THE WOOD KING.

CHAPTER I.

LIGHTFOOT AND THE WOOD VETERAN.

Crack—crack!

Though faint and far away, there could be no mistaking these sharp, spiteful reports for other than the voice of rifles. The sound was no uncommon one for that region, which is even yet noted for its quantity of game; half a century since "the Osage Country" was truly a hunter's paradise.

A man was crossing the Osage river, at a ford, and though near the middle of the stream, the water barely reached his knees. As the twin reports came echoing across the eastern forest, the hunter abruptly paused, bending his head, listening intently.

The rifle-shots alone could scarcely have occasioned the surprise written so plainly upon the man's features, since this was hunting-ground common to all—red as well as white. He himself had fired more than once that day.

But closely following the reports came a series of short, peculiar yells—the cries so strongly resembling the yelping of a cur-dog when in hot pursuit of a rabbit, that an Indian sends forth when closing rapidly upon a fleeing foe.

The hunter could not mistake this sound, nor its full significance. For nearly half a century it had been familiar to his ear. Many a time had it rung out upon his own trail, as he fled for dear life through the forests of the "dark and bloody ground."

"Thar's mischief afoot—can it be that the varmints have r'ailly took to the war-path?" he muttered, glancing keenly around. "They're makin' this way—it's the only ford for miles—reckon I'd better hunt cover!"

The alarm came from the point toward which the hunter's face had been turned, and as he listened, the quick, sharp yells grew plainer and more distinct. Turning, he rapidly retreated to the shore he had recently left.

As he neared cover, it became evident that the hunter was white; though his face was deeply bronzed, almost copper-hued, where the stout jean trowsers had been rolled above his knees, the skin showed clear and white.

Nearing cover, he turned and listened. All was still; the yells no longer echoed through the forest. It seemed as though the deed was done.

Bending forward, the hunter was clearly revealed by the bright rays of the noonday sun. That he was old, the long, snowy locks that fell below his rude skin cap plainly evidenced. Yet the weight of years seemed to sit lightly upon his frame. His step was light yet firm, his motions quick and supple. The rude garb of gray jeans only half-concealed his great muscular development. Altogether, he was what one might well term an awkward customer to meet in a hand-to-hand struggle, despite his age.

"No, they hain't got him yet, whoever he is," muttered the veteran.

Upon the crest of a hill, full quarter of a mile beyond the river, his keen glance detected the form of a human being. Only for a moment; then the tree-tops hid him from view.

Scarcely had he disappeared, when the hill-top was again occupied, this time by a full score of men, apparently the pursuers. Again the sharp, yelping cries came to the veteran's ears.

"It's warm for a footrace, so I'd best take to cover. Lucky the cave's handy."

Turning, the veteran hunter strode rapidly through the shallow water, his bare feet leaving no impress upon the gravelly bed. Two score yards above his position a dark opening appeared in the river-bank, that, though low at the ford, here rose abruptly into a considerable hill.

Holding rifle and powder-horn above his head, the hunter suddenly sunk down and swam rapidly into the opening. Just before the cave-mouth the water was several yards in depth.

Pausing just within the entrance, the hunter turned his face toward the eastern shore. He had not long to wait.

A man dashed through the undergrowth, sprung down the sandy bank, and ran rapidly across the level bar, stumbling at the water's-edge, falling at full length. From his cover, the hunter could see a knife-blade flash in the sunlight, and then the fugitive cast from him the severed part of an arrow that had pierced his leg.

Freed from this incumbrance, he arose and dashed through the shallow water toward the western shore. But several precious moments had been lost, and, with yells of vindictive exultation, nearly a score of savages sprung out upon the river-bank.

The fugitive heard their cries, and glanced back over his shoulder. He saw several of them with bended bows, and suddenly flung himself forward at full length in the water, at this point about knee-deep.

His ruse was successful. The barbed shafts passed over his head, burying themselves harmlessly in the sparkling water.

A loud voice from the bank gave utterance to several hasty words, and as though in obedience to it, half a dozen braves sprung toward the water, the remainder bending their bows ready for instant use in case the fugitive should arise to continue his flight.

With eager interest the white hunter watched this scene, though his countenance showed evident relief when he saw that the fugitive as well as pursuers were Indians. Though far from being one of that class termed Indian-haters, he bore the race little love, for they had dealt his heart more than one crushing blow.

Even at that distance, he could distinguish peculiarities that marked the pursuers as Osages, once the all-powerful rulers of that vast tract of country. Whether or no the fugitive belonged to the same tribe, he could not tell, owing to his so suddenly burying all but head and shoulders in the water.

Eagerly he watched the result. He saw a sudden movement of the hunted red-skin's arms. At the same moment the foremost savage flung aloft his hands, and fell backward, a feathered shaft quivering deep in his brain.

With yells of rage the Osages upon the bank let fly a shower of arrows, while the others dashed into the shallow water. The hunter's heart beat fast as he saw the fugitive disappear beneath the surface. He thought him dead.

But not so. With his feet braced against the gravelly bed, he had impelled his body through the water a full dozen yards, the arrows falling harmlessly in his wake.

Again his arms rose—once more the sharp twang of the bowstring sounded. Again the death-yell of the Osage rung out upon the air—again his comrades yelled furiously, and then the entire party sprung forward.

The fugitive rose to his feet and uttering a single cry, dashed toward the western shore. It was a peculiar yell—the sharp, shrill war-cry of the Kickapoos.

A little cry broke from the hunter's lips as he heard this defiant shout. He recognized it—and more; he recognized the fugitive for a true and tried friend!

A peculiar cry broke from his lips—low, yet clear and penetrating. It met the ear of the Kickapoo, and he perceptibly faltered, casting a swift glance along the now near shore. The Osages also heard the signal, for they slackened their pace, seemingly fearful lest they should be drawn into an ambush.

The hunter's fingers still lingered at his lips, his gaze roving over the enemy. The odds were long—at least ten to one. It seemed as though nothing but death could follow his attempt to aid the fugitive.

Yet the signal was uttered, and as with renewed life, the Kickapoo dashed through the water toward the dark opening. He knew that there at least one friend awaited him.

The Osage at this ford is narrow; but little if any over a hundred yards in width. Then a very few moments carried the Kickapoo to the edge of the deep pool before the cave entrance.

"Come in, chief," guardedly called out the old hunter, as the savage sunk down into the water. "The varmints are bethinkin' themselves of their we'pons ag'in. Down—down, chief!"

A volley of arrows shot toward the cave, but the Kickapoo quickly dove, and the hunter was shielded by a point of rock. The missiles pattered harmlessly around.

Then as the Osages splashed rapidly forward, the rifle of the hunter spoke. For the third time within as many minutes a death-yell broke the air, and the clear water was stained with the life-blood of an Osage warrior.

With laughable celerity the survivors scattered and buried themselves in the water, barely keeping their noses above the surface, dreading a volley from the cave. Nor was their chagrin lessened by hearing the taunting cry of the Kickapoo echo out from the dark opening in the bank.

A low, hearty laugh greeted the fugitive as he rose beside the old hunter, who was now rapidly recharging his rifle. Driving home the leathered bullet, the white man remarked:

"Well, chief, the varmints hunted you close. But why is it? The Kickapoos and Osages have long been friends."

"Yeh—friends now—all but Lightfoot—he en'my. Osage dogs put dust in Kickapoos' eyes. Mek all blind—mek dig up hatchet to strike the painted post. Osage say blood is good—Kickapoo say take plenty white scalps. Lightfoot he say no. Den Osage chief he say red dog go follow his white master. Lightfoot is a chief—he is a man. The words were yet hot on the lips of Huspah, when he died. See! his scalp is here," and the Kickapoo fingered the ghastly trophy that hung at his girdle.

"You rubbed the chief out, then, when his braves were lookin' on?" asked the old hunter, evidently understanding the dialect into which the savage had unconsciously glided, though at first using imperfect English.

Lightfoot rapidly recounted the events that had made him an outcast and hunted fugitive, while the eyes of both kept close watch upon the movements of the savages beyond.

The Pottawatomies, Iowas, Foxes, Sauks and Kickapoos were growing uneasy at the constantly increasing strength of the white settlements, more especially of that section then known as the "Boone's Lick Country"—now Howard county. In 1812 a plot was formed for a general uprising, but was discovered in time to be foiled. Since then there had been occasional skirmishing, with slight losses upon either side. But now—in the spring of 1814—another and more dangerous plot was formed. As he listened to the words of the Kickapoo chief, Daniel Boone—for he was the old hunter—felt that the crisis was at hand.

The chiefs of the different tribes had gathered at the Kickapoo village, and at the council every voice but that of Lightfoot was raised for war. His stubborn resistance raised the ire of Huspah, the Osage, who called him a dog of the pale-faced invaders. The next instant he fell dead, cloven to the chin by Lightfoot's tomahawk.

The council seemed transfixed with surprise and horror at this bold act, and untouched Lightfoot scalped his fallen enemy and darted from the council-lodge, knowing that nothing but instant flight could save him from a horrible and disgraceful death.

Pursuit was made, and for nearly a score miles the Kickapoo fled with the avengers of blood treading close upon his heels. Twice he was wounded, else he would have distanced his enemies, for the name he bore had not been idly bestowed.

"It's unlucky our being cooped up here, just now," muttered Boone, uneasily. "It's big news you've told me, chief, and the settlers don't suspect thar danger. If the red-skins strike to-night, I'm dub'ous this'll be a black day for us."

"Mebbe not strike so soon, now Huspah dead—so mus' choose 'nudder chief to lead 'em."

"He was the head one, then?"

"Yeh."

A movement among the enemy now put a pause to the conversation. The dark dots upon the river's surface were cautiously retreating toward the further shore, in obedience to a peculiar signal from one of the number, whose face, washed free of paint by the water, now showed white and clear.

"He white Injun—Osage call him White Wolf," said Lightfoot, in answer to a look of inquiry from Boone.

"Seth Grable!"

The words came hissingly through the tight-clenched teeth of the old hunter, and a stern fire filled his eyes. Evidently he bore the renegade little love.

His rifle was cocked and leveled, but as though suspecting some such message, the white Indian took good care not to expose his precious person. Creeping behind a sand ridge, he gained the woods in safety.

As the savages reached the forest, they uttered a loud yell, which was echoed back from the western shore. Boone started and frowned. This showed him the impossibility of carrying out the plan that was even then shaping itself in his mind. The cave could not be left now. They must wait until the friendly shadow of night settled over the earth.

But few words passed between the two scouts. Yet Boone was given ample cause for anxiety, aside from his personal danger. Lightfoot believed that an attack was to be made simultaneously upon all the white settlements in the Osage Country. That very night might witness the carnival of blood.

The hours rolled on, the sun steadily sunk in the west, until hidden behind the tree-dotted hills, and the shadows darkened the surface of the gently flowing river. Within the cave-mouth crouched the two scouts, scarce breathing a word, their weapons ready for instant use, their every sense fully upon the alert. Yet no sound from without told of the proximity of foemen. All was silent save for the hum of insects, the chirping of birds, the splash of some fish as it sportively leaped into the air, or now and then the shrill, piercing scream of the great hawk that slowly circled above the scene.

But then, like magic, all was changed.

The water swept boldly around the upper edge of the cave entrance—the side where Lightfoot was stationed. The Indian suddenly uttered a sharp hiss, bending his strong bow.

The water no longer flowed smoothly. Numerous bubbles dotted the surface. The depths were discolored by sand and mud.

A dark object parted the surface, darting rapidly into the mouth of the cave. The long hair, the draggled plumes, the dusky face were those of an Osage.

The bow of the Kickapoo, bent nearly double, relaxed, the feathered shaft sunk deep into the low brow of the savage. A stifled shriek—then the body sunk below the surface, dyeing the water red with the tide of life.

Like magic the space before the cave appeared filled with heads, as the maddened Osages swam rapidly forward, clutching their knives, their tomahawks, thirsting for the blood of their daring enemies.

Loud and reverberating the Wood King's rifle spoke, sounding the death-knell of the foremost savage, who sprung half out of the water, casting a long, glittering blade full at the hunter's heart. It was a dying effort, and the weapon scarce penetrated the thick woolen frock.

Lightfoot plied his bow rapidly, crouching back upon the shelf, sending unseen death in swift succession into the crowded mass of his foes. With knife in either hand, Boone stood in the water waist-deep, beating back the desperate Osages with the strength and vigor of renewed youth.

Though brief, the struggle was desperate and bloody. The Osages fought against more than mortal foes. The water whirled swiftly round in the strong eddy before the cave. Fighting with this, they gained a foothold, only to be dashed back by the scouts, dead or wounded.

A few moments thus—then, as by one accord, the Osages sunk down beneath the water's surface and vanished from their enemies' sight. That this was no subtle ruse, the yells of baffled rage, that soon afterward arose from below, plainly told.

"You're safe, chief?" hastily uttered Boone, emerging from the water, panting heavily.

"Yeh—me all right. You hurt?"

"No—only a scratch. But come—this is our time. We must git out o' here afore the varmints screw their courage up for another lick."

Lightfoot grunted, without speaking, but the Wood King understood him, and smiled quietly. He knew the cave secrets better than the Kickapoo did.

"Easy, chief. I know a way out that they never dream of. 'Tis no true scout that runs his head into a hole with only one opening. Give me the end of your bow—so. Now follow me carefully."

Grasping one end of the bow, Boone retreated into the cave, proceeding with the confidence of one knowing every inch of the ground to be traversed. For a few yards the floor continued level and smooth; then there came an abrupt ascent, over what seemed irregular steps cut in the hard clay. This, however, was the work of nature, not that of man.

Boone paused, with a grim chuckle. As Lightfoot gained his side, the veteran said:

"Look up—what do you see?"

The Kickapoo obeyed. Far above his head shone a faint light, partially intercepted by gently waving leaves. A dimly twinkling star told him the truth. Then a cloud shot over this gleam.

"Fix yourself for a tough climb, chief. It's up the inside of a tree we must go. You'll need all your hands and feet," cried Boone, securing his rifle upon his back.

Lightfoot now understood all. Boone had not sought shelter in the cave without knowing how he was to get out of it. And yet this den had often been explored by himself. How had he missed noting this strange passage?

Easily explained. A month or more previously Boone had shot a wild-turkey as it sat upon the tree. It lodged, and, aided by the thickly-clustering grape-vines that shrouded the gnarled trunk, he ascended for his game. It had fallen into the hollow. Aided by a supple vine, he descended into the shell. The bottom gave way beneath his feet, precipitating him into the cave. Thus the discovery was made that was now to open to them the road to freedom once more.

Carefully feeling around, Boone soon secured the severed end of the grape-vine, and then began the ascent. This was difficult, since the hollow of the tree was barely large enough to admit the passage of a human body, and little assistance could be given by the feet, since the knees could only be bent a trifle.

Still, though age and sorrow had sapped his strength, the Wood King raised himself to the top of the trunk, where he clung, panting and exhausted, shaking the vine as a signal to Lightfoot. As the vine tightened Boone peered keenly downward.

Though the tree-top had been broken off at some thirty feet from the ground, its limbs were still vigorous, rising far above the stub, thickly covered with leaves and twigs. Parting them, Boone gazed downward and around, as well as the increasing gloom would permit.

The hill was nearly bare of trees, with but scant underbrush, a notable exception to the larger hills that rose around, in this respect, since they were densely wooded.

All was still below. Boone could hear nothing to rouse his suspicions, and he believed that their trail was as yet unobstructed.

Beyond a doubt the Osages were ignorant of this unique passage, and so would only think of guarding the cave by the river side. It was but natural to think that, under cover of the darkness, the two scouts would endeavor to escape there by swimming and diving, and their whole attention would be turned toward frustrating this.

Thus Boone reasoned, and events proved that he was right.

Lightfoot completed the ascent easily, and then Boone led the way down the matted mass of grape-vines, using every caution to avoid making any noise that might alarm the Osages. Five minutes later the scouts stood side by side at the foot of the tree.

"Come," muttered Boone, "we must strike out for our friends. They don't dream of the danger brewin'."

"Mus' go tell Yellow-hair fust," doggedly replied Lightfoot.

Yellow-hair, as the Kickapoo called her, was the only daughter of Edward Mordaunt, who, on one of his hunting-trips, had found the Kickapoo senseless, almost dead, beside the body of a panther. With a kindness almost foreign to the borderer in general, Mordaunt carried the savage to his cabin, where Edith and her mother nursed him back to life. By this act of kindness they gained his undying gratitude, and it was mainly his love for them that induced him to fight against the Indian uprising, since they too were numbered among those to be massacred.

"Mordaunt has bin the Osages' fri'nd—surely they won't hurt him?"

"Injun don't know fri'nd now—only see white scalp. Kill, sure—all but Yellow-hair. White Wolf say she be his squaw!"

"The black-hearted devil! But never mind. The time 'll come when he'll stand afore my rifle, an' then he won't need no more squaws," gritted Boone, with an anger that he rarely displayed.

"No—his scalp Lightfoot's," doggedly replied the Kickapoo.

Boone made no reply, but crouching low down, glided noiselessly down the hillside furthest from the river, followed by the chief. Reaching the bottom, they entered a narrow valley, intending to round the large hill before again taking to the water. The settlements were, for the most part, upon the other side of the Osage.

The sky was partially obscured by broken clouds, driving here and there in angry confusion, betokening a storm. An occasional flash of lightning would herald the deep rumbling of thunder, and quicken the footsteps of the scouts.

Half an hour after emerging from the hollow tree, the bank of the Osage was reached, and with his rifle secured upon a log, which he impelled before him, Boone swam the river, with Lightfoot beside him. Scarce pausing for breath, they plunged into the forest, heading for Mordaunt's cabin.

"Hooh!" suddenly uttered Lightfoot, pausing and bending his ear as the fresh breeze bore the sound of voices faintly to him.

"The varmints have found out we've gone," and Boone laughed grimly.

"Lose us, den t'ink oders—tek scalp now, sure. White Wolf t'ink 'bout Yellow-hair, now," muttered Lightfoot, uneasily.

"Lead on, chief. I'm old, but I can stand a little brush, I reckon, 'f pushed," retorted Boone.

The two scouts pushed on through the tangled forest at a pace truly marvelous, considering the gloom. And for full an hour they advanced without pausing, until the edge of a small clearing was reached, near the center of which stood a small, rude log-cabin.

"They've gone to bed," muttered Boone, vexedly, for time was precious now; an hour lost or gained might be either life or death to them all.

Edward Mordaunt's voice rung out sharply in answer to Boone's hail, demanding who was there, but a word from the old scout quickly set his fears at rest. The scouts entered, barring the door behind them.

"Wake the women, Ed, an' tell 'em to make haste. You've got to make tracks for a safer spot than this. Do it—you kin take my word for it—I'll explain while they're riggin' up," hastily uttered the Wood King.

Mordaunt obeyed without question, for he had long known the old hunter. Yet he could scarcely believe that his peril was so great, for he had ever treated the Osages with kindness. Still he was not foolhardy enough to close his eyes to the truth.

He hastily prepared his arms and ammunition, with a small bundle of food. While thus occupied, the inner door opened and two women emerged; mother and daughter.

Lightfoot glided forward and knelt before them, bowing his proud head, a softened light filling his eyes. He seemed about to speak, but then suddenly turned his head.

A rapid footstep sounded just without the door, and then a loud rap followed. Once, twice—then a clear voice shouting:

"Up—up, and away! The heathen come with fire and sword—they thirst for blood! Away—flee, while yet there is time!"

Another thundering knock, then the footfalls rapidly retreated, dying away in the night.

CHAPTER II.

THE WOODLAND TRAGEDY.

"The crazy man!" cried Boone.

"The Hermit!" echoed Mordaunt.

Lightfoot stood silent, though making a rapid sign with his thumb, that might have represented a cross. An uneasy expression rested upon his strongly-marked features.

"It comes in good time," muttered Boone, drawing a long breath, "be he devil or white man. The red-skins be afoot an' may be upon us at any minnit. All ready?"

"But is not this running blindly upon danger—is there not more safety here behind these walls than out in the open woods?"

"No—you stay here, the sun of to-morrow will never shine for you. How long could you keep the varmints out? One shove from a stout pair of shoulders an' down goes the door. You see now the truth of my words—none but a fool thrusts his scalp into the hands of a Injun."

"But the Osages seemed pleased at my confidence in them. Never an angry word has passed between us!"

"And Seth Grable?"

Mordaunt started. This was a danger he had overlooked. He knew that the half-wild hunter was now a bitter enemy, who had sworn revenge.

Grable had made his mark, deep and bloody, on the pages of Missouri's border history. With Indian blood in his veins—some say a half-breed—he united the worst passions of both races, without the slightest of their virtues. Yet, with at least half a dozen Indian squaws, he had demanded the hand of Edith Mordaunt, as the price of his protection and friendship. Losing sight of prudence, the settler administered a thorough thrashing, ending by kicking the half-breed off his clearing.

"True, old man—but what are your plans?"

"First, we'll strike out for Caughlands. With them we kin hold our own ag'in' the varmints, bein' as the cabin is strong. 'Twon't be long afore my boy, Nathan, 'll hear of the fuss, an' then the varmints 'll have to hunt their holes."

"They suspect nothing. Abel was here this evening."

"Oh, boys will be boys, 'specially when there's gals in the same box. But, never mind, Edith," and Boone turned to the blushing maiden, "Abie's a good lad, an' you might go further an' fare wuss."

"Too much talk," sharply interposed Lightfoot, who had been fidgeting uneasily for several moments.

"Right, chief. You know the trail—lead the way. Ed an' I'll see to the women."

First extinguishing the dim light, the party cautiously emerged from the cabin, closing the door behind them. Gliding across the clearing, they entered the forest. The trail led over a tolerably level tract of ground, densely wooded, the hills being small and widely scattered.

The storm threatened to break at any moment. The leaden masses of clouds had united, shutting out the stars and moon. All below was dark—an intense, almost palpable gloom. As the fugitives threaded the forest in single file along the narrow trail, though keeping within arm's-length, the keenest eye could do no more than dimly distinguish the figure immediately before it.

As though endowed with cat-like vision, Lightfoot led the way, without faltering or once seeming at a loss. Even Boone felt a sense of wonder at his skill.

"That sound—what is it?" abruptly asked Edith, her voice sounding strained and unnatural.

"'Tis the varmints giving tongue—they've found the empty nest, but what they lotted most on gittin' has slipped 'em."

"Dey know trail, too, plenty well. Foller fast—Osage got long legs," muttered Lightfoot.

"Yes, we'll have to run for it now. They kin tell to a dot how long we've been gone, an' 'll be sure we've made tracks for Caughlands. They'll try to cut us off, an' 'f they do, our case 'll be desp'rit. Ed, help your wife—I'll look to the little 'un. Chief, lead on—quick time."

The alarm no longer came to the ears of the fugitives. All was still save for their own footsteps and the wailing of the storm-wind through the forest tree-tops.

The rage of the Osages had momentarily broken bonds, at the second disappointment of that night, but was quickly subdued. Their resolve deepened, their hatred and thirst for blood grew more intense. A few sharp, quick commands; then they marched in silence. They entered upon the trail that was to end only in death.

"See! the storm is breaking away," panted Mrs. Mordaunt, and the fugitives paused for a moment to regain breath. "The moon is—"

"'Tis a black moon for us!" groaned the settler, his teeth strongly gritting. "The devils have fired our cabin—now, indeed, we are homeless!"

"Easy, man—a log-cabin is easy raised where timber is so plenty as hereabouts. Thank the Lord that your heads have still got their nat'ral kivering," gravely added Boone.

Lightfoot now arose from his prostrate position upon the ground and muttered a few words in Boone's ear. The veteran seemed agitated, and well he might be.

The Kickapoo said that he had heard suspicious sounds coming from the direction they were pursuing; barely audible yells and indistinct reports of firearms. Making due allowance for the dense forest, he believed these sounds came from Caughlands—from the cabin where they had expected to find a secure refuge.

No other dwelling was near. If the Indians had in reality attacked that, what hope was left the fugitives? Incumbered by helpless women, what could the borderers do? The prospect was dark.

Again Lightfoot led the way along the winding, intricate trail. By following its bends and curves the distance was lengthened, yet no other course could be followed with safety, while feeble women were of the party. The surrounding country was difficult, almost impassable in the darkness, save by the narrow trail.

Once more the guide paused, this time upon the crest of a considerable elevation. No need to ask why—the reason lay plain before them.

Over a mile distant was where stood the Caughland cabin. The spot was plainly indicated now. Only for the surrounding trees, the sturdy log walls might have been distinguished by the fugitives.

A momentarily increasing glow illumined the dark forest, mounting up toward the heavens. The blazon of death and destruction. The dread signet of the fire-fiend.

"My God! them too!" groaned Mordaunt.

Edith turned ghastly pale and seemed about to faint. The loving arms of her mother stole around her waist. She knew the sickening fear that filled her daughter's heart.

"The sign's mighty black, I must say, but mebbe 'tis better'n we think. Mebbe the cabin got afire by accident. Anyhow, we mustn't stop here. If the reds is at work down thar, we've got to pass by 'em. Our only show is to get to the settlements beyond the Blue."

"True. Courage, mother, and you, Edith. Be brave now, and we may escape. But if not, then we will die together!"

"Don't talk about dyin', man, while you've breath enough left to draw a pipe," impatiently muttered Boone. "Foller us, now, an' remember that a false step may end all. It's no fool of a game that we've got to play."

Lightfoot gave a grunt of displeasure, then led the way down the hillside. Taciturn himself, he saw little use in so many words.

Cautiously parting the bushes that almost met above the trail, he searched the level. A few hundred yards further on he paused, and again spoke to the old hunter in the Kickapoo dialect.

"What's the matter now?" anxiously asked Mordaunt.

"Nothin'; the chief thinks it's best that he should go on ahead to spy out the truth. As it is, we're goin' blindfold. We'll wait here ontil he comes back."

"But is it safe?"

"Nothin's safe when the varmints is up an' ragin' for white blood. But come—we may as well take to kiver."

Boone turned aside from the trail and sought a level space where the undergrowth was tolerably dense, though the trees were few. Here he stationed the trio, then crouched down beneath a bush nearer the trail.

Lightfoot had disappeared like some phantom shape, melting away amidst the gloom. He no longer followed the trail; even without the unmistakable guide in the broad glare of light, he well knew the position of the forest cabin. Toward this he was now pressing with the speed, the silence, the dexterity of a serpent.

He had nearly gained the edge of the Caughland clearing, when he suddenly paused. From behind there uprose a shrill, exultant yell from a full score of throats. It was the cry of the Osages, and proceeded from the crest of the hill near which he had parted from the white fugitives.

Almost as an echo the yell was returned, this time from the clearing in front. There was a slight—almost imperceptible difference in the cry, that told Lightfoot this was part of another tribe—Pottawatomies.

For a moment he hesitated as if about to return to his friends, but then turned and glided rapidly onward. He stood upon the edge of the lighted clearing, gazing out upon a wild, peculiar scene.

A massive log-cabin and stable were in flames, burning furiously, yet the huge logs stubbornly resisted their doom. Around were grouped a number of human figures, over a score in number. The firelight shone redly over their almost nude bodies. The dull bronze color—the streaks of paint—the brilliantly dyed plumes—all proclaimed the untamed savage.

Other forms was there, lying prone upon the ground. Some clad in light, flowing garments, some nude; some of both races—the white and the red.

The latter were ranged together, their limbs straightened and composed. The pale-faces lay as they had fallen, mutilated almost beyond recognition. The red flame cast a flickering light over the bare, gory skulls. They had been scalped.

As Lightfoot took in this scene, one of the Indians threw back his head and uttered a long, peculiar cry—the eldritch screech of the panther. At this a truly startling change came over the Kickapoo.

His face became convulsed with what seemed fury and deadly hatred—his eyes scintillated, glowing with a venomous fire. He snatched an arrow from the quiver at his back, and then the tough bow was bent until the flint-head fairly touched its back.

The Pottawatomie still stood with one hand to his lips, the yell yet reverberating through the forest, when the taut string relaxed—a sharp twang smote upon their ears, drowned by a dull thud as the feathered shaft quivered deep in the naked breast of Leaping Panther, war-chief of the Pottawatomies.

The giant form reeled, then stood grandly erect, with tightly-clenched fists raised on high. Wild and clear, piercing as that of the beast after which he was named, the Leaping Panther breathed forth his life in one defiant war-cry—then sunk to the ground, dead!

Until then, the braves had stood motionless as though petrified. But as their chief fell in death, they darted aside, each seeking some cover where the bright flames would not betray them to the fatal aim of the hidden foe.

Lightfoot glided away from the spot. Now that the deed was done, he realized the folly of which he had been guilty, while other lives depended upon his skill and prudence. True, he had slain a deadly enemy, had kept a solemn oath, but by so doing he had increased the danger threatening those for whom he would lay down his life without a regret. The arrow that had carried death to the Pottawatomie, like all the others in his quiver, was a marked one. A single glance would declare the hand that had sent the death missile. He would be sought for until killed; though it might be years hence, still the search would never cease while he breathed or a Pottawatomie lived to carry on the hunt of death.

For himself alone it would matter little. He was an outcast—his own tribe had outlawed him; the Osages had sworn his death—this made but one more peril to fight against. But Yellow-hair? He almost cursed the arm that sent the death-shaft upon its mission.

Another cry came from the clearing. Lightfoot paused to listen. An answer came from the hill. Then still others—signals, directions for the movements of each party.

Lightfoot smiled grimly as he read them. To spread out and beat every inch of ground—to capture the audacious murderer alive at any cost. Thus he interpreted the signals.

It gave him an idea—bold, desperate, generous. He would yet save Yellow-hair, even though it might be at the cost of his own life. Yet to do so, he must gain speech with Boone.

Rapidly he retraced his steps toward the spot where he had left his friends, yet with a silence that was truly marvelous. Nobly he sustained his sobriquet. The fall of the autumn leaf was scarcely more silent than that of his moccasined feet.

All was still in the forest—not a sound broke the air save the wind rustling among the tree-tops, or the creaking of some dead bough. The dark, shrouded heaven lowered angrily, yet the storm held off as though to gather force to annihilate the living puppets below.

Crouching down, Lightfoot listened. All was still. The hill loomed up before him, dark and indistinct. His friends must be near.

A peculiar sound passed his lips—low but penetrating—the significant skir-r of the wood rattlesnake.

Like an echo a similar sound came from his right. The signal was heard and understood. Boone replied to it in kind.

The next moment Lightfoot was beside him, having glided thither like the serpent whose alarum he had usurped. Their heads close together, a few rapid words passed between them.

Lightfoot divulged his plan by which he hoped to baffle the peril that threatened them. It was desperate, but the only one. Alone the men might have crept through the savage cordon; with the women, this was simply impossible.

The Kickapoo turned and glided away, again heading toward the blazing cabin. He used less caution now, for time was doubly precious. The Osages, he knew, could not be many yards from the fugitives.

Gaining several hundred yards, he dashed forward at full speed, running to avoid the trees, stumps and other obstacles by intuition, for eyesight could avail him but little in such darkness. Again he paused, and now uttered a signal. It was answered almost immediately, from in front, to the left and right. His calculations were correct. The time was at hand for his action, nor did he hesitate, though the result could scarcely be other than death.

The bow he slung across his back. One hand clutched a knife, the other a tomahawk. Then he glided forward, direct for the spot from which the center signal had issued. His keen ear had not deceived him.

A tall, dimly outlined figure uprose before him, and uttered a few hasty words in the Pottawatomie dialect. Lightfoot did not wait to understand their meaning. Time was by far too precious.

With the ferocity of a maddened panther he leaped upon the savage, dealing two swift, deadly blows as he did so. Down through flesh and bone sunk the keen hatchet, scattering the skull like an egg-shell—gritting against his breast-bone the long knife.

A husky, gasping sound broke from the stricken brave's lips; it could scarce be called a death-yell. Yet it was heard—it and the furious death-blows, as the quick, sharp exclamations evinced.

Plucking his weapons from their quivering sheath, Lightfoot raised his voice in one loud, clear yell of taunting defiance as he spurned the corpse from him, and plunged into the darkness beyond.

For a moment his enemies stood as if confounded. Something in this bold defiance puzzled them. It seemed the act of a madman, or of one who had some particular point in view that he so daringly invited pursuit.

Once more there came the sound of a brief struggle—again the outcast uttered his shrill, taunting whoop. No longer hesitating, the Pottawatomies dashed forward in hot pursuit.

Crouching down in their leafy covert, the fugitives waited and listened in acute suspense, scarce daring to breathe. They knew that enemies, deadly, vindictive and marvelously keen-sensed, were gathered around them, thirsting for blood, each moment drawing the meshes of the web closer. They knew this by the low, peculiar signals that quavered upon the air with the passage of every few moments, now from one side, now the other, drawing nearer and nearer as the savages carefully searched the undergrowth.

Boone and Mordaunt listened painfully, their muscles strung, their weapons in readiness for use when the fatal moment should arrive. They listened for some sound from Lightfoot. Would he be in time? Or if so, would the enemy all be deceived?

The suspense was fearfully trying, but fortunately did not last long. Crouching there, the fugitives heard the loud yell of Lightfoot, as he sprung away from his first victim.

The women shuddered as the cry echoed by, reverberating from the hills, roaring through the tree-tops, strangely blending with the first howlings of the tempest. Could it be human—the voice of a fiend?

Yes—Boone recognized it without difficulty. Just then it sounded like music in his ears.

Other ears caught the sound, and with little cries the Osage warriors sprung to their feet, bending forward, eagerly listening. They too recognized the voice of the tribeless outcast!

Crouching there, the fugitives could distinguish the outlines of more than one savage foe, so near had they crept. Will they pass on? 'Tis a moment of horrible suspense.

Again the defiant cry of the Kickapoo sounds forth the death-knell of a Pottawatomie, and then, with wild yells, the Osages leap forward, an intense yearning scorching their hearts.

Boone suddenly flattens his muscular figure to the earth, but the effort is useless. A dark figure bounds through the air, crashing through the frail bush, alighting fairly between the broad shoulders of the Wood King.

One of the Osages had blindly leaped upon Boone's back. A quick, writhing movement, and the savage is hurled head-foremost to the ground. And then a grip of iron is fastened upon his throat. A bright blade hisses through the air and buries its length in the Indian's back.

Stricken to death, the savage struggles and writhes convulsively, with what seems more than mortal strength. The hunter's fingers contract like the claw of an eagle, and the heavy knife once more buries itself in the quivering flesh.

With one frantic effort the savage frees his throat and gives utterance to a maniacal shriek of death-agony. Then, as though satisfied that his death would speedily be avenged, he lay motionless at the feet of the old scout, dead!

"Hist! for your lives! Don't stir a peg!" hissed the Wood King, as Mordaunt partially arose.

The death-shriek of the Osage had reached the ears of his comrades, and they paused, startled, alarmed. All was still now, save the far-away yells of the Pottawatomies, as they darted away in pursuit of Lightfoot.

The fugitives' hearts beat high. They prayed that the savages might pass on, lured by the thrilling chorus beyond. But this was not to be.

Several of the braves turned and cautiously retraced their steps, signaling each other constantly. Boone placed his lips close to Mordaunt's ear, muttering:

"If they find us, give 'em the best you've got. Tell the women to slip off through the bushes at the fust yell—not afore. Speak sharp, so they'll mind."

Mordaunt obeyed. Half-paralyzed with terror the women promised to follow his directions.

Boone clenched his teeth. He saw that discovery was inevitable. Already he could distinguish several dusky figures gradually nearing their covert, and, knowing the advantage of dealing the first blow, signed to Mordaunt to follow his example.

The long rifle sprung to his shoulder, being cocked at the same moment. Then it spoke, the bright flash illumining the spot for yards around, also revealing full half a score crouching savages. A death-yell was blended with the report—followed by another, as the settler's rifle vomited forth its contents.

"Scatter now!" hissed Boone, rolling rapidly aside, barely escaping several bullets and arrows that tore the ground beneath the bushes.

His further words were drowned by the angry yells of the infuriated Osages, as they sprung forward, thirsting for blood.

A horrible scene then transpired in the gloom. A ferocious melée—a struggle for life or death.

Twice the savages reeled back from before the pale-faces, but again they surged forward, their number constantly augmenting. One, two, three minutes of deadly strife. Then Edward Mordaunt sunk down upon the pile of dead savages, his skull cloven in twain. A shriek of agony burst from the wife as she witnessed his fall, and, forgetful of self, she tottered forward with outstretched arms as though to protect him. A blow—a groan—husband and wife united, never more to part!

Edith shrieked as an Indian seized her, with uplifted hatchet. A dark form sprung between—the Osage fell dead. Strong arms carried her a few steps, then relaxed their grasp. A momentary flash of lightning revealed to her the convulsed features of Lightfoot—then she saw no more; she had swooned.

CHAPTER III.

THE CHIEF'S PERIL.

The face upon which Edith Mordaunt's eyes fell during the momentary glare of the lightning, was indeed that of Lightfoot, the Kickapoo outcast.

Even as his daring ruse seemed fully successful, he heard the double report—the wild yell of angry vengeance that told of his friends' discovery by the Osage braves. He knew that Yellow-hair was in peril most imminent, and the knowledge nearly crazed him.

Like a madman he turned abruptly and rushed back toward the spot where he had left his friends, caring nothing for the risk he himself run—thinking only of her. Bewildered by this new alarm, taken by surprise by the desperate rush of the outlawed chief, the Pottawatomies allowed their enemy to slip through their fingers, when the game was fairly their own.

Halting for nothing, Lightfoot dashed on at top speed, fearing lest he should be too late. He sprung into the little opening with drawn hatchet and knife.

He heard Edith shriek, and thus guided, he sprung to her side. A brawny Osage stood bending her head backward by the long hair, a blood-stained tomahawk brandished on high.

With a fierce, grating snarl, Lightfoot leaped at his throat. Then followed a swift stroke—the savage writhed in death-agonies at the feet of the Kickapoo.

"Lightfoot save you, or die!" muttered the chief, as he gathered the trembling form to his broad breast.

He sprung forward a few steps, then faltered, his eyes dazzled, blinded by the unusually vivid flash of lightning that shed around the brightness of noonday.

A dark form leaped before him—a heavy weapon fell with a dull thud full upon the unprotected head, and Lightfoot sunk lifeless to the ground. Edith shrieked faintly as she recognized the stricken form—then, with a dim sense of being tight clasped by strong arms to a broad breast, her senses reeled and she fainted.

And Boone, the Wood King?

He fought bravely, desperately, with the strength, skill and activity of renewed youth. He struggled on while a gleam of hope remained—until he alone of that little band of fugitives was left upon his feet. All were down—either dead, dying, or senseless.

Then he thought of his own safety. Flight, instant and speedy, alone could save him, before the scattered Osages could fairly surround him.

Calling into play every muscle of his stout frame, he sprung forward, swinging the long, heavy rifle before him. Two savages fell before its tremendous sweep, and an opening was made.

Through this Boone darted, striking down, broken and helpless, the arm that was raised to stay his flight. Then a wild thrill ran through his veins as he realized that all his foes were behind him—and a single exultant yell broke from his lips as he darted away through the forest, entering upon a stern, desperate race for freedom, if not life.

His shout told the Osages all, and they dashed after him with yells of horrible rage, that not even the deafening peal of thunder could entirely drown.

At least the defiant cry of the Wood King was productive of one good result, whatever might be its effect otherwise. Lightfoot was just staggering to his feet, when Boone broke away, and drawn off by the cry, the Osages passed him without notice.

Still confused by the heavy blow that had felled him to the ground, Lightfoot supported himself by a bush, and stared around him. The storm was beginning to rage, the lightning-flashes followed each other in rapid succession, lighting up a soul-harrowing scene.

A glimpse of a woman's garments roused Lightfoot from his half-stupor, and with an inarticulate cry he sprung forward and sunk to his knees. Breathlessly he waited for the next gleam of lightning.

In that score of seconds he suffered the tortures of the damned. He knew that he knelt beside the dead. His hand rested shudderingly upon the shattered skull of a woman. He feared it was that of Yellow-hair.

The character of Lightfoot may seem exaggerated—overdrawn, but not so. True, he was an Indian among a thousand, but such a being really lived and breathed. Edith Mordaunt had, by her tender care and skillful nursing, brought him safely out from the very shadow of death. He owed his life to her. He was ready to repay the debt; for her sake he had renounced his tribe, his people, his faith—for her he had become an outcast. He would have died to spare her one moment's pang. And now he believed he was kneeling beside her dead and mangled body.

The flash of lightning came, and a cry of joy broke from the Indian's lips. The blood-stained hair beneath his hand was gray—almost white: that of Mrs. Mordaunt.

His cry was echoed by that of another being—faint and rattling. As the lightning died away, he turned quickly toward the point from whence it proceeded. All was intensely dark: he could distinguish nothing.

Again the lightning cast a brilliant glow over the scene, and revealed to Lightfoot his peril. Only a few yards distant an Osage crouched low to the ground, a bent bow in his hands, the barbed shaft pointed full at his heart.

This much he saw, and then the glow died out. At the same moment a faint twang met his ear, and a burning pain seemed tearing deep to his very heart.

With an angry snarl he sprung forward, grappling with the Osage. It was an unresisting enemy. Not a quiver or a moan followed the knife-thrust. With the loosing of the arrow, the spirit of the Osage brave had fled to its happy hunting-grounds. True to his teaching, his last act was to deal the enemy a blow.

Lightfoot felt at his breast A few drops of blood stained his fingers, but the arrow was gone. He probed the wound—it was but a trifle. The strength of the dying brave had not equaled his determination.

The Kickapoo arose, and by the quick-following flashes of lightning carefully scrutinized the spot. To his joy he found nothing of Edith—because by that he knew that she still lived.

In the alternate gloom and brightness he glided around, stooping momentarily over each one of the dead savages. He was an Indian. He knew how to strike his living enemies sorest. On the morrow the Osage tribe would wail over their scalpless dead.

Standing erect, he flung back his head as though bidding defiance to the lightning's shaft, the thunder's bolt, as the long-pent-up storm broke in all its fury. The wild, thrilling scalp-cry of the Kickapoos resounded through the hills and forest—then the outcast chief turned and disappeared in the darkness.

And now the flashes came less frequent, the thunder-peals less heavy; the rain falls in torrents, as though eager to wipe out forever the evidences of crime and bloodshed that stained the earth's fair surface.

Believing himself the only survivor, and knowing that his only hope of escape with life was in speedy flight, Boone darted away through the forest, closely followed by united Osage and Pottawatomie braves. In that darkness, only relieved by the dazzling flashes of lightning that left all in even denser gloom than before, by force of contrast, flight was not only difficult but dangerous.

Yet the veteran ranger, thoroughly skilled in the craft that had been the study of his life, wound his way through the tree-trunks growing so thickly around, over fallen timber and other obstacles, with truly marvelous celerity and ease. But after him came others equally as expert, fired by a burning thirst for vengeance upon the one who had that night dealt them such a bitter blow.

Boone had already shaped the details of a plan by which he hoped to escape his pursuers, and now bent every energy of his body to the first point: that of gaining a few yards greater lead. With this purpose he dashed ahead at a dangerous pace, though knowing that a single misstep might end in his death or capture.

At this point the storm broke in all its fury and in it the scout recognized a truly welcome ally. The rain fell in torrents, pattering loudly upon the tree-tops, that soon began to shed their watery load upon the undergrowth beneath their boughs.

A few moments later Boone suddenly paused, pressing close to the gnarled trunk of a huge tree that had been momentarily revealed by the glare of lightning. Here, holding his breath, trying to still the loud throbbings of his heart, he stood with knife tight clenched in his hand, to await the result of his ruse.

One, two, half a dozen savages dash by, running with hushed voices now, for they dread losing their prey, since the tempest so nearly drowns his footfalls. Then others pass by panting, losing hope with each step.

A minute passes—then a wild yell comes from beyond the point toward which the savages had chased a phantom. They had missed their prey. Boone smiled grimly.

"Yelp on, ye blood-thirsty curs—yelp on till your throats split with hate an' fury. The trail's broken—the nose of a true-bred hound couldn't splice it now," muttered the Wood King.

Rapidly gliding a few yards to the right, Boone paused beneath a broad-spreading elm tree, and clutching the ivy vines that shrouded its trunk, clambered up to the limbs. When nearly a score feet from the ground he paused, and crouching down upon the gnarled limb, listened intently.

Numerous signals filled the air, the voices of birds and beasts, but the veteran smiled contemptuously at the frail disguise, perfect as the imitations were. On such a night not even the panther ventured from its den, still less the feathered tribe. He knew that the savages were beating the forest for him, knowing that he had put some such ruse in operation as the one described.

"Let them hunt—an owl couldn't spy me out here in the night, an' I reckon they'll tire of it afore day," muttered Boone, carefully shielding the lock of his rifle from the rain-drops.

More then once during that long night he could hear the cat-like footsteps of the savages, as they prowled about hoping to light upon some trace of their enemy. But then all grew still, save the dull, monotonous patter of the rain-drops upon the already saturated leaves.

Gradually the old hunter yielded to his fatigue, and leaning back against the gnarled tree-trunk, slept on peacefully and calmly as though in a bed beneath a hospitable roof. And when he awoke, the new day had dawned, the sun-rays were just tinging the crests of the tallest trees.

The storm was over, and the fresh-washed face of Nature appeared doubly beautiful. The feathered denizens of the forest were in full voice, and for a moment the Wood King lay listening, half-dreamily, for the moment forgetful of the dread events of the past night.

But then he remembered all; once more he was the stern wood-ranger. Listening intently, his keen eyes roved over every foot of ground visible from his perch. A rapidly-flitting bird—a pair of playful gray squirrels met his gaze; nothing human—nothing of the savages who had hunted him so hard the night just past.

Noiselessly he turned and forced the wiping-stick into his rifle. The barrel had dried during the night. Then he loaded it carefully, packing powder into the vent, priming it and then scraping the flint. He knew that his life might depend upon the fidelity of his rifle.

With the lightness of the velvet-footed panther, Boone dropped to the ground, thumb upon hammer, finger touching the trigger, and glared around. But his suspicions were unfounded. No enemy was near. They had abandoned the search in despair, knowing that, their blows begun, there could be no rest for them while a single pale-face drew breath in the Osage country. Night and day they must labor, or a fearful retribution would overtake them.

Cautiously, with ready rifle, Boone retraced his steps toward the opening that had been the scene of death. He had no hope of finding any of his friends alive, yet he could not restrain the impulse that urged him on.

He stood upon the edge of the opening. The scene of the massacre was marked by the snarling, scuffling forms of half a dozen wolves. As the hunter strode forward, they slunk away, howling lugubriously.

Stout-hearted, iron-willed though he was, Boone felt a thrill of horror creep over his frame as he gazed down upon the torn and trampled ground. A few tattered fragments of clothing—a number of bare, dismembered bones, nothing more. The four-footed scavengers had completed the work of their brother wolves in human form. This was all that was left of the true-hearted settler and his wife. The hunter turned pale even through the deep sun-dye, and fierce words gritted through his tight-clenched teeth.

"May God's curse rest upon the black-hearted devils, until every mother's son o' them is like these poor critters! To think that only yest'day they was all well an' hearty, an' little Edith—ha!"

He paused abruptly in his mutterings and glanced hurriedly around—almost wildly. Could it be? Only two skulls were visible—only two! Then where were the others? Those of Edith and Lightfoot?

"Kin it be they got off? Sure I saw 'em both fall!"

With heart throbbing painfully the old scout reached the vicinity, fearing the worst—scarce daring to hope.

Then he paused, glancing quickly toward the forest. The sound of footsteps rustling among the undergrowth caught his ear, and he crouched down behind a scrubby bush, with rifle cocked in readiness for use.

A human figure stepped into view, followed by another. Boone sprung to his feet, for he recognized them. They were white men—settlers.

"Fosdick—an' you, Kingsley, is all well at the settlements?" eagerly cried Boone, springing forward.

"Yas—but thar's b'en black work 'mong the outlyin' cabins, it seems. So much fer trustin' the red devils too fur—ef all 'd 'a' be'n o' my mind, this wouldn't 'a' happened, fer lack o' hands to do it with," growled the burly borderer.

In cooler blood, though, even Fosdick was forced to admit that all the Indians were not bad, since to timely information given by several, the "Boone's Lick Settlement" was saved from almost entire massacre, and the insurrection nipped in the bud; only a few of the more isolated cabins were destroyed and the settlers killed.

"How did you chaince to hear of this so soon?"

"Abe Dare brung us word—"

"Abe Dare—then the varmints didn't kill him 'th the rest?" echoed Boone, in astonishment.

"No—he's thar by the cabin—or rather what was the cabin, 'th some o' the boys, a-pickin' up the old folks."

Boone hastened to the spot, and found the truth had been told. Here too the four-footed wolves had been at their horrible feast. Around the still smoldering ruins the bones of the ill-fated settlers were scattered.

The hunter found Abel Dare pale and stony—sadly changed by that night's events. Boone wondered if he yet knew all, but feared to put the question that would decide his doubts.

From the talk of the settlers he learned how it came that Dare had escaped the massacre of his adopted parents, for the young man spoke never a word. Pale and icy stern he worked on, hollowing out a rude grave to contain all that remained on earth of his loved ones.

That evening Abel Dare had visited the Mordaunt cabin, for Edith was his promised wife. On his return home he met the little son of a neighbor, going in quest of assistance. By an awkward fall his father had broken a leg. Abel returned with the boy, and by that act of kindness, in all probability escaped death. The fracture was a simple one, and he managed to set it. Scarcely had he succeeded, when the little boy spoke of a bright light over the hill-top. Its position roused Dare's fears—he believed it to be from his own clearing. At top speed he hastened there—but too late. The tragedy was over. His friends had rushed forth from the blazing pile, only to meet death at the hands of the demoniac savages. He could see their ghastly bodies lying in the full glare of the fire, with the yelling, exultant fiends dancing around in mad glee.

His rifle sprung to his shoulder, and the hammer fell; but with a simple click. In his mad race through the forest the flint had fallen out. This discovery recalled his senses. The savages numbered over a score; to attack them now would but insure his own death—and he resolved to live for vengeance. With this thought uppermost in his mind, he turned and hastened at top speed for the settlements, never faltering once on the long trail, his muscles nerved by the sight he had just witnessed. He found the settlement greatly excited. Some friendly Indians had betrayed the plot for its destruction. Yet half a dozen men answered his appeal, for the most part single men, hunters and scouts—the ones who were now with him.

In silence Boone listened to the plans—if such they could be called—of the scouts. They swore vengeance upon the tribe of Pottawatomies in general. An Indian was an Indian to them; whether their hands had shed this blood mattered not. "A life for a life"—true border law—this was their creed.

"An' thar drops number one!" snarled Jim Fosdick, throwing up his rifle, as a dusky form stepped out into the clearing and advanced toward them.

"Stop!" cried Boone, knocking up the weapon, sending the ragged bullet hissing over the tree-tops. "That's a true fri'nd—hurt him, an' you must deal 'th me!"

"He's a Injun," muttered the scout, sullenly.

"But his heart's white; he resked his life last night to save the Mordaunts—"

"What—what did you say, old man?" cried Abel Dare, rousing from his apathy, his face flushing, his eyes glowing like living coals.

"Be cool, boy; 'tain't so bad but it might be wuss," muttered Boone, uneasily, beckoning for the Indian to approach, for Lightfoot had started toward cover at his unceremonious reception. "I don't think—that is, I hope the gal is alive."

Abel Dare sunk to the ground in a nerveless heap, with a groan of heart-rending despair. This new blow, following so closely what he had already undergone, broke down his forced composure, and he wept like a child. Boone motioned the men aside. He knew that it was better so; these tears might ease the over-tasked brain, and keep it from utterly giving way.

By his directions, the scouts gathered the remains of Mordaunt and his wife together, and placed them in a shallow grave, while he and Lightfoot searched the vicinity in the faint hope of finding some trace of Edith. But their efforts were unavailing. The heavy rain had obliterated all footprints.

Boone closely questioned the Kickapoo, but instead of throwing any light upon the subject, his statement rendered the uncertainty still deeper.

On recovering his senses, he had followed on after the Indians who were hunting for Boone, mingling with them in the darkness without fear of discovery. He soon learned that Edith was not with them, but neither was the White Wolf, Seth Grable. Still hoping to learn something of her—and resolving to free her, if need be, at the cost of his life—Lightfoot kept near the savages, even after they abandoned their hunt for Boone. They returned to the opening, to find their own dead scalped. Their rage and shame were delicious morsels to the Kickapoo. Carrying these to the hill, they hid the bodies in a gully, then set forth on their mission of blood. Knowing that Edith would not be taken upon such a tramp, Lightfoot left them and searched elsewhere; but all in vain. He could find no trace of either her or Grable.

"But we will find her, if alive—I swear to it!" and then the two men crossed palms; in each other's eyes they read the same resolve.

At this moment Abel Dare came up, ghastly pale, his eyes glowing like those of a madman's. In husky tones he called upon the men to follow him—that he would lead them to strike a blow for vengeance. The scouts seemed to catch the infection—they cheered wildly and then followed the lead of the half-crazed man.

Only Boone and Lightfoot held back. Yet they did not expostulate. They knew how useless that would be.

CHAPTER IV.

THE OSAGE VILLAGE.

Boone seemed perplexed and ill at ease. For some minutes he watched Lightfoot as he quartered the opening like a hound searching for a lost scent; but then a signal called the Kickapoo to his side. With a few low words, Boone turned and retraced the route they had followed the night before in their flight from the Osages.

The clearing that once contained the happy and peaceful home of Mordaunt, was gained. A heap of black, unsightly ruins was all that was now left.

Making a circuit of the clearing, the scouts knew that no human being had been there since the rain ceased. Boone frowned, though he had scarcely dared hope for a different result.

Pausing beneath the shelter of a tree, the scouts consulted on their future course. Blind as the trail was, neither one dreamed of abandoning the search until they should either rescue Edith or obtain proof of her death.

A sudden recollection caused Lightfoot's eyes to glisten—his hopes to rise. He believed he possessed a clue by which the broken trail might be regained.

Several times mention has been made of Seth Grable, a mongrel renegade, also that he boasted the possession of several squaws. Lightfoot knew that one at least of these lived apart from her tribe and was frequently visited by the White Wolf at her little cabin in a snug valley beside the Osage. By mere accident Lightfoot had made this discovery, while out hunting, and now as he recalled the lone and well-hidden refuge, he believed Edith would be concealed there by the renegade until the storm blew over.

"The idee's wuth a trial, anyhow," said Boone, in a thoughtful tone. "'T any rate, we kin find whar the varmints crossed the river. Lead on."

Lightfoot glided forward, with Boone steadily tramping at his heels. The distance was considerable, and the sun was high in the heavens before the valley was reached. Cautiously the scouts crept toward the little vine-covered cabin, though there was little need of their precautions, for the nest was empty. The rain-softened earth around retained no trace of feet—the cabin had evidently been deserted before the storm.

The scouts looked at each other in silence. Their disappointment was great. Another hope was gone. Would the broken trail ever be united—the lost one found?

In dogged silence they headed up-stream. Across the river, stood the village of the Osages, yet miles distant. If Edith had not been taken there, they knew not what to think.

For nearly an hour they pressed on, closely scrutinizing the river-bank, so as not to overlook any trail. Then both scouts paused abruptly.

Now, as on the fatal night just past, the sound of firearms and human voices raised in anger came to their ears from the direction they were following. A moment Boone hearkened, then muttered, as he sprung forward:

"It's the boys—they've run ag'in' a nest of the varmints. Come, chief, we must lend 'em a hand."

The two scouts dashed forward along the river-bank at full speed, the sounds of the conflict growing plainer and more distinct, now at no great distance. Reaching the summit of a small hill, the scouts momentarily paused.

Below them were the combatants—a number of Pottawatomies and the white settlers who had followed the reckless lead of Abel Dare. A true bush-fight was in progress. Each man closely hugged his tree, stump or log, carefully shielding himself, while keen to take advantage of any false move of his adversary.

Yet Boone's brow darkened as he took in the situation at a glance. He saw that his friends were in really great peril—that they were outnumbered, that the Pottawatomies were gradually spreading out so as to command front and both flanks, where they could pick off the settlers at their leisure.

He glanced into Lightfoot's face. The answer to his unspoken question was plainly written upon the Kickapoo's face. He too saw the peril and was eager to baffle it, though more from hatred to the tribe of Pottawatomies, than love for the hardly-bested white hunters.

The distance was too great for Lightfoot to use his bow with effect, and it was necessary for the success of their plans that the savages should be terrified as well as surprised. Fifty yards below was a dense clump of bushes, and toward this Lightfoot glided, trusting that, even if observed, his features would not be recognized. Boone remained upon the hill. His rifle easily commanded the enemy's position.

Reaching the cover, Lightfoot quickly fitted an arrow to the bow, and loosing it at the back of an exposed Pottawatomie, sent forth his shrill, fear-inspiring war-cry. Almost simultaneously the rifle of the Wood King spoke, and his full, deep voice sent encouragement to the hearts of the settlers.

Amazed, bewildered by this sudden and deadly attack in their rear, the Pottawatomies leaped to their feet, glaring wildly around. Crack—crack—crack! Then hastily reloaded rifles from among the settlers were discharged—like a shaft of light another arrow sped from Lightfoot's covert, rankling deep in the very heart of a battle-scarred warrior.

With a loud cheer Boone broke cover, dashing down the hill. The settlers answer him—so does Lightfoot. The Pottawatomies believe themselves surrounded and outnumbered. With cries of dismay they turn and flee, leaving their dead and dying behind them.

They are not pursued far. The settlers have learned a lesson in prudence that they will not soon forget. One of their number is dead, another at his last gasp, while scarcely one of the others but bears some token of the struggle. Yet the savages had suffered far more severely, since, in all, nine dead bodies marked the accuracy of the pale-faces' aim.

Boone drew aside with Abel Dare, who seemed far more like his usual self, though still fitful and wild in both actions and speech. In a few words Boone heard all he had to tell. No trail had been found or any adventure met with until they stood face to face with the Pottawatomies, when, without stopping to calculate the chances, the settlers began the fight.

At this moment Jim Fosdick advanced, evidently as spokesman of the party. He said they had accomplished what they set out to do—dealt a blow at the enemy and secured more than scalp for scalp. That their duty now was to help protect the settlements.

Abel Dare began a testy reply, but Boone checked him.

"They're right, lad, though you mayn't think so just now. Every man's arms is needed thar, for thar the varmints will strike the heaviest licks. It's right—don't say any thing ag'in' thar goin'."

"And you, too! So be it—I will work alone. Though all the rest abandon you, Edith, I will save you, or die! For you don't think those devils murdered her, do you?" he wildly added, imploringly gazing into the face of the old hunter.

"No, I don't. Never mind my reasons just now. But see—I b'lieve she's alive; that I kin find her—an' I've swore that I'll git her away from the varmints if mortal man kin do it," quietly replied Boone.

"Then you ain't goin' back with us?"

"No, Jim; the chief an' I have other work on hand."

"And I—I go too."

"You'd better go back with the boys, Abel. We two kin do all that's needed, 'specially as sarcumvention must come into play."

"I will go—if not with you, then alone," doggedly added Dare, his black eyes gleaming.

"All right—you shall go."

A few more words were spoken and then the party separated, the settlers carrying with them the bodies of their friends, to bury them in some spot where the savages would not be likely to unearth them for the sake of their scalps. The three scouts continued up the river-bank, shortly after, crossing at the ford previously mentioned.

At mid-afternoon they paused, and composed themselves to rest, snugly ensconced in a dense thicket that covered the summit of a hill overlooking the Osage village. They needed rest, and could do nothing until the shades of night fell upon the earth.

But few words were wasted in idle speech. During their tramp the subject had been sufficiently discussed, and each perfectly understood the part allotted to himself. Their search for Edith was to begin at this point, since it was the village of that portion of the Osage tribe to which Seth Garble had allied himself. Since the captive was not at his own private cabin, she must be here.

Boone and Dare lay down beneath the cooling foliage and were speedily sound asleep. Lightfoot, though his eyes had been sleepless for at least forty-eight hours, remained at his post overlooking the village, seemingly as tireless as though a mere machine.

The village seemed unusually lively and bustling, though, as he could see, the crowd consisted mainly of squaws and pappooses, with a few able-bodied warriors—probably a score, in all. Through his watch, he saw nothing of Grable or Edith. Yet there was nothing in that to be wondered at.

The sun had long disappeared when Lightfoot touched Boone and Dare, as a signal that the time was at hand for their work to begin. The sky was clear and cloudless, the stars twinkled brightly though the moon had not yet risen.

"It's all understood, then," said Boone, with an uneasy glance at Abel. "The chief is to enter the village an' find out whether the gal is in there or no. We're to wait for him outside."

"Yes—but it seems to me a coward part to play," muttered Dare, fingering the knife at his belt.

"It's policy. The chief is of thar own color, understands the lingo as well as his own tongue. He kin go unsuspected whar we'd be found out at a glimpse. You must see it's for the best; an', mind ye, Abel, you mustn't strike in out o' turn, or we'll leave you to do the job in your own way."

Dare grumbled something about its being hard to be forced to remain idle while others worked, but agreed to obey. Then the trio cautiously glided down the hillside and neared the outskirts of the Indian village.

This was a permanent place of habitation, where the Osages had lived for many years, and was of a substantial nature. The village was pitched amidst hills, to protect it from the cold winds of winter, close to a creek that wound through the valley, only a few hundred yards from the forest that furnished them with fuel for their meals. Most of the huts were built of mud, with bark roofs—a few were of stone rudely held up with clay mortar. Beyond the huts rose a stout, commodious horse-corral, with boundaries defined by high walls of timber, fallen trees dragged into place, strengthened by stakes planted firmly in the ground.

At the edge of the clearing Lightfoot left his comrades, and glided out from the trees. Crouching low down in the gloom, he glided rapidly toward the corral, then partially skirting the village.

Gaining the wall, he paused to reconnoiter. The village was all alive. A number of fires burned brightly. The savages were hastening to and fro, or gathered in little knots, gossiping. There seemed little likelihood of their settling down for the night. To enter the lighted street was almost certain discovery, and that meant death to the Kickapoo, now. Yet he did not hesitate long. A quick gesture, and he was changed. A moment's fumbling altered his scalp-lock into that of a Fox. His form seemed to sink into itself, becoming less tall, more squat. In the grotesquely distorted features, one could scarcely recognize the handsome Kickapoo chief.

A moment later and he was within the lighted village, stalking leisurely along, brushing shoulders with his most deadly enemies, unsuspected. Yet, though he had almost completed the circuit of the village, passing within earshot of each group of gossips, lingering near each cabin, Lightfoot gained no knowledge of the one he sought. Could it be that she was not in the village?

He paused beside one of the cabins and listened intently. The sound of low voices reached his ear, though but indistinctly. There seemed something familiar in the tones of one of the speakers that sent a thrill through his veins. With bated breath Lightfoot hearkened.

The voices ceased, and the chief heard a light footstep. Mechanically he started erect, but instead of seeking cover, he stood out in the full glow of the firelight, once more Lightfoot, the handsome war-chief of the Kickapoos. The footsteps came nearer—a light form turned the corner of the cabin, then paused, with a faint exclamation of surprise. Only for a moment; then the plump form was clasped tightly to the breast of the Indian scout, as he drew back into the deeper shadow.

Lightfoot forgot his mission, the peril he ran, every thing save the presence of the Indian maiden who yielded herself so freely to his warm embrace. Forgetful of all else, he poured soft words into her ears, for the moment acting like a true lover, no longer the cool, calculating warrior.

Feather-Cloud was the daughter of a Kickapoo sub-chief. She had won Lightfoot's love a year since, but the opposition of our friend to the tribal alliance prejudiced the old chief against him. That Feather-Cloud was now on a visit to some friends among the Osages, is all that need be said.

Though Lightfoot knew it not, jealous eyes were upon him. The rapturous meeting with Feather-Cloud had been witnessed by a young warrior, who was now creeping closer, his ear strained to catch their words. And he soon heard enough to know that an enemy had entered the village of his people.

The Kickapoo's first intimation of danger was in a shrill yell that rung out close behind him, and then a heavy form precipitated itself full upon his back. Staggered by the rude awaking as much as the shock, Lightfoot reeled and fell to the ground.

But his surprise was only momentary. Scarce had he touched the ground when all his faculties returned.

The Osage clutched his throat with suffocating force, his yell of alarm ringing through the village with startling distinctness, only to be taken up by a score of throats as the warriors sprung in a body toward the spot.

The sinewy hands of Lightfoot rose and clutched the throat of his antagonist, his fingers almost meeting in the yielding flesh, while the bones fairly seemed to give way beneath the enormous pressure. Quivering in every fiber, the Osage relaxed his grasp, and casting his enemy from him like a child, the Kickapoo sprung upon his feet, knife and tomahawk flashing in his nervous grip.

Not a moment too soon. From every quarter came the Osage warriors. Behind them flocked the squaws and children. All were yelling in confused chorus. It seemed a scene from Pandemonium.

Uttering his thrilling war-cry, the outcast chief leaped forward, without awaiting the onset. With a motion rapid as thought, the heavy tomahawk fell; when it rose again it was stained a bright-red hue, and ruby drops fell from the once untarnished blade. Again and again it descended, now drinking the life-blood of an Osage, now parrying some deadly blow aimed at its wielder's life.

It was a thrilling sight to see that one man struggling against such fearful odds—fighting for liberty, for life! To see the blood-stained weapons flash in the weird flickering of the camp-fires; to hear the fatal blow, the half-stifled exclamation, as some keen weapon pierced the sensitive flesh; to see here a human form fall to the earth, perchance to rise no more, or else struggle to his feet and again plunge into the melée.

Fiercely, desperately Lightfoot fought, now out in the full glow of the firelight. At first his life had been aimed at, and despite his wondrous skill and celerity, more than one weapon had tasted his blood. But then the name of the outcast was echoed from lip to lip, and the cry arose to capture him for the torture-post.

Choosing rather to die at once, Lightfoot sprung upon the Osages with desperate fury, dealing his blows with lightning rapidity, leaving behind and around him a swath of dead and wounded. With superhuman strength, he slowly pressed through the cordon, and then, with one triumphant whoop, he cut down the last warrior that barred his road to freedom, and darted forward toward the friendly forest, where, once it was gained, he would be comparatively safe.

But even in the moment of triumph he was foiled. A boy flung himself in the way, clasping the Kickapoo's legs with all his members—even biting at them like a bull-dog.

Lightfoot fell heavily to the ground. Before he could arise, or regain the blood-stained weapons that were torn from his grasp by the fall, half a score Osages were upon his back.

A confused struggle—then Lightfoot was lifted up, bound hand and foot. The Osage yell of triumph rung out loud and clear.

Lightfoot smiled grimly as he glanced around. He had carved his name in broad and deep letters upon their ranks. Their victory had been a costly one.

At this moment a cry came from the forest. The Osages answered it. A few minutes later, a considerable body of Indians—both Osages and Pottawatomies—entered the village. One approached and spat in Lightfoot's face. It was the White Wolf—Seth Grable.

Making no reply, the Kickapoo glanced quickly around. A ferocious fire filled his eye as he caught a glimpse of a white woman being led into a cabin. In the firelight, her hair, floating loosely over her shoulder, shone with a golden gleam.

The savages gathered together, and the White Wolf addressed them in hot, forcible words. Others followed him, the majority supporting his argument.

Lightfoot listened to them, his features composed and cold. Though his life swung in the balance, he appeared to take no interest in the matter.

Grable called for the outcast's immediate death—his death by the fire-torture. In answer to those who advocated delay until the entire tribe were assembled, he pointed out the great esteem—almost adoration—in which Lightfoot had been held by his tribe before his recent sentence, and hinted that the Kickapoos might interfere to save him, when the Osages who had fallen by the traitor's hand must go unavenged.

This argument carried the day, and in the blood-thirsty yells of the savages Lightfoot read his doom.

The warriors who held him now securely bound him to a post, then hastened off to assist in the preparations for the torture. Lightfoot strained at his bonds with all the strength of his mighty muscles, but in vain. The bonds were too stout to break, too well applied to slip or come untied.

He saw the Osages collecting fuel and placing it round a post, at a little distance from where he was bound. Escape seemed impossible.

A figure shrouded in a blanket glided past him, a fold of the garment touching his person. Instinctively he glanced up. The figure abruptly turned and repassed him, uttering two words:

"Be ready."

The glance from a bright eye explained the meaning to the captive. The figure was that of Feather-Cloud. She was working for his life.

As though suspecting something of the kind, two braves came and stood beside him, watching the growing of the death-pile. The respite was rapidly shortening. Would Feather-Cloud be able to carry out her plan?

As this thought flashed through his mind, Lightfoot felt a gentle touch upon his arms where they passed around the post behind him. He was answered. The Indian maiden was even then at work, unsuspected by the warriors who stood by, within arm's-length.

Lightfoot felt the bonds yield upon his feet, then upon his hands and arms. Something cold and firm was slipped between his fingers. One hand clutched the haft of a knife, the other that of a tomahawk.

The lips of Feather-Cloud touched his hands, and then she glided away. The time had come for action!

Like lightning the double blow fell—death-stricken, the Osage braves reeled back, uttering their quavering death-yells. Shrill and triumphant rung out the war-cry of the Kickapoo as he turned and darted toward the forest.

He was nearly clear of the village before the Osages recovered from their surprise. The pursuit was made, swift and instant.

From before the fugitive two bright flashes illumine the scene—two sharp reports break the air, and the pursuers falter as the death-missiles break their ranks.

But only for a moment—then they once more dart forward in deadly pursuit.

CHAPTER V.

SURROUNDED BY DEATH.

A shrill yell of exultation burst front Lightfoot's lips as he heard the death-shrieks behind him, and right deftly did he improve the advantage given him by the momentary hesitation of his pursuers, darting forward with the speed of a well-conditioned race-horse. It needed not the clear voice that shouted encouragement to him from out the gloom, to tell him who were the daring marksmen. Lightfoot knew that Boone and Dare had ventured from the forest in order to create a diversion in his favor.

But the savages quickly recovered from the confusion these shots had thrown them into, and knowing—if only from there coming no other reports—the number of the enemy, rushed forward with augmented fury. Side by side the three scouts entered the woods; close after them the Indians, yelling like very fiends.

"Sep'rate—we'll meet you at the cave—by the river, chief," jerkingly uttered Boone.

No reply was made, but Lightfoot abruptly veered to the left, while Boone and Dare ran on side by side. All thought of caution was abandoned. The pursuers were too close for the fugitives to attempt dodging, or trying to lessen the noise of their crashing footsteps. So close were they that, when Lightfoot turned aside, the pursuers also divided, resolved to win their prey by stern, desperate racing.

For nearly a mile Lightfoot held his vantage with comparative ease, thridding the tangled forest with the skill and ease that none but a thorough woodsman can ever hope to attain. After that, he came upon smoother traveling, breaking from the wood out upon a level, grassy tract of open ground, fully a mile in width.

The race, thus far, had not breathed the iron-limbed scout, though thoroughly warming him up, removing the soreness he had begun to feel from his wounds and bruises. And now as he entered the open, a clear, exultant cry broke from his lips, and inhaling a deep draught of the cool night-air, he bounded away over the level space with the litheness and agility of a deer.

With answering yells the Osages followed, straining every nerve to overtake Lightfoot before he should reach the further side. Swift of foot were they—some of them of wide renown—yet, foot by foot, the outcast chief left them behind.

Over two hundred yards in advance, Lightfoot plunged into the forest again, uttering a taunting cry that half-crazed his pursuers. It seemed as though his escape was fully assured—even the Osage braves began to despair of overtaking him.

And yet, even in the moment of his seeming triumph, an accident occurred that threatened to prove fatal to Lightfoot. He had not run fifty yards after leaving the open when his foot struck a stub or projecting root, hurling him violently against a log. He lay as he had fallen, motionless, senseless, as if dead.

No longer yelling, but listening eagerly for the sound of footfalls, the savages rushed on, knowing that, by pausing to hearken, their last hope of overtaking the fugitive would be banished. On they dashed, scrambling over the fallen tree brushing unconsciously past their senseless foe, even casting a shower of decaying leaves upon his body, so narrowly did they miss him.

For fully an hour Lightfoot lay there, like one dead. But then consciousness gradually returned, and he struggled to a sitting posture, still clutching the limb that had broken short in his hand when he fell. Slowly recollection came to him, and he recalled the events of that night; but clearer than all these, a golden-haired woman stood out before his mental vision, appealing to him for assistance.

This thought seemed to put new life into his veins, and he sprung lightly to his feet. His brain throbbed violently, and he glided to the edge of the open ground, and peered keenly forth. Not a living soul was to be seen. The moon now shone clear and brightly. A stiff breeze was blowing. After a swift glance around, Lightfoot glided out from the shadow, and began recrossing the natural meadow.

He was returning to the Osage village!

It seemed a foolhardy act, but the chief firmly resolved to again enter the village, to rescue Yellow-hair, if it lay in his power. He felt assured that she was there—that the captive brought in by Seth Grable was none other than Edith Mordaunt.

He was not acting without due reflection. The deed would be easier on that night than any succeeding one, for several reasons. Nearly, if not quite all of the braves had set forth in pursuit of himself and friends. Even if not, they would scarce suspect a second attempt, after the first having so nearly proven fatal. Nothing would be further from their minds than that he would again venture into the village. For these reasons Lightfoot resolved to make the attempt. He had vowed eternal fidelity to Yellow-hair; he had abandoned his people because of her—he would save her from the White Wolf's fangs, though it should cost his life.

Across the meadow he glided. In this lay his greatest danger. It was not likely that the Osages had yet given over searching for him. Were any of them gazing out upon the meadow, they must see him.

Nearing the other side, he slackened his pace. When within arrow-shot, he turned abruptly to the right, and ran at full speed for several hundred yards, then darted into the woods. By this move he hoped to escape any ambush that might have been laid for him. Yet no sound gave token that such was the case, as he hastened on through the forest.

Ten minutes later he stood gazing out upon the Osage village. The fires were still smoldering, a few forms could be seen, but the place was very quiet. Evidently the warriors had not yet returned.

There seemed little fear of his being discovered, but Lightfoot feared taking the time that must be consumed by crawling up to the log huts, and, crouching low down, he glided along in a circuit that would bring him up behind the corral. This he gained in safety, undiscovered, and then crept toward the village in the shadow cast by the rude fence.

Though he could plainly distinguish several braves sitting behind the smoldering fires, lazily smoking, Lightfoot gained the outer row of lodges unseen, even by the wolfish dogs that skulked round the village. Here he paused to locate more perfectly the cabin into which he had seen the captive maiden hurried. A few moments sufficed for this, but then a black frown corrugated his brow.

A fire smoldered before the cabin door. Beside it an Indian crouched; one of the smokers he had before noticed. Fate seemed conspiring against the bold Kickapoo, for while this guard remained on duty, he could not hope to accomplish his aim.

Lightfoot glanced keenly around. Only one other form met his eye—that of the second smoker. All others in the village appeared buried in slumber.

A determined expression settled over Lightfoot's face. He had decided. Too much had been dared to hesitate now. He might never again succeed in entering the village. He dared not risk delay, lest the lamb should be sacrificed to the lust of the wolf.

Prostrating himself, like a shadow he glided over the ground, nearing the cabin he felt assured contained Yellow-hair. The progress of a snake could not have been more noiseless. 'Twas the perfection of skill.

A moment more satisfied his doubts. In range with the guard, Lightfoot saw that a cabin hid the smokers from each other. Could he silence the one without attracting the attention of the other, he might succeed in freeing the captive. The risk was very great, yet he resolved to dare it.

At that moment he longed for his trusty bow. With it he could easily dispose of both these braves, without alarming the sleepers. And now he had only knife and tomahawk to depend upon.

Without alarm, he gained the cabin, then crawled to the corner. The fire was but a few feet from the door. A single leap would place him beside the drowsy guard. Yet he feared to risk it. A single cry—nay, a gasp—a groan would be sufficient to arouse the other watch, and then a whoop would alarm the sleepers. This Lightfoot reasoned as he silently moved out from the shadow into the light, a bright blade gleaming in his hand.

Slowly, silently, scarce perceptibly, a veritable shadow of death, the Kickapoo lessened the distance separating him from the drowsy sentinel. Nearer, still nearer until, with extended arm, he could have driven the long blade to the haft between the savage's shoulders. Yet the stroke was withheld.

Noiselessly Lightfoot drew himself together. Then his left arm was gradually extended. The moment was at hand.

The eye could scarcely follow his motions. His left hand closed like a seal upon the Indian's mouth, bearing him forcibly backward to meet the deadly blow dealt by the free hand. A peculiar gritting sound as the keen blade was pressed lower, was all.

And yet the sound met the ear of the second watcher, and Lightfoot heard a suspicious grunt as he arose from beside the fire. Discovery seemed inevitable, yet the Kickapoo did not seek safety in flight.

With a sudden movement he threw a corner of the dirty blanket over the wound, then crouched low down behind the corpse, supporting it in a lifelike position, peering out from beneath a corner of the blanket. He saw the savage step round the corner of a cabin, then pause, as if undecided. By the dim light he could not detect the blood that was slowly soaking through the blanket.