then awaiting his coming.

Sinking down in the water Lightfoot swam toward the entrance, uttering as he did so a signal often made use of between himself and the Wood King. But no reply came; again, with the same result. He knew then that the old hunter had not arrived, and, despite his own danger, a thrill of pain agitated his mind. He had learned to almost worship the noble-hearted woodsman.

Swimming into the cavern, Lightfoot crawled up on the sandy beach, half-fainting from pain and exhaustion. His labor that night had been really Herculean.

But then he turned and peered out upon the river that lay half in darkness, half-revealed by the silvery moonlight. He gave a start and dashed the dripping hair from his eyes. Two black dots were visible upon the surface. Then two human forms reared themselves upright, standing in the shoal water. They were Indians—Osage warriors. Their object was plain. They had swam down here to intercept their foe's escape, if alive, to secure his scalp if his dead body should float down the river.

Lightfoot frowned deeply and felt of his weapons, for the darkness rendered eyesight useless. The bow was still strung, though the string was somewhat lax, from being water-soaked. Rubbing this forcibly, he succeeded in rendering it fit for use. The quiver still retained its arrows; the girdle at his waist still supported the hatchet and knife given him by the faithful Feather-Cloud. Again he smiled grimly. Though crippled, he could yet make a stern fight for life.

But then a new thought struck him. He would avoid the fight if possible; and the tree above offered him the means of hiding until all search was over, as he believed.

Along the cave floor he crawled, reaching the hollow tree with difficulty. Creeping inside, he loosened enough of the decayed wood to cover up the entrance, then clutching the grape-vine, dragged himself up to the mouth of the hollow. Ensconcing himself securely among the dense boughs, he drew up the vine, coiling it beside him. And then, utterly exhausted, he sunk into a sort of stupor, for it could scarcely be called sleep.

This stupor lasted until the sun was up, and was then only broken by a shout from below. Bewildered, half asleep, he listened. Voices come to his ear up through the hollow tree. He knew then that the cave had been searched while he slept, and that the enemy had discovered the passage he had used. And then he saw what a fatal accident his sudden awaking had caused.

His start had dislodged the coiled grape-vine, so that it fell down into the hollow trunk. And now it became taut, jerking from side to side as an Indian tried to drag himself up. Desperate, Lightfoot drew his hatchet, and at one stroke severed the vine. A muffled yell came up from below, then a heavy fall, followed by shrill cries of triumph as the Osages discovered the cleanly severed vine. They had found their prey.

Instinctively Lightfoot clutched his bow and started to descend the outside of the tree. But a twinge of pain reminded him that escape by flight was useless. And then a yell from the hillside below called his attention to a number of Osages running up to surround the tree.

Coolly the Kickapoo waited until the savages were within a score yards of the trunk, then his bow sent a feathered shaft deep into the breast of the foremost brave. Startled, the survivors broke for cover, but another missile overtook them, and Lightfoot yelled defiantly as another victim was added to the heavy price demanded for his life.

For a time all was still. Not an Indian could be seen; not a missile was discharged at the Kickapoo, though his position could be fairly defined. Once their chiefs had doomed Lightfoot to the stake; now they resolved that a similar death should be his.

A whiff of smoke came curling up the hollow shell. Lightfoot drew back. The Osages yelled madly. The sport was fairly begun. How would it end? How could it end but in the death of the hard-hunted outcast!

Thicker and more dense grew the smoke. A dull, sullen roaring was audible as the flames entered the shell, eating greedily into the rotten wood. The leaves began to shrivel and turn black. The intense heat drew great beads of perspiration from the skin of the Kickapoo. The forked flames shoot out of the hollow top. Still further back draws the outcast, now fully exposed upon a limb. His hair begins to shrivel, his flesh to crack. His torture is excruciating, yet he, with a defiant shout, echoes back the yells of the Osages.

CHAPTER VI.

THE BOWLDER BULLETS.

Steadily Boone pressed on through the tangled forest, with the yells of the Osage warriors ringing clearly in his ears, and something of the fire of his younger days gleamed in his blue eyes and brought a flush to his bronzed cheek, as he felt himself once more pitted against the dusky heathen who had dealt him so many and bitter blows.

Close in his footsteps trod young Abel Dare, sullenly fleeing from the enemies he longed to turn upon and rend in his furious hatred. But the Wood King had gained a strange ascendancy over his mind, and he obeyed, though with an ill grace.

At the time he had given the word to separate, Boone diverged slightly to the right hand, bidding Dare follow him closely. And now they sped forward over the tangled ground with all the speed possible, while the Osages yelped like eager hounds close at his heels.

Thoroughly acquainted with the surrounding country, Boone sought to direct his course so as to avoid a serious obstacle that lay before them; but even under the best auspices it is difficult to keep a straight course through a thick wood; little wonder then that their rapid flight through the darkness caused him to err in his calculations.

Half an hour after leaving the Osage village, the veteran made this discovery, and a feeling of anxiety agitated his mind, more for the young man, who trusted in his skill and experience, than for himself. As was the case with Lightfoot, a few hours later, he was running headlong into a trap. Nor could he hope to shun it by turning aside. The pursuers were too near for that.

Then a cry burst from his lips. Like a revelation, there flashed upon him a scene from the past: a deep, narrow gorge, yet too wide for man to cross it by leaping—a hunter standing upon the verge, peering downward, supporting himself by a stout grape-vine that dangled from the horizontal limb of the gnarled elm tree. By its aid an active man could cross the ravine.

Calling upon Dare to increase his exertions, Boone darted forward with the speed of a hunted deer through the now less dense forest. The trees grew less thickly, the ground more broken, strewn with flinty bowlders. Through the clear moonlight could be seen distant hills rising darkly, with their covering of trees, or bleak and bare, their rocky summits scarce affording subsistence for a scant growth of shriveled, prematurely-growing grass.

True to his latter calculation, the Wood King reached the gorge at a point only a few steps from the vine-wreathed elm tree, and then one stroke of his keen knife severed the pendent grape-vine close to its root. Clutching this, he ran back a few paces, crying out to Dare as he did so:

"Watch me, lad—then foller. Ketch the vine as it comes back."

Then springing from the ground, he shot swiftly through the air, across the dark ravine, safely making the further side, whence he hurled back the novel rope. The yells of the Osages came more clear—their heavy tramp smote his ear, and Dare did not hesitate for a moment. Clutching the vine, he too was safely landed on the other side, where Boone was hurriedly driving home a well-battered bullet.

"What shall we do with this?" muttered Dare, still holding the vine.

"Let it go. 'Tain't long enough to tie, an' we cain't break it off. We kin keep 'em from crossin' with our rifles. Take to kiver, an' load up—for life!" hastily replied the Wood King, kneeling down in the shade cast by a huge bowlder, adroitly priming his rifle as he spoke.

With loud cries, the Osages rushed forward, but then paused, their tones altering greatly. Where were their anticipated victims? the swaying grape-vine answered, and so did the rifle of the old hunter.

Sharply, with a spiteful cadence, rung out its voice, the bright flame leaping half-way across the ravine, dazzling the eyes of the Osages; the eyes of all but one—and he sunk down in death, the blood gushing from a perforated skull. For a moment the savages stood amazed; then turned and sought cover. But before the friendly bowlders were gained, though so near at hand, the rifle of the young settler was discharged, and a second savage fell at full length, sorely wounded. A single cry of agony, then he silently dragged his maimed body over the rocky ground, seeking to gain cover.

"Now's our chance," said Abel, as he poured the wonderful black grains into his rifle. "We can get to a safe distance before they think of crossing."

"Easy, lad," and Boone laughed silently. "Thar's plenty of time afore us. The varmints won't ventur' to cross over as long's they think two sech rifles as our'n is ready to dispute their passage, so we may as well get a little more breath while we kin. There—hear them yelp!" he added, as two or three subdued cries came from the opposite side. "The fools—do they think to blind the eyes of one who has known them a lifetime? Poor fools—they're sadly out."

"What do you mean?" quickly asked Abel Dare.

"This: they're yellin' there to make us think they're very busy hatchin' some plan to git at us, and so keep us still a-watchin' to drive 'em back when they try to cross. Now, though layin' bets is not my natur', I'd stake my scalp ag'inst that of any red heathen among 'em, that the biggest part of the lot has gone round the ravine so's to take us unbeknown in the rear," quietly replied the veteran woodsman.

"Then why stay here, losing precious time that—"

"As I told you, to git ready for another hard tramp. It's full half a mile to the nearest end or crossin'-place, an' the ground is mighty rough. But we'll go now."

As he spoke, Boone raised his rifle and fired at one of the bowlders beyond, though none of the savages were visible. Taunting yells greeted this shot, but he knew that his object was gained. The Osages would believe that the scouts had resolved to defend the pass, and so would make no attempt at crossing until their friends completed the surround. And this, Boone felt, would give them ample time to reach safety.

Loading his rifle, as he proceeded, Boone led the way over the rocks, after crawling stealthily until beyond view of the ravine. Abel, comparatively inexperienced in such matters chafed restlessly at the deliberate motions of the old hunter but knew the uselessness of remonstrating. Thus they proceeded for fully half an hour, when from the direction of the ravine, there came, borne upon the brisk breeze, angry yells of rage and disappointment. The Osages had discovered the flight of their enemies.

"Now, lad, sence we've got our new wind, mebbe it'd be as well to do a little more tall travelin', for we've a long trail afore us to the place I told the chief we'd meet him at," said Boone, breaking into a trot.

For half a mile more Abel kept close at the veteran's heels, but then his foot slipped, and in recovering his balance, the knife dropped from his belt. A little incident, but one that was fated to produce important changes in the lives of both the scouts.

Picking up the weapon, Abel thrust it securely into his belt, then resumed his course. Boone had not heard the slip, and now Abel just caught a glimpse of his form as he passed around a huge bowlder. When Abel gained this point, Boone had disappeared around another. Expecting with every moment to overtake the hunter, Dare pressed on through the broken country. The trail was winding and intricate, one among a hundred others, though this fact the young settler was hardly aware of, since the moon was already paling before the approach of day, and a dim, uncertain light shrouded the earth, revealing outlines vague and indistinct.

For several minutes Abel Dare pressed on with as great speed as was practicable under the circumstances; still nothing was to be seen or heard of Boone. Then pausing, he called aloud, gently at first, then louder; but only the mocking echoes answered back. Where could the hunter be?

For a few minutes Dare deliberated whether or no he should retrace his steps and try to rejoin his friend; but he felt by no means sure that he could do this, so many passages and trails seemed winding through this rocky tract. And then, too, he knew that the Osages would be searching for the fugitives. To return would be to rush into their arms.

"No, I'll go on," he at length muttered, decisively. "This tract can not extend much further, and once in the open ground, I can easily manage to rejoin Boone. If not, then I'll strike for the settlements and try to raise enough men to set poor, darling Edith free, whether or no!"

Acting upon this resolve, Abel Dare turned his face toward the north, and pressed on at a rapid gait, all-unconscious of the danger that was rapidly nearing him—that, in fact, he was advancing to meet.

For an hour more he toiled on. The broken, rocky tract was left behind him. The ground was now almost like a rolling prairie, thinly wooded save in the deeper valleys where some small creek, sluggishly wound its way. The sun had risen, clear and bright. The wind had nearly died away. The day was lovely, inspiriting, and despite his weary limbs, his hunger, the young settler pursued his way with a free, springy step.

He had seen nothing of Boone, though he had searched keenly, had halloed, once even discharging his rifle, but all without the result wished for. Not daring to waste further time in the hope of finding him, Dare turned his face toward the quite distant settlement, eager to put into operation his plans for the rescue of Edith. For that she was still alive and a captive, he firmly believed, from the reasonings of the old hunter.

His mind was filled with such thoughts, when, upon the ridge of a considerable hill, Abel abruptly paused. Upon his left, fully half a mile distant, his keen glance detected a score human figures, crossing the hill in an opposite direction to that followed by himself. For this reason he had not discovered them before.

Quick as thought Abel flung himself flat upon the ground, but he was too late to avoid observation. He saw the human figures turn toward him, gesticulating violently. Even as he lay they could see him, for the grass was short and scanty.

Whatever doubts he might have entertained as to their identity, were quickly solved. The bright sun shone clearly upon them. Even at that distance he could distinguish the long flowing hair, the plumed beads, the bronze, naked forms; all telling of savages, and consequently enemies.

Feeling assured that naught save another horrible, heart-sickening flight could avail him here, Abel partially arose and cast a swift glance behind him. In that direction, if any, must he flee, for in his present jaded state he would need all the advantage he possessed.

Fully two miles away a considerable-sized hill arose from the level ground around. Though its crest was densely crowned with trees, the sides and base were bare of vegetation, an uneven, dirty grayish cast. Around its base lay scattered a number of bowlders that must be, to be so distinctly visible at that distance, of large size. The thought flashed upon Dare that if he could not find a secure covert there, at least he could gain a position from whence he could sell his life dearly.

He had time for no more than one glance and its accompanying thought. Though in silence, the Indians rapidly advanced along the ridge toward him. Leaping to his feet, Abel turned and darted away at full speed, casting a quick glance over his shoulder as he did so. That showed him the savages bounding forward in hot pursuit, while their yells came slowly to his ears.

With eyes fixed upon the goal, Dare ran, as he had never ran before, along the gradually-descending ridge. The turf was smooth, springy, free from all obstacles. A more favorable spot for a race could not have been picked out. And yet Abel knew that the savages were gaining upon him, though slowly. The difference in the occasional yells plainly told him that. Still, when one-half the distance had been traversed, he glanced back, and felt assured that, barring accident, he would not be overtaken before reaching the hill.

On—on the competitors sped. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, the distance separating them lessened. But then the rocky mound now loomed up quite near, and Abel could plainly distinguish the irregular seams and fissures in its surface. Surely, in some of these he could find a refuge? Hope sprung up anew in his heart, though he knew that he must round the point of the hill before attempting to secrete himself, if he wished to make the attempt successful, and every additional yard to be run was adding to the task already sufficiently arduous.

Panting heavily, his limbs trembling, his brain madly throbbing, Abel Dare gained the foot of the hill. Still he did not pause, even to glance back at his pursuers, but pressed on round the point at full speed. Yelling madly the savages dashed on after him, knowing that the end was nigh by his uncertain strides.

A little stream of water was before Abel, and a wild, whimsical thought was called up by it. Skirting the hill-base, he came upon what seemed the source of the stream, where the water, clear, sparkling and cold, came gushing through a round black hole, as though from the bowels of the rocky mound. Here Abel paused, dropping upon his hands and knees, plunging his head in the water, swallowing great mouthfuls of the grateful liquid.

"At any rate, I'll not die thirsting," was his thought, and regardless, as it seemed, of the rapidly approaching enemy, he acted upon the idea.

But this was only momentary. Scarce had he touched the water, when he started. A clear, wild-sounding laugh filled his ear, apparently coming from the empty air above his head. And following the laugh came these words:

"Does the hunted deer halt to appease his thirst or hunger while the wild wolves snarl at his heels? Go learn wisdom from the dumb beasts. Up, man! up and away—the blood-thirsty heathens are upon ye!"

Thus directed, Abel Dare's eyes rested upon a tall, wild-looking figure, standing upon a sort of projecting platform, half-way up the hill. It was the same being who had warned the Mordaunt family of their danger—the being sometimes called "the hermit"—oftener the devil, by the settlers. Now for the first time, Abel beheld his face, though more than once, during his hunting experience, he had caught a fleeting glimpse of the rudely-dressed being.

But the one glance was all that Dare gave him now, for from round the hill-point came another series of yells from the pursuing savages, now close at hand. Yet in that glance Abel noted a rude, faintly-defined path leading up the precipitous hillside, ending at the platform where stood the hermit. It could be scaled by an active man.

Without pausing to consider whether such a course would be agreeable to the hermit, Abel sprung forward, clambering up the smooth trail with the agility of a cat. A peculiar cry broke from the hermit's lips, and he retreated from sight. Almost immediately Abel heard him rolling a heavy bowlder toward the point directly above him. At the same moment loud, eager cries from the ground below told that the savages had rounded the hill-point, and had discovered him.

A double peril seemed threatening him, yet, spurred on by the malignant whoops, Abel scrambled on and upward. Directly above his head hung a large, jagged bowlder, poised upon the edge of the platform by the strong arms of the hermit. To the young man, a look of devilish triumph seemed dawning in the big black eyes that peered down upon him over the top of the bowlder.

"Quick! the heathen are beginning to bethink themselves of their weapons. Reach me your hand—haste! Is life so worthless that ye would cast it away without an effort toward saving it?" cried the man, in tones so different from that first used that even Abel felt surprise.

Still, great though that surprise was, increased, too, by finding a friend when he had expected to meet an enemy, it did not prevent Dare from obeying the hermit by extending his hand, which was clutched by fingers like iron in their strength. Without any apparent effort the hermit drew Abel Dare up over the escarpment, landing him safely by his side, though now the rifles from below had begun to speak, the bowstrings to twang, and the feathered shafts to hurtle through the air. But the marksmen were unsteadied by their long race, and their aim any thing but accurate.

"Give them a taste of your metal, young man—take those with the rifles," sharply cried the hermit, seemingly changed from a wild enthusiast into a cool Indian-fighter.

Abel, nowise loth, obeyed. A savage dropped to the ground, writhing in agony. The hermit shook his head and frowned.

"You overshot—at least two inches too high. 'Tis better, even in dealing with such reptiles, to do your work neatly. But now hold this rock, while I go and get my arms. Your shot checked them for a time."

In a few moments the hermit returned, bearing in his hand a huge bow of second-growth white-oak, full six feet in length, more resembling a crow-bar, tapering slightly at both ends, than weapon to be used by human arm. Besides this he carried a skin quiver filled with long, flint-tipped arrows. Abel's eyes opened widely as he saw with what ease the hermit bent this bow, to test the string. But soon they had their hands full.

In silence a number of Indians broke cover and darted toward the narrow path leading upward, while a volley from those remaining concealed swept the platform. Crouching low down the two defenders coolly watched their movements, comparatively well shielded the while.

Half a dozen braves succeeded in scaling the path for fully half the distance, when, with a sudden push, the hermit toppled over the heavy bowlder. True to his intention, it dashed along the hollow trail, and tore resistlessly through the line of savages, crushing, mangling them horribly, leaving but one alive of the six, and as he picked himself up at the hill-foot, the huge bow was bent, and then an arrow passed entirely through the poor devil's body.

The savages yelled madly from their cover, but not one ventured to show himself. The hermit laughed loudly, then turned to Abel, who, pale and staring, was gazing over the platform:

"How do you like my style of working? But go and get some more of our jolly flint bullets—you'll find them yonder, in the cave behind you."

Awe-stricken, Dare rose to his feet to obey, but then paused as though transfixed. Then a joyous look overspread his face, as he sprung forward, crying:

"Edith, my darling! alive—thank God!"

CHAPTER VII.

THE WHITE WOLF SHOWS HIS FANGS.

With a low, glad cry the maiden sprung forward and was clasped tightly to the breast of her lover, whose eager lips rained hot kisses upon her face; for it was indeed Edith Mordaunt—Yellow-hair. It was a rapturous meeting, so unexpected. For a time their speech was broken, inarticulate.

The hermit turned his head at the cry, and now stared at the young couple in seeming surprise. As if by magic the old half-wild, half-vacant expression came back to his face. One hand pressed his bow with an impatient gesture, as he partially raised himself. A sharp, spiteful report rung out from below, and a few threads of the iron-gray locks fell upon his breast, severed by the passage of the renegade's bullet. This seemed to break the spell that bound him, and the hermit sunk back, saying, carelessly:

"So you know the lady, then?"

"Know her—But tell me, Edith, has this man dared to—"

"No, he has treated me kindly—I believe I owe him my life," quickly replied the maiden.

"There, young man, let that knowledge satisfy you for a few moments—at least until you can roll me out two or three such playthings as we used a moment since. Then you can ask the lady what questions you will. One man can easily hold this pass, though a tribe should attack it."

The cool, quiet tone of the hermit acted like magic upon the young borderer, and he obeyed without question. Just within the mouth of the cave he could distinguish at least half a score of the flinty bowlders, and several of these he managed to roll to the side of the hermit, who was once more watching the movements of the enemy below. Though they had not fled, the savages did not appear anxious to renew the assault after such an overwhelming reception.

Together the young couple seated themselves just within the mouth of the cavern, side by side, hand in hand, conversing eagerly, yet saying very little, yet repeating that little over and over again, which seems to be a trait peculiar to lovers after a certain point. Yet, despite these interruptions and digressions, Edith managed to tell her story, which may be briefly summed up.

The hermit was abroad on that fatal night, under the influence of what may be termed a crazy fit, since he could remember nothing that had transpired, after the spell was gone. In it he had warned the Mordaunt family of approaching peril; in it, when he heard the firing of rifles, the shrill yells of savages, together with the shrieking of women, he rushed to the scene of death. An Indian was bearing the struggling form of a woman in his arms. One stroke of his clenched fist felled the savage senseless, and seizing the sinking form, he fled through the raging storm, instinctively seeking his hill retreat. The cold, driving wind beating upon the maiden's upturned face, soon restored her to her senses, though still sadly confused and bewildered. A flash of lightning revealed to her affrighted gaze the stern, wild face of the one who bore her so swiftly through the forest. To her then it seemed the face of a very demon. She strove to shriek aloud for help, but in vain. A horrible dread chained her tongue.

What followed was indistinct and dim, until she awoke with a new day, though its light shone but dimly, into the place where she was resting. The hermit crouched at her feet, gazing upon her with a puzzled air. The crazy spell was broken: he was rational now. But the events of the past night were buried in oblivion, so far as his memory was concerned. Wonder was plainly written upon his features; how came this fair maiden in his wild retreat?

Seeing that Edith was awake, he eagerly questioned her, and then, from his own knowledge of his occasional madness, the hermit read the riddle. He pledged himself to protect and safely restore the maiden to her friends, at the earliest moment consistent with her safety. And there was something in his words and actions that told Edith she might trust him implicitly.

The voice of the hermit was now heard without, and Abel hastened to learn what was the matter. The young settler started, a deep flush suffusing his face as he heard a voice sounding from the plains below; a voice that he recognized for that of a dastardly villain—the voice of Seth Grable, the White Wolf!

"You mought as well give in, fust as last," Grable said, "fer thet's boun' to be the eend. I know you've got a snug kiver, as you say, but it kin be taken; an' we've jest got the fellows to take it, too. You see'd the Injuns thet kem up jest now. Thar's more'n a hundred braves here who take my word fer law. Ef I say the word, up they go, though you rub out the biggest half. But I don't want to say so. Why? Easy told. You've got a gal up thar thet I've swore must be my squaw. She'd be shore to git rubbed out in the muss. Thet's why I offer ye tarms."

"What terms can a dirty scoundrel like Seth Grable, the renegade, have to offer honest men?" said Abel Dare, standing boldly out into view, his rifle half-poised.

"Them's rough words o' yours, Abe Dare," returned Grable, his voice trembling with ill-suppressed passion; "but they don't do no harm, a'ter all. What tarms? Jest these. Give up peace'bly, 'thout makin' no more fuss, and I promise you your lives. O' course you'll be kept pris'ners, but mebbe you kin buy your freedom, some time."

"A clumsy lie—a disgrace even to an idiot like you, Seth Grable. But here's our answer. If you want us, come and take us—if you can," laughed Abel, sinking down in time to avoid several arrows that hurtled near.

Then, once more, all became quiet. The savages remained hidden behind the rocky breastworks. The hermit lay upon the platform, his bow in hand, the bowlder beside him ready to be hurled down the hollow trail in case the enemy should dare another onset. Abel retreated to the side of his loved one, and they conversed earnestly, yet sorrowfully, for the death of their friends pressed heavily upon their hearts.

Grable had spoken no more than the truth when he admitted the position was a strong one. Indeed it appeared impregnable. The hill stood alone in the center of a plain, bare and treeless save at the very summit, and from it the ledge was hidden. For a few yards from the top, the rocks sloped abruptly down; then came a perpendicular descent of full fifty feet, ending in a broad, table-like ledge that overhung the mouth of the hermit's retreat. Only by a swaying rope from above could the ledge be gained, and then, standing in the cave entrance, those below would be hidden. The trail leading up from the plain below was narrow, hollowed out of the rock, barely affording room for one person to ascend at a time. This was the only avenue of approach from that direction.

Truly, it was well said: a strong position.

Slowly the hours rolled by. All was silent save the voices of nature. The savages seemed to have disappeared. The hermit lay upon the rock motionless as though dead. A vacant expression rested upon his face. He was brooding over the past, all-unconscious of the net that was fast closing around him.

Suddenly something whizzed through the air, followed by a double click, sharp and peculiar. A cry broke from the hermit's lips as he rolled over upon his back. The long locks of gray hair were fast darkening with blood. A couple of headless arrows lay beside him; their flinty heads had been shivered to atoms upon the hard rock.

At the cry, Abel Dare sprung to his feet, rifle in hand. He saw the blood—he believed the hermit was dead, so motionless did he lay. But then came a rapid change.

The hermit's arms were uplifted, bending the long bow until the notched shaft touched his ear. Then it was loosed—its swift passage baffling human eyesight.

A cry—a shrill, blood-curdling shriek of mortal agony—came from above. And then a dark form shot headlong down through the air, striking with a sickening thud upon the rocky ledges, crushed into a shapeless mass, bespattering the trio with clotted blood and brains.

Wild and taunting rung out the laugh of the hermit as he sprung to his feet, shaking his weapon at the savages upon the plain. Their cries of rage and hatred caused the rocky mound to echo again. And then a score of arrows and rifle bullets passed the shelf, pattering against the flinty wall beyond. With another laugh, the hermit leaped back unharmed.

"You are wounded?" anxiously cried Abel Dare.

"A scratch—nothing more," was the quiet reply. "But, the time is come now. Those devils mean mischief. They hold the ledge above, and next time will take better aim. But they can't touch us in here. All we have to do now is to watch and pick off the devils as they show themselves at the head of the path you came up by."

Truly a narrow escape had been his. One of the arrows had grazed his neck, cutting through the skin over the jugular vein. The other had passed between his arm and side marking them both with a livid welt. Considering the position they were forced to assume, and firing directly downward, the wonder was that the Indians had made such good shots, and that they missed being fatal.

"Then, you think they will attempt to force their way up that—?"

"I'm certain of it. They know our strength now, and they dare not retreat—their tribe would disgrace them if they let two men foil them. No, depend upon it, they'll give us work enough—and hot work at that."

"God grant that we may be able to hold our own! Not for myself," Abel hastily answered the hermit's keen glance, "but for her. She is all I have left on earth now."

"Then you—you are an orphan? Your mother is—"

"Dead. But whether my father lives or no, I can not tell. I can remember nothing of him but what my mother told me. On her death-bed she bade me seek for him, nor rest satisfied until I had found him, either living, or in his grave. If living, to give him her forgiveness for the great wrong he had done her. But why do I tell you this? It can not interest you—a stranger."

"It does—deeply. Perhaps because you are a friend. Tell me more—about him. Perhaps I can give you some clue—"

"Hist! Is not that the scratching sound of feet upon the trail?" hastily whispered Abel, bending his ear.

"Yes—the devils are coming. I will take the first one that shows his head—you the second. Remember waste no shot."

Kneeling in the mouth of the cave, the two men silently awaited the appearance of their enemies. The rifle was leveled, the long bow half bent. And the scratching noise sounded more distinct.

Then the black muzzle of a rifle crept noiselessly over the escarpment. The hermit smiled. The guess was a poor one. The bullet would strike two feet to the left.

The rifle cracked. As though believing the smoke-cloud would screen them, the savages uttered their war-cry, and sprung up to gain the ledge.

The hermit laughed aloud. As the foremost figure appeared in view, the strong bow was bent—then the shaft leveled. Striking fairly, the broad, muscular breast, the missile passed entirely through, falling upon the plain far beyond the mound. Clutching, tearing convulsively at the wound, the Indian, with the terrible yell almost universally given by his race, fell heavily backward.

At the same instant Abel Dare fired, the flame from his rifle blackening the face of the second savage whose skull was crushed in. The fall of these two bodies, checked the advance of their comrades, and gave the hermit time to deal the finishing stroke by a daring deed.

Dropping his weapon, he rushed forward, heedless of the yelling fiends upon the ledge above, and seizing upon one of the large bowlders, fairly raised it from the ground, and dashed it down upon the struggling savages. Two arrows struck the rock by his side, one of them tearing through his garments, but he did not hesitate. Stooping, he seized a second rock. An arrow struck him, and he fell to the platform. A yell of devilish triumph rung out from the savage marksmen above. But their exultation was premature.

With an angry cry, almost mad, the hermit struck the bowlder with his hands, rolling it over like a feather-weight, sending it down the hollow trail to complete the work its fellow had so terribly begun. Another arrow splintered its flinty head beside him, but uttering another cry he scrambled back to the mouth of the cave, well knowing that the trail was once more clear of savages.

Anxiously Abel bent over him. A long arrow was sticking deep in his back, buried half its length in the flesh. It seemed impossible for the wound to be other than mortal. But the hermit smiled grimly.

"Don't be alarmed, lad; I've fought down harder blows than this. I don't think it went deep enough to kill—you see it's only through my side. Cut off the feathers, and push it through. I feel the point pricking the skin."

In silent amazement Abel obeyed, and then the blood-stained arrow was cast aside. While thus engaged, the wounded man had torn a bit of cloth from the young settler's shirt, and after chewing it hastily, pressed it into the orifice; another bit closed the second, and then he staggered to his feet, cutting a broad strip from his clothes.

"This will do for a bandage. Tie it hard and tight."

Abel tore the sleeve from his shirt, making two pads, which he placed over the wounds, then drawing the broad strip of buck-skin around the hermit's body as tightly as possible, secured it firmly. By this time the strange being had apparently recovered. As he said, the wound had in a manner paralyzed the muscles of his body, though only momentarily.

Edith had been a pale and trembling witness of all this, crouching just within the cave. Death seemed inevitable when the stern onset was made, but now she breathed a prayer of thanksgiving that they all were yet safe.

The repulse had been bloody in the extreme, and the loss of the Indians had been very severe. Yet it seemed only to increase their resolution to conquer. As the hermit said, they would never be beaten by two men. And now, though in silence, they were again advancing to the spot of death.

A dark line cautiously broke upon the grayish white edge of the rock, rising noiselessly higher, until a pair of eyes glared strangely toward the defenders. A faint cry from Edith called their attention, then following the direction indicated by her trembling finger, they discovered the head of a savage slowly rising above the ledge. Quick as thought, Abel flung forward his rifle and fired, just as the hermit cried:

"Don't shoot—it's a trick—they're shoving up a dead man to draw our fire!" and then he clutched the bow and notched an arrow to the string.

As the rifle-shot rung out, a cry of triumph broke from the lips of the savages, and the corpse that had availed them so well was cast aside, while in quick succession they sprung upon the ledge. They believed the game was in their own hands now, for the marksmen above had telegraphed them the fall of the hermit, and now that the other's rifle was empty, a single rush would end all.

But the first one whose foot touched the ledge bounded backward, yelling convulsively, a feathered shaft quivering deep in his skull. He fell half-way down the hill, but to one side of the trail, that was now densely crowded with yelling warriors, rushing to the ledge above.

Like living shadows, the yelling red-skins leaped upon the narrow ledge, the bright blades of their brandished weapons gleaming in the sunlight. Twice in rapid succession the hermit's bow twanged sharply, the death-note of as many screeching fiends. Again the weapon was bent—but the wielder staggered forward, as, with a sullen sound, the frayed string snapped in twain, the arrow dropping useless to the ground. It seemed as though all was over, for Abel Dare was just ramming home a bullet. Before he could withdraw the rod, the enemy would be upon them bodily.

All this had occurred with the rapidity of thought. The red-skins had not yet recovered from the surprise given them by being confronted with one whom they supposed dead.

Recovering himself, the hermit, still clutching the bow, sprung back and raised Edith in his arms, crying for Abel to follow them quickly, then darted into the darkness of the cave. Hard upon his heels trod the young settler, while, recovering from their momentary confusion, the Osages dashed after the fugitives with blood-curdling yells.

But the nimble-footed savages were too fleet for the fleeing trio, and the hermit, panting from exertion and growing weakness, exclaimed to Dare:

"I'll have to give in. There is but one thing to do. You go on through the passage, leave the girl and me—I'll see that no harm comes to her—and make your way out of the other end of the passage. There you'll be in the open country, and, if you are spry, you can bring the settlers down to help us. It's the only way. Go at once, or we all perish here together."

Abel hesitated. What, leave Edith? She guessed the thought.

"Go, Abel. I feel that it is the only way to save me. Do as our friend suggests. Get the settlers or Lightfoot on the trail, and all will yet be well."

"I will go! God forgive me if any ill happens to you!" and he disappeared in the darkness.

The savages, led by the renegade, were soon up with the old man and his charge, and came down on them with the fierceness of tigers. Their leader, however, interposed to save the fugitives from slaughter; he had other designs upon them than to permit the old hermit an easy death.

The captives were led backward to the outer world again, and then on toward the Indians' late camp, around whose still burning fire the party gathered.

It was strange, but true, that Abel had, in pursuing his tortuous course through the cave, come out near this very spot, and when the party emerged in view from above, he beheld all from his hiding-place. With the eyes of a basilisk Abel watched. Edith was placed upon a couch of leaves to one side of the fire. The hermit, held by two stout braves, was brought into the full firelight. The White Wolf hurriedly addressed his braves, his words being received with evident gratification. Then he turned to the captive.

"Wal, old man, I don't s'pose you onderstand what I said to these braves, so I'll repeat. You've did us a heap o' mischief—killed a durnation lot o' critters as you wasn't fit to hold a torch to, an', o' course, you've got to take the consequence. 'Tain't much—only a little fun, ye see, an' you kin go free a'ter it's over, 'f ye want to. You see the point o' rock up thar? We'll jist throw a rope over it, then hitch a slip-knot over your thumbs an' haul ye up a little ways. Unfort'nately fer you, the boys hes built a fire under it, but thet'll soon burn down. Understand?" and the White Wolf laughed diabolically as he peered into the hermit's face, while the savages appeared delighted.

"Do your devil's work," coldly replied the hermit, apparently unmoved by the horrible threat. "I am a man—words alone can not frighten me."

"We'll try more'n words, then," angrily snarled Grable, as he made a sign to the savages, then seized the captive.

A rude though stout rope was now produced. It had been manufactured from strips cut from the skins found in the cavern. This was, with considerable difficulty, cast over the point of rock alluded to by the renegade, both ends reaching the floor. Upon one of these a neat slip-knot was made.

"Now tell me whar the young feller hid—Abel Dare," suddenly uttered Grable, stooping forward to peer into the captive's face, a venomous glitter in his eyes.

"I am not a white Indian—a traitor and renegade, to betray my kind. Go seek—mayhap you will find him."

"Better tell—it'll make it easier fer ye, 'f ye do."

"A lie—foolish and bare-faced. You have resolved to kill me, and even if you were inclined to be merciful, these men around would take the job out of your hands. Go on—you will gain nothing from me," coldly replied the hermit.

In his rage Grable struck the captive a brutal blow in the face, the blood trickling from where his heavy fist alighted; but the hermit did not flinch an atom. Half-frantic, Grable cut the bonds that held the captive's arms, and raised both hands above his head, to slip the noose over them. Quick as thought, the hermit wrenched loose from the savages who were holding him, and struck the renegade to the ground. But then he was seized again and held fast, despite his desperate struggles.

Howling with rage, Grable sprung up and plunged a knife in the captive's breast. With a wild cry, Edith sprung forward to arrest the blow. Cursing her, Grable struck her a fierce blow in the face. With a moaning cry, she sunk to the ground.

A wild cry—horrible in its intensity of rage—rung through the cavern, and then a dark form shot through the air, alighting beside Grable, whose throat was clutched with a giant's grip, as he staggered backward, borne to the ground beneath the shock. It was Abel Dare, wrought to madness by seeing his loved one so brutally stricken down.

The savages started back in affright and amazement. At first they believed themselves attacked by something more than mortal man. Thus released, the hermit staggered upon his feet. Then, with a hollow cry, he turned, and rushing forward to the edge of the encampment, he leaped and was gone!

CHAPTER VIII.

A FIERY ORDEAL.

The Wood King did not notice the pause of Abel Dare, nor did he make the discovery that he was alone, until fully a mile had been traversed. Then, as he repeated an unanswered query, he turned around.

The young man was not in sight. Believing him to be close at hand, Boone uttered a low whistle, to hurry him up. But there came no answer. Again and again, with increased volume, the signal rung out; but the result was the same. No answer came to the impatiently listening ears.

Wonderingly Boone began retracing his steps. What could have happened? Surely no serious accident, or he must have been alarmed.

His soliloquy abruptly terminated. A faint sound met his ear that, at first, he thought might be the strayed, but then he knew better. Instead of one pair of feet, there were a full score. The Osages were once more closing upon him.

For a moment the Wood King listened as though undecided what course to pursue. By pressing forward in that one originally pursued, he might possibly escape detection, but it would almost certainly be fatal to Abel Dare, who, ignorant of the crooks and turns of the trails, would easily become bewildered and thus fall an easy prey to the savages. Reasoning thus, Boone struck into a trail that bore abruptly to the right, gliding rapidly along.

For a while he believed he would escape without being sighted by the Osages, but then this hope died out. As he turned an abrupt curve in the trail, he caught sight of a dark figure gliding toward him. There could be no mistaking it; the moonlight was still too clear for that. The figure was that of an Osage warrior.

A collision was inevitable. At nearly the same moment, the savage caught sight of the pale-face, and drawing his tomahawk, flung back his arm for a cast, uttering the shrill yell of discovery. Quick as were his motions, the Wood King anticipated them, and with a spiteful report the long rifle sent its leaden pellet crashing through the Indian's brain, turning the cry of triumph into a shriek of horrible agony. Then a corpse lay quivering upon the rocks.

For a moment Boone almost despaired. In answer to the yell of the now dead savage, cries were echoing from every point of the compass. The wood-ranger was surrounded. Since entering the rocky tract, the Osages had scattered, some entering each one of the numerous trails that branched off from the main one, so that, by Boone's backward movement in quest of Abel Dare, he had glided into their very midst. Death or capture seemed inevitable.

Still the Wood King was not one to tamely submit while a chance remained him. Knowing that the yell and rifle-shot would draw the savages directly to that spot, he darted forward past the dead body, on the faintest chance that this trail was now unoccupied by other than himself.

Scarcely had a hundred yards been traversed ere a shrill whoop rung out from the right, telling that his flight was discovered. Clenching his teeth, Boone darted ahead with all the speed he could bring into play over such a rough trail. Bounding over bowlders with the activity of one in his prime, scrambling up or climbing down an abrupt ascent or descent, the Wood King fled from his enemies, who were now fairly upon his track. A thrill of renewed hope pervaded his being as he became convinced that his enemies were all behind him; that the slain savage had been the only living obstacle in the way of his flight.

Having more than once explored this strange tract of ground, Boone improved every little advantage, losing no time in making useless turns, heading direct for a place of refuge not far distant, where he hoped to elude his persistent pursuers. Evidently the Osages divined his purpose, for they pressed on at reckless speed, more than one coming to grief upon the jagged rocks in their mad haste. Their yells rung out loud and piercing. Boone's brows contracted as he thought of the result should their cries arouse some of the wandering band of foes ahead, and enable them to cut off his flight. Then he smiled grimly at the wild, improbable idea.

The rock-bed was cleared, and the hunted scout darted forward with accelerated speed. A narrow, gravelly tract was passed; then came one of sand, thickly covered with coarse grass. Beyond this the grass grew more rankly, with straggling oak and thorn bushes. Through this Boone darted, heading straight as the crow flies, with the nearest savage two hundred yards behind, now running in stern silence, straining every muscle to the utmost in the endeavor to overtake the fugitive before he could reach the covert for which he was heading.

On through the stiff, stubborn bushes Boone dashed; then another belt of grass lay before him. The end was now near at hand, and he felt invigorated. Again the savages yelled, this time partaking more of chagrin than anticipated triumph. Boone smiled grimly, his head bent forward, his steps carefully calculated.

The nature of the ground changed again. It would give beneath his feet, springy, elastic. Occasionally a few drops of water would be dashed aside. It resembled the edge of a swamp; the mud, though growing soft, was not sticky. The grass began to grow in irregular patches, with black spaces between. Here and there the moonlight was reflected back from water. Still beyond grew a dense wall of something grayish brown. This was the hiding-place toward which Boone had been tending.

In fact it was a large shallow pond, covered with a dense growth of wild-oats, reeds and bushes. The water was nowhere deeper than a man's hight. Amidst this thick-laced growth a fugitive might lie hidden within arm's-length of an enemy, without being seen.

Suddenly Boone raised his head. The yells of his pursuers were echoed back from the opposite side of the pond. Faintly glimmering through the undergrowth he could distinguish a camp-fire. Evidently a party of savages had been resting there until aroused by the shouts of their kindred, and were now spreading out to intercept the game that was afoot.

Even had he not resolved upon it, there was now no other course open to the Wood King but to seek refuge in the pond, and he hastened on, bounding from one tussock to another like a deer in full flight. Suddenly he disappeared from view of the savages who had paused at the edge of the pond. He had sunk down in the water, crawling forward until the dense grass was reached. These he carefully replaced behind him, and then listened intently.

All was still save the rustling of the fresh breeze swaying the grass and reeds. What devil's plot were the savages hatching? Why did they not search for their prey? This course Boone had counted upon their following, feeling sure that while they were thus engaged he could manage to steal away unseen. While wondering, he cautiously loaded his rifle, and then, noiselessly as possible, pushed on toward the middle of the pond.

For half an hour he stood waist deep in the water, anxiously listening for some sound by which he might judge of the enemy's movements, but in vain. But then his face was upturned, and he sniffed quickly at the air. A faint trace of smoke was perceptible—and yet the wind was blowing away from the camp-fire he had seen. Could it be? An involuntary exclamation of horror broke from his lips. Only too plainly he read the truth.

The Indians were setting fire to the reeds and grass!

But would it burn? Eagerly Boone felt of that growing so thickly around him. It cracked and crumbled beneath his hand. It was dry as tinder to within a foot of the water. And now the smoke was thicker and more dense.

Hastily he plunged on, seeking for a spot where was open water, but in vain. The reeds grew everywhere. Then he paused. A warning sound came to his ears. It was the roaring, rushing voice of the devouring element, crying aloud for its victim.

Crushing a handful of the stuff, he placed it upon the pan, then discharged his rifle. A spark caught. Tenderly he blew his breath upon it. It flickered—grew larger—then died out. And the roaring of flames grew louder and nearer, and the smoke was almost unbearable.

Slinging the rifle on his back, Boone cut and slashed at the stout-stemmed grass and reeds, flinging them from him in handfuls, clearing a space around. The sweat rolled from his face—not alone from the violence of his exertions, for the air was now hot and parching—like that of an oven. Already he found it difficult to breathe.

Sinking beneath the surface, he tore at the muddy bottom, scooping up great handfuls, and then daubing it over his head and face. Then he tore off the woolen hunting-shirt and wound it round his head and neck. He could breathe more freely now, since the smoke was excluded. And, too, it shut out the horrible glow that now lighted up the scene, and deadened the sickening roar.

Again and again he dipped beneath the surface to cool his aching temples; then as he felt the intense heat, the falling particles of the reeds and rushes, Boone knew that the fire-fiend was upon him, and inhaling a long breath, he sunk beneath the surface, his head touching the cool, muddy bottom. Clinging to the slimy roots, he lay there until it seemed as though his lungs would burst. Then the long-pent-up breath came forth. For a few moments longer he resisted, then rose to the surface. Though the breath he inhaled seemed blistering his throat, Boone gasped with delight. It was renewed life. But then the heat seemed melting his very brain, scorching the woolen garment that now steamed like a furnace, and again the hunter sunk to the bottom.

Twice was this repeated, then as a cooler current of air struck the shrouded head, he tore the bandage free and glared around. A broad wall of flame was gradually receding. The surface of the pond seemed one living coal. A second glance showed him this was the water-soaked part of the growth, too green to blaze up.

The fiendish yells of the savages came indistinctly to his ears above the crackling roar. He started and bent his ear keenly. Then his face lighted up. From one side there came no yells. It seemed as though the savages had deemed it impossible for the pale-face to live through the fiery ordeal, and had all flocked to cut off his retreat to the opposite side to that on which the fire had been started.

Without reflecting that, notwithstanding the silence, some might have been left to guard this point too, Boone plunged forward, thrusting the glowing stalks down into the water as he proceeded, feeling that this was his only chance of escape. To wait until the fire was out and the smoke-cloud raised from the surface, he knew would be fatal. Then the keen-eyed savages would espy him, when captivity or death must follow; for he was too greatly exhausted to flee for life now.

Hurriedly he pressed forward, too hardly bestead for time to think of using much caution, for he must gain the undergrowth beyond before the flames died out, or be discovered. Gaining the shallow water, he crept forward, crouching low down, with drawn knife, ready to sell his life dearly. But no alarm was raised as he gained the edge of the pond. That side seemed deserted.

With a muttered prayer of thanksgiving, the Wood King pressed on with as much speed as he could extract from his weary, sorely-tasked limbs. At length he sunk down behind the first line of bushes, and glanced back.

The flames had swept the pond clear to the further shore, and were now rapidly dying out. Flitting here and there, he could just discern several human forms. They were the Indian, and he knew, by their actions, that his flight had not been discovered. Still, knowing that his trail would eventually be found and followed, Boone dared not give way to the drowsiness that was stealing over him, and so arose, pressing steadily on until the rock-bed was gained. Here his trail would be lost. Knowing this, he felt that he was saved, and kneeling, rendered thanks to the One who had so wonderfully preserved him.

Yet he dare not halt here for the rest he so greatly needed. He knew that his trail would be followed to the rock-bed, and that thoroughly searched by the savages before they would allow such an enemy to escape. So he wearily pressed on, through the gray light of coming dawn, shaping his course by the knowledge that Lightfoot must be impatiently awaiting his coming at the cave by the Osage.

Clearing the rock-bed, he struck a direct course for the rendezvous. The cool morning breeze greatly revived him, and partially dispelled the drowsiness. Once he paused. There came to his ears the faint sound of yelling, from the far right. Though he knew it not, it was the discovery of Abel Dare by the Osages under Seth Grable.

Half an hour later Boone discovered two smokes: the nearest light and fleecy, the other dark and heavy, arising, as he calculated with a peculiar thrill, from the vicinity of the cave. Was it a signal kindled by Lightfoot to hasten his coming? This interpretation did not satisfy him, though he could think of none other.

Both smokes were before him, almost in a direct line. Hastily advancing to the opposite swell, he crept along until he could look down into the valley. From a small grove of trees beside a tiny creek, arose the smoke. Even as he looked, a body of horsemen filed out into the open ground. A wild cheer broke from his lips, and leaping up, Boone ran forward, waving his hand as a signal.

The party instantly halted and seemed about to turn back into the grove, but then appeared to recognize the comer as a white man. Breathlessly Boone gained their side, but not until he spoke did they recognize him. Black mud had dried upon his face and hair. His skin, what little was visible, was burned to a blister, blackened with smoke. A more deplorable looking object could scarcely be imagined.

Amid their hasty questions, the eyes of Boone were anxiously fixed upon the smoke-column beyond the prairie. Reason told him that Lightfoot was too good a scout to kindle such a beacon when so many enemies roamed through the country. Abel Dare might have done it, but was he there? Boone doubted it.

"Boys," he said, speaking hurriedly, "I believe that smoke means danger to a friend of ours—one true as steel, though his skin is red. I mean Lightfoot, the Kickapoo chief. Will you lend a hand, or must I go alone?"

"Nary 'lone—not much!" cried Jim Fosdick. "You think the reds is at the devil's work over thar—wal, we jest kum out skelp-huntin', an' these 'll do as well 's any others, 'specially as we kin save a fri'nd by wipin' 'em out. What say, boys—be I right?"

Every voice was raised in assent, and then Boone leaped up behind the lightest weight, and gave the word for hard riding. From the next valley they heard rifle-shots coming from the direction of the smoke. Upon the next ridge human voices were borne to his ear; the yelling of exultant savages. And the smoke grew blacker and blacker, rising in a tall, sloping pillar.

The party grew more excited. Knife-points were used as spurs. Snorting with pain and excitement, the horses thundered on at break-neck speed. The prairie was passed, the timber began, the ground grew more broken; but the smoke-column now floated above their heads.

"'Light and tie," cried Boone, leaping to the ground. "We kin go faster now afoot, an' the horses' hoofs would tell the heathen we was comin'."

Rapidly the settlers obeyed, and then hastened across a densely-wooded ridge. From its summit Boone saw that his fear was well-founded. From the hill that crowned the cave, the smoke arose. The red flames were bursting from the hollow tree. And seemingly standing amidst the roaring fire, was a human figure!

Down the hill they glided, across the valley, then up to the last belt of bushes, unheard, unseen by the yelling demons above. As their rifles cracked, a wild cry broke from their lips. The human form leaped out from the tree, its garments ablaze, holding a flaming bow in one hand. Down—down, until it reached the ground, with a dull, sullen thud!

Unheeding the cry in their excitement, the savages broke cover and rushed in a body toward the figure. At that moment the settlers poured in a deadly volley, then charged up the hill, uttering their terrible war-cry.

Over a dozen braves fell—the others seemed petrified with horror. But as the settlers came closer, the survivors turned and fled with all the speed left in their bodies.

In hot pursuit the settlers followed—all but the Wood King. He rushed to the spot where the man had fallen, and tore the still smoking garments away. A groan broke from his lips as he recognized the body. It was that of Lightfoot.

Boone knelt beside the body of his comrade. Then he started abruptly back. A hand moved—glided swiftly to the charred belt, clutching the hot handle of a knife. The chief's eyes opened, a mad fire burning in their depths. He struck viciously at the kneeling form. Boone caught the hand and held it fast.

"Chief—don't you know me—your friend?"

Slowly a change came over the blistered face, the fire softened in his eyes, and the weapon fell to the ground. The mouth opened—a husky gurgle followed. He could not speak. He had breathed the scorching flames too long.

Great tears rolled down the Wood King's face, for he knew now that his friend—tried and true, though with a red skin—was dying. But he dashed them aside, as Lightfoot made a peculiar gesture. One hand traced a circle in the air then touched his own bare and blistered head, afterward motioning toward a dead Osage that lay near.

Boone read the pantomime aright, and shuddered, but he could not refuse the last request of a dying friend. He dragged the Osage near, then averted his face. Lightfoot partially raised his body, and tore the scalp from the gory skull. Then he shook it aloft, a horrible sound parting his lips.

Boone turned quickly. The outcast fell back. He had died while attempting to sound his exultant war-cry.

CHAPTER IX.

BOUND TO THE STAKE.

Snarling with the intense ferocity of some wild beast, Abel Dare fell upon the renegade, burying his fingers deep in the flesh of his throat, shaking, worrying him much as a terrier handles a rat. Had he a weapon, however small, the career of the White Wolf would have ended then and there, for, though a strong man, the maddened lover handled him like a child. Already his tongue protruded, his face blackened.

But then an Osage warrior recovered from the surprise sufficiently to administer a sharp tap upon the back of Abel Dare's head that felled him senseless upon Grable.

Grable staggered to his feet, gasping, rubbing his livid throat, his tongue and eyes gradually assuming their usual position and appearance. Speechless, he made signs that Abel should be firmly pinioned. Edith crept to the side of her lover, as though to shield him from injury with her own person. Cursing bitterly, Seth Grable tore her away.

Grable, having regained his voice, was frightfully enraged. He showered curses the most horrible upon the helpless settler, spitting in his face, buffeting, kicking him unmercifully. A whitish froth tinged his lips—he seemed a madman.

At length he turned and uttered a few hasty words to his followers, and a yell of fiendish delight greeted the speech, as the warriors glided away to execute the order. Grable again crouched down beside the captive, a devilish grin upon his face, as the words parted his lips:

"You heerd me tell the Injuns? But mebbe you don't understand the lingo. Wal, I told 'em to git a lot o' wood an' pile it up down thar at the foot o' the path. Goin' to hev a barbecue—d' y' know what thet means?" and the brute laughed diabolically.

Abel made no reply. He did understand the renegade's meaning, perfectly. He knew that he was doomed to perish horribly at the fire-stake. Though a sickening chill crept over his frame at the thought, he gave no outward sign that the words had made any impression upon him.

Grable eyed him steadily for a moment, then turned hastily away, as though afraid to trust his passions. He hated this man so intensely that a single blow, though it carried death with it, would not satisfy his revenge. Afraid to tempt himself, he strode hastily to the cave opening.

"Abel—Abel Dare," faintly uttered a low, quavering voice.

"Edith—thank God! I feared you were dead!"

"No—better that I was, perhaps. But you, oh! Abel, why did you act so rashly, when you were once safely beyond the reach of these demons?" and Edith groaned.

"I saw him raise his coward hand and strike you—I saw you fall as though dead, and it made a madman of me. I thought only of avenging your murder, and—"

"So got caught yourself—'zactly so, my children," added the harsh voice of Grable, as he advanced and seized Abel by the collar. "But you've talked a-plenty fer now. Don't be impatient, little 'un; I'll come fer you in a minnit."

He dragged the captive over the ground toward the outer rim of the camp, which was in the rocky hollow from which the passage started. Near this outer boundary of the spot was a deep rift or pit in which to fall was to go to doom. Gaining the ledge, Grable lifted Dare upon his feet, pointing one hand down to the plain below. The Indians were hastily gathering fuel from among the rocks to the left, where it had fallen down the cliff from the trees above. A considerable pile was already collected.

"More'n enough to roast you to a turn, anyhow," chuckled Grable. "I put it down thar so the smell won't bother my new squaw in thar. We'll set here, looking at ye. So screw up your courage—'member a woman 'll be lookin' on."

Abel bit his lips hard, and threw all the strength of his frame into one effort to burst his bonds; but in vain. The stout skin did not betray its trust.

"No use, man—not a bit. You're booked fer—"

Why did Seth Grable pause so suddenly and turn his eyes down upon the plain? Why did the savages drop their loads of wood and dash toward the trail leading upward to the cavern? Why did Abel Dare utter such an exultant cry?

Because the quick, heavy thud of horses' hoofs beating the turf in full gallop, came to their ears. Because a body of horsemen, nearly one score strong, burst into view around the spur of the mound, charging with a hoarse cheer—their rifles and pistols playing rapidly upon the fleeing forms of the surprised savages, who had left their weapons within the cavern, laying out a full dozen of the dusky warriors, writhing in death-agony, or lying motionless as they fell, their blood staining the white shingle.

At their head rode one—tall, muscular, his face and long gray hair stained with black swamp mud; yet through this disguise Abel Dare recognized the Wood King, Daniel Boone! Loud and clear, above the tumult, he cried:

"Help! for the love o' God! Edith Mordaunt is held captive up in this—" But then his speech was abruptly checked as Grable hurled him heavily to the rocky ledge, at the same moment sinking out of sight himself.

But the words were heard and understood. The captive settler had been seen and recognized. And with a simultaneous yell, the borderers sprung forward, abandoning their horses, treading hard upon the heels of the fleeing red-skins as they scrambled up the narrow trail.

Cursing horribly, Grable dragged Dare into the passage along with Edith; then seizing an armful of weapons, both muskets and bows and arrows, he darted back to the ledge, just as the foremost Osage gained it. A few hasty words—then the White Wolf leveled a musket, and fired at the leading pale-face. A deep groan—then the slain man fell back upon his comrades, momentarily checking their advance. Thus encouraged, the Indians followed the example set them, and rained arrows and bullets down upon the foe. Without means to return the compliment, the settlers consulted prudence and hastily retreated, seizing their rifles and seeking cover behind the bowlders, while the savages yelled loudly in triumph. And above all rung the taunting laugh of the renegade.

The Osages seemed intoxicated with their victory. At that moment one word from the White Wolf would have sent them headlong down the hill, charging upon the pale-faces. But Grable did not utter the word—nor did he even think of it. Besides being a rascal, he was a coward. However, their dance was abruptly terminated, as a single report came from below, and a savage dropped to the ledge, shot through the brain. The next moment not a living soul was to be seen.

Five minutes later a strong voice from the plain called out:

"Hellow, you fellers up thar! kin any o' you talk white man's lingo? 'F so, step out an' show yourself."

"Thet you may hev the fun o' takin' a crack at me, eh, Jim Fosdick?" returned Grable from the ledge.

"No—honest Injun. We want to see 'f we can't come to some sort o' tarms. Show up—we won't tetch ye."

"Wait a minit, an' I will."

Grable hastened to where the two captives lay bound, and stooping raised Edith in his arms. An angry cry broke from Abel's lips, and he strove desperately to break free, but in vain. The next moment Seth Grable stood upon the ledge, holding the maiden before him in such a manner as to perfectly shield his body; and laughing, he demanded:

"Now what ye want? Here I be—talk quick, though."

"What'll ye give for us to let ye go free?" asked Fosdick.

"You let us go free? Why, ye pesky fool, we're two to one now. You cain't keep us here one minnit, 'f so be we want to git away," sneered Grable.

"Lyin's cheap, or you'd starved to death long ago. But never mind thet now. The matter's jist this. You're up thar, we're down here. Yon cain't come down unless we say so. We've got nineteen rifles—sixteen men to han'le 'em, sence you rubbed out three. We kin pick ye off one by one as fast as ye putt fut over the edge. An' it's either that or starvin'. They ain't much game up thar, I don't reckon. Then you'll sca'cely drown'd yourself, 'ca'se water's too sca'ce. Thar it is in a bullet-mold. How d' y' like it?"

"Even s'posin' it was all true—which it ain't by a durned sight, mind ye—it'll be nice fun to think thet while you was starvin' us, you was doin' the same to your fri'nds; to this gal an' Abel Dare."

"It wouldn't be very scrumtious, I know," coolly returned Fosdick, "but then, sich is life. 'F you fellers hold out, bein' durned contrairy fools, why then they's got to suffer, thet's all. But I said tarms, a bit ago. We want to give ye a chaince. Send down the boy an' gal, safe an' sound, an' we'll 'low ye till mornin' to git to a safe spot. Mind ye, 'tain't 'ca'se we love ye any, but we don't want to hurt the boy an' gal, if so be we kin help it."

"S'pose I say I won't do it?" sullenly replied Grable.

"Then we'll do one of two things," abruptly cried the Wood King. "We'll either take you by storm, or lie here until we starve you out. Now decide, quick!"

"I must talk 'th my braves fust," and Grable stepped beyond view of those below, his face corrugated.

The consultation was long and animated. Edith listened to their words, though not comprehending the harsh dialect, and closely watched the expression of each speaker. Her heart sunk deeply as the braves followed each other. A new hope, faint though it was, had sprung up in her bosom at the settlers' demand, but now it was destroyed. She knew that the savages had refused to accept the terms offered them.

"Ye see, pet, ye're mine, beyond all hope," laughed the White Wolf, as he again raised Edith before him.

"I'd rather die then—"

"It's like you will; but then you've got to be mine fust. You cain't overjump thet nohow." Then adding, in a raised voice: "Hellow, you fellers! down thar!—our answer is, jest do your level durnedest. But, mark my words. The very fust lick you strike at us, 'll be the death o' these captives. We've got a big fire a-burnin' in thar. We'll jest rake it out here, tie the boy an' gal together an' pitch 'em on the coals an' let 'em sizzle right afore your eyes. Mind ye, now, I'm talkin' right from the book—it's swore to."

"This is your last answer, then?" sternly demanded Boone.

"With a few words more, yas. You jist take your critters an' ride straight away east until you git to the fur-hill whar the two trees grows side by side. You 'light thar. A'ter thet you kin do jist as you please. Come back a'ter us, if so be you think best. We'll be out thar in the open, then."

"And if we refuse?"

"Jest what I told ye afore. Strike one lick, and you kill your fri'nds. We've got the deadwood on ye thar!"

"Give us ten minutes to think it over," added Boone.

Grable granted the request, and then returned with Edith to where Abel Dare lay. Here he began taunting the young man with all the ingenuity of a foul-mouthed rascal, until called hastily away by a shout from the savages without. Rushing to the entrance, he found his braves greatly excited. In a moment he learned the truth. The settlers were about to attack them, despite his sanguinary threats.

Spreading out, holding their rifles primed and cocked, in readiness for an instantaneous shot, the settlers were approaching the sloping trail. A few yards from its base six of them halted, their weapons covering the ledge. Two men glided up to each of the six, laying their rifles at their feet, then making a rush for the mound. These last had their knives and all the pistols belonging to the party. The other six were to protect them while clambering up.

Several Indians rushed to where a good-sized bowlder lay, rolling it to the edge. Two rifles cracked—two Osages dropped, shot through the brain, having carelessly exposed their persons. The scaling party shouted exultantly. Those who had fired dropped the empty weapons and seized fresh ones, once more covering the ledge.

A savage drops flat upon his face, then pushes the bowlder forward by main strength. It rests upon the edge—another effort, and it topples over. A cry comes from the foremost man, now nearly at the top of the trail.

It is Boone. The next behind him is Jim Fosdick. The latter bows his head to the rock, clutching the sides of the hollow path. The feet of Boone rests upon his broad shoulders. His open hands are flung up and meet the bowlder. A moment of horrible suspense. If his muscles were unequal to the task, their fate was sealed.

A desperate effort that causes the whole human line to quiver and shake—then the bowlder is turned aside and goes thundering down the mound, dashing far out upon plain, its jagged points stained only with blood from the palms of the Wood King. Loud yell those below—the Osages howl with baffled fury.

The White Wolf shouts a few words, then rushes into the cavern. The Osages clutch their weapons and spring forward. The rifles of the marksmen below speak rapidly, each bullet sounding a death-knell. A savage kneels down and aims a vicious blow at the Wood King with a hatchet. His arm raises—a pistol flashes—the Indian falls forward, his skull shattered to atoms, his hot blood besprinkling Boone's face.

A yell, horrible and unearthly, comes echoing from the passage into the hills behind them. Then a wild, maniacal laugh. Instinctively the combatants pause, wondering, awe-stricken.

Two Osages dart into the darkness; they are sworn friends to the White Wolf. They fear he has met harm. That thought conquers their superstition, redoubles their courage.

Passing the fire, they pause. Where the captives laid, there is only one body now—that of a man. They reach its side, stoop over it—start back in horror. It is the gory form of the White Wolf!

And from out the gloom beyond comes the horrible laughter.

CHAPTER XI.

THE BOWELS OF THE EARTH.

Edith Mordaunt and Abel Dare lay side by side upon the rocky floor of the passage into which they had been borne for safe-keeping. They discovered that their prison was indeed a rocky chamber out of which the passage led, both into the outer air and into the hill. In that chamber Seth Grable had left them just as he was startled by the cries of his comrades, as the settlers began their desperate attack. And with beating hearts, whose throbs were almost suffocating, the captives listened, hoping, praying that the pale-faces might overcome the Indians, and rescue them from what, otherwise, was almost certain death.

Believing themselves alone, they gave free expression to their hopes and fears, little dreaming that human ears drank in their every word, that human eyes were even then upon them, as they lay just within the firelight. Then, with a step that made no sound, a tall figure glided from out the darkness and stood over the wondering captives. And well they might feel surprise, for the hermit stood before them in the flesh, apparently unhurt!

A loud cry came to their ears from without, followed by the rapid tramp of feet. Some one was approaching from the outer air. Stooping, the hermit severed the cords that bound the lovers, at the same time warning them to lie still. Then he sprung back into the shadow.

The White Wolf, a moment later, bounded into the fire-lighted circle, his features horribly distorted, the devil painted in each bloodshot eye. His intentions are easy told. He intended dragging the captives to the ledge, and there expose them to view of the marksmen below, while some of his braves knelt close behind them to pick off the attackers. He knew that the settlers would not wantonly sacrifice their friends, and depended upon that to free him from this new peril.

"Come—them cussed hounds out yender hev spoken yer doom. Better lose a squaw than a life, though I hate to see ye rubbed out, gal," muttered Grable, bending down.

"We'll live to see you die!" gritted Abel, his hands clutching the renegade by the throat, then hurling him with violence to the ground.

A yell of terror broke from his lips, echoed back by a cry so horrible that he glared around in amazement. Then a shadow sprung forward. The hermit stood over him. The firelight without flickered up—there could be no mistake. Grable shuddered with a nameless awe. There seemed something supernatural in these abrupt vanishings and reappearances.

"Mercy—don't kill me!" he gasped, as the bright glimmer of steel filled his eyes. "I didn't mean you no harm when—"

"A dog you've lived—a dog you die!" gritted the hermit.

Then the long knife-blade descended twice, burying its length in the heaving breast of the craven wretch. A horrible yell of agony—a shrill laugh of diabolical glee—then the hermit sprung to his feet.

From without came other sounds—the savages would soon be there to investigate the alarm. Unarmed save with a knife, the pale-faces could expect to do little. Knowing this, Abel seized Edith and clasped her firmly to his breast, saying:

"You know the crooks and turns of this place—lead on, then, before those devils are upon our backs. Quick!"

"True, she must be saved; for you and I, it matters little. Follow me—tread carefully, and keep in my tracks. You have seen a specimen of what the cavern contains, but there is more. Let the heathen follow us if they dare; there will be wailing and gnashing of teeth in the lodges of their people!" and again the wild, almost maniacal laugh of the hermit rung out, reaching the ears of the savages, causing them to glare hurriedly around, with a vague expectation of beholding some supernatural horror.

Into the bowels of the hills—across a chasm spanned by a bridge, taking a passage that led sharply to the right, the hermit led the way, on through the darkness, never once faltering, though at more than one point a single misstep would have ended in hurling the trio down to inevitable destruction.

On he led, Abel following, Edith close clasped to his breast. Still on, winding deviously, now in one direction, now in nearly its opposite, until Abel felt his brain grow unsteady and commence to whirl.

"Now you can wait here until I return. Do not attempt to leave—the ground is full of pitfalls made by nature."

"But should—if you should not return as you expect?"

"True—I forgot. Give me your hand. There—that is clay. By loosening that you will find a passage that will lead you out upon the hill. Dig twenty feet and you will come to a rock. Press hard against it, with your shoulder, and you will roll it out. Here is a knife with which you can dig. But don't attempt that for at least half an hour. There is no danger of the heathen reaching you here, for, even if they attempt it, I shall be in the way—and one man, with a knowledge of this trail, is equal to a thousand in open ground. Remember—wait half an hour."

The hermit rapidly retraced his steps. He was now totally unarmed, but felt little concern on that score. He possessed a knowledge that was equal to an armory.

Pausing upon the bridge of rock, the hermit glared out upon the swooning renegade, over whom stooped two braves, seeking to check the flow of blood that saturated his garments. A devilish light deepened in the hermit's eyes. He saw that the renegade still lived—possibly might recover, and a bitter curse hissed through his grating teeth as he groped around the edge of the rock with his hand.