Once before Nell had faced it, and fainted when its dread meaning grew clear to her. But now she returned his gaze with one in which flashed lightning scorn, and repulsion, in which glowed a wonderful defiance.
The cruel face of this man, the boastful barbarity of his manner, the long, dark, bloody history which his presence recalled, was, indeed, terrifying without the added horror of his intent toward her, but now the self-forgetfulness of a true woman sustained her.
Girty and Deering backed out of the door. Heckewelder closed it, and dropped the bar in place.
Nell fell over the table with a long, low gasp. Then with one hand she lifted her skirt. Benny walked from under it. His big eyes were bright. The young woman clasped him again in her arms. Then she released him, and, laboring under intense excitement, ran to the window.
“There he goes! Oh, the horrible beast! If I only had a gun and could shoot! Oh, if only I were a man! I’d kill him. To think of poor Kate! Ah! he intends the same for me!”
Suddenly she fell upon the floor in a faint. Mr. Wells and Jim lifted her on the bed beside Edwards, where they endeavored to revive her. It was some moments before she opened her eyes.
Jim sat holding Nell’s hand. Mr. Wells again bowed his head. Zeisberger continued to whittle a stick, and Heckewelder paced the floor. Christy stood by with every evidence of sympathy for this distracted group. Outside the clamor increased.
“Just listen!” cried Heckewelder. “Did you ever hear the like? All drunk, crazy, fiendish! They drank every drop of liquor the French traders had. Curses on the vagabond dealers! Rum has made these renegades and savages wild. Oh! my poor, innocent Christians!”
Heckewelder leaned his head against the mantle-shelf. He had broken down at last. Racking sobs shook his frame.
“Are you all right again?” asked Jim of Nell.
“Yes.”
“I am going out, first to see Williamson, and then the Christians,” he said, rising very pale, but calm.
“Don’t go!” cried Heckewelder. “I have tried everything. It was all of no use.”
“I will go,” answered Jim.
“Yes, Jim, go,” whispered Nell, looking up into his eyes. It was an earnest gaze in which a faint hope shone.
Jim unbarred the door and went out.
“Wait, I’ll go along,” cried Zeisberger, suddenly dropping his knife and stick.
As the two men went out a fearful spectacle met their eyes. The clearing was alive with Indians. But such Indians! They were painted demons, maddened by rum. Yesterday they had been silent; if they moved at all it had been with deliberation and dignity. Today they were a yelling, running, blood-seeking mob.
“Awful! Did you ever see human beings like these?” asked Zeisberger.
“No, no!”
“I saw such a frenzy once before, but, of course, only in a small band of savages. Many times have I seen Indians preparing for the war-path, in search of both white men and redskins. They were fierce then, but nothing like this. Every one of these frenzied fiends is honest. Think of that! Every man feels it his duty to murder these Christians. Girty has led up to this by cunning, and now the time is come to let them loose.”
“It means death for all.”
“I have given up any thought of escaping,” said Zeisberger, with the calmness that had characterized his manner since he returned to the village. “I shall try to get into the church.”
“I’ll join you there as soon as I see Williamson.”
Jim walked rapidly across the clearing to the cabin where Captain Williamson had quarters. The frontiersmen stood in groups, watching the savages with an interest which showed little or no concern.
“I want to see Captain Williamson,” said Jim to a frontiersman on guard at the cabin door.
“Wal, he’s inside,” drawled the man.
Jim thought the voice familiar, and he turned sharply to see the sun-burnt features of Jeff Lynn, the old riverman who had taken Mr. Wells’ party to Fort Henry.
“Why, Lynn! I’m glad to see you,” exclaimed Jim.
“Purty fair to middlin’,” answered Jeff, extending his big hand. “Say, how’s the other one, your brother as wus called Joe?”
“I don’t know. He ran off with Wetzel, was captured by Indians, and when I last heard of him he had married Wingenund’s daughter.”
“Wal, I’ll be dog-goned!” Jeff shook his grizzled head and slapped his leg. “I jest knowed he’d raise somethin’.”
“I’m in a hurry. Do you think Captain Williamson will stand still and let all this go on?”
“I’m afeerd so.”
Evidently the captain heard the conversation, for he appeared at the cabin door, smoking a long pipe.
“Captain Williamson, I have come to entreat you to save the Christians from this impending massacre.”
“I can’t do nuthin’,” answered Williamson, removing his pipe to puff forth a great cloud of smoke.
“You have eighty men here!”
“If we interfered Pipe would eat us alive in three minutes. You preacher fellows don’t understand this thing. You’ve got Pipe and Girty to deal with. If you don’t know them, you’ll be better acquainted by sundown.”
“I don’t care who they are. Drunken ruffians and savages! That’s enough. Will you help us? We are men of your own race, and we come to you for help. Can you withhold it?”
“I won’t hev nuthin’ to do with this bizness. The chiefs hev condemned the village, an’ it’ll hev to go. If you fellars hed been careful, no white blood would hev been spilled. I advise you all to lay low till it’s over.”
“Will you let me speak to your men, to try and get them to follow me?”
“Heckewelder asked that same thing. He was persistent, and I took a vote fer him just to show how my men stood. Eighteen of them said they’d follow him; the rest wouldn’t interfere.”
“Eighteen! My God!” cried Jim, voicing the passion which consumed him. “You are white men, yet you will stand by and see these innocent people murdered! Man, where’s your humanity? Your manhood? These converted Indians are savages no longer, they are Christians. Their children are as good, pure, innocent as your own. Can you remain idle and see these little ones murdered?”
Williamson made no answer, the men who had crowded round were equally silent. Not one lowered his head. Many looked at the impassioned missionary; others gazed at the savages who were circling around the trees brandishing their weapons. If any pitied the unfortunate Christians, none showed it. They were indifferent, with the indifference of men hardened to cruel scenes.
Jim understood, at last, as he turned from face to face to find everywhere that same imperturbability. These bordermen were like Wetzel and Jonathan Zane. The only good Indian was a dead Indian. Years of war and bloodshed, of merciless cruelty at the hands of redmen, of the hard, border life had rendered these frontiersmen incapable of compassion for any savage.
Jim no longer restrained himself.
“Bordermen you may be, but from my standpoint, from any man’s, from God’s, you are a lot of coldly indifferent cowards!” exclaimed Jim, with white,