“Find the place,” said Mr. Wells, handing Jim a Bible. It was the one he always carried in his pocket.
With trembling hand Jim turned the leaves. At last he found the lines, and handed the book back to the old man.
Simple, sweet and sad was that marriage service. Nell and Jim knelt with hands clasped over Mr. Wells. The old missionary’s voice was faint; Nell’s responses were low, and Jim answered with deep and tender feeling. Beside them stood Wingenund, a dark, magnificent figure.
“There! May God bless you!” murmured Mr. Wells, with a happy smile, closing the Bible.
“Nell, my wife!” whispered Jim, kissing her hand.
“Come!” broke in Wingenund’s voice, deep, strong, like that of a bell.
Not one of them had observed the chief as he stood erect, motionless, poised like a stag scenting the air. His dark eyes seemed to pierce the purple-golden forest, his keen ear seemed to drink in the singing of the birds and the gentle rustling of leaves. Native to these haunts as were the wild creatures, they were no quicker than the Indian to feel the approach of foes. The breeze had borne faint, suspicious sounds.
“Keep—the—Bible,” said Mr. Wells, “remember—its—word.” His hand closely clasped Nell’s, and then suddenly loosened. His pallid face was lighted by a meaning, tender smile which slowly faded—faded, and was gone. The venerable head fell back. The old missionary was dead.
Nell kissed the pale, cold brow, and then rose, half dazed and shuddering. Jim was vainly trying to close the dead man’s eyes. She could no longer look. On rising she found herself near the Indian chief. He took her fingers in his great hand, and held them with a strong, warm pressure. Strangely thrilled, she looked up at Wingenund. His somber eyes, fixed piercingly on the forest, and his dark stern face, were, as always, inscrutable. No compassion shone there; no emotion unbefitting a chieftain would ever find expression in that cold face, but Nell felt a certain tenderness in this Indian, a response in his great heart. Felt it so surely, so powerfully that she leaned her head against him. She knew he was her friend.
“Come,” said the chief once more. He gently put Nell aside before Jim arose from his sad task.
“We can not leave him unburied,” expostulated Jim.
Wingenund dragged aside a large stone which formed one wall of the cavern. Then he grasped a log which was half covered by dirt, and, exerting his great strength, pulled it from its place. There was a crash, a rumble, the jar of a heavy weight striking the earth, then the rattling of gravel, and, before Nell and Jim realized what had happened, the great rock forming the roof of the cavern slipped down the bank followed by a small avalanche. The cavern was completely covered. Mr. Wells was buried. A mossy stone marked the old missionary’s grave.
Nell and Jim were lost in wonder and awe.
“Ugh!” cried the chief, looking toward the opening in the glade.
Fearfully Nell and Jim turned, to be appalled by four naked, painted savages standing with leveled rifles. Behind them stood Deering and Jim Girty.
“Oh, God! We are lost! Lost! Lost!” exclaimed Jim, unable to command himself. Hope died in his heart.
No cry issued from Nell’s white lips. She was dazed by this final blow. Having endured so much, this last misfortune, apparently the ruin of her life, brought no added suffering, only a strange, numb feeling.
“Ah-huh! Thought you’d give me the slip, eh?” croaked Girty, striding forward, and as he looked at Wingenund his little, yellow eyes flared like flint. “Does a wolf befriend Girty’s captives? Chief you hev led me a hard chase.”
Wingenund deigned no reply. He stood as he did so often, still and silent, with folded arms, and a look that was haughty, unresponsive.
The Indians came forward into the glade, and one of them quickly bound Jim’s hands behind his back. The savages wore a wild, brutish look. A feverish ferocity, very near akin to insanity, possessed them. They were not quiet a moment, but ran here and there, for no apparent reason, except, possibly, to keep in action with the raging fire in their hearts. The cleanliness which characterized the normal Indian was absent in them; their scant buckskin dress was bedraggled and stained. They were still drunk with rum and the lust for blood. Murder gleamed from the glance of their eyes.
“Jake, come over here,” said Girty to his renegade friend. “Ain’t she a prize?”
Girty and Deering stood before the poor, stricken girl, and gloated over her fair beauty. She stood as when first transfixed by the horror from which she had been fleeing. Her pale face was lowered, her hands clenched tightly in the folds of her skirt.
Never before had two such coarse, cruel fiends as Deering and Girty encumbered the earth. Even on the border, where the best men were bad, they were the worst. Deering was yet drunk, but Girty had recovered somewhat from the effects of the rum he had absorbed. The former rolled his big eyes and nodded his shaggy head. He was passing judgment, from his point of view, on the fine points of the girl.
“She cer’aintly is,” he declared with a grin. “She’s a little beauty. Beats any I ever seen!”
Jim Girty stroked his sharp chin with dirty fingers. His yellow eyes, his burnt saffron skin, his hooked nose, his thin lips—all his evil face seemed to shine with an evil triumph. To look at him was painful. To have him gaze at her was enough to drive any woman mad.
Dark stains spotted the bright frills of his gaudy dress, his buckskin coat and leggins, and dotted his white eagle plumes. Dark stains, horribly suggestive, covered him from head to foot. Blood stains! The innocent blood of Christians crimsoned his renegade’s body, and every dark red blotch cried murder.
“Girl, I burned the Village of Peace to git you,” growled Girty. “Come here!”
With a rude grasp that tore open her dress, exposing her beautiful white shoulder and bosom, the ruffian pulled her toward him. His face was transfixed with a fierce joy, a brutal passion.
Deering looked on with a drunken grin, while his renegade friend hugged the almost dying girl. The Indians paced the glade with short strides like leashed tigers. The young missionary lay on the moss with closed eyes. He could not endure the sight of Nell in Girty’s arms.
No one noticed Wingenund. He stood back a little, half screened by drooping branches. Once again the chief’s dark eyes gleamed, his head turned a trifle aside, and, standing in the statuesque position habitual with him when resting, he listened, as one who hears mysterious sounds. Suddenly his keen glance was riveted on the ferns above the low cliff. He had seen their graceful heads quivering. Then two blinding sheets of flame burst from the ferns.
Spang! Spang!
The two rifle reports thundered through the glade. Two Indians staggered and fell in their tracks—dead without a cry.
A huge yellow body, spread out like a panther in his spring, descended with a crash upon Deering and Girty. The girl fell away from the renegade as he went down with a shrill screech, dragging Deering with him. Instantly began a terrific, whirling, wrestling struggle.
A few feet farther down the cliff another yellow body came crashing down to alight with a thud, to bound erect, to rush forward swift as a leaping deer. The two remaining Indians had only time to draw their weapons before this lithe, threatening form whirled upon them. Shrill cries, hoarse yells, the clash of steel and dull blows mingled together. One savage went down, twisted over, writhed and lay still. The other staggered, warded off lightninglike blows until one passed under his guard, and crashed dully on his head. Then he reeled, rose again, but only to have his skull cloven by a bloody tomahawk.
The victor darted toward the whirling mass.
“Lew, shake him loose! Let him go!” yelled Jonathan Zane, swinging his bloody weapon.
High above Zane’s cry, Deering’s shouts and curses, Girty’s shrieks of fear and fury, above