For him it was the third great moment of his life, the last of three moments in which the Indian’s life had belonged to him. Once before he had seen that dark, powerful face over the sights of his rifle, and he could not shoot because his one shot must be for another. Again had that lofty, haughty figure stood before him, calm, disdainful, arrogant, and he yielded to a woman’s prayer.
The Delaware’s life was his to take, and he swore he would have it! He trembled in the ecstasy of his triumphant passion; his great muscles rippled and quivered, for the moment was entirely beyond his control. Then his passion calmed. Such power for vengeance had he that he could almost still the very beats of his heart to make sure and deadly his fatal aim. Slowly he raised himself; his eyes of cold fire glittered; slowly he raised the black rifle.
Wingenund stood erect in his old, grand pose, with folded arms, but his eyes, instead of being fixed on the distant hills, were lowered to the ground.
An Indian girl, cold as marble, lay at his feet. Her garments were wet, and clung to her slender form. Her sad face was frozen into an eternal rigidity.
By her side was a newly dug grave.
The bead on the front sight of the rifle had hardly covered the chief’s dark face when Wetzel’s eye took in these other details. He had been so absorbed in his purpose that he did not dream of the Delaware’s reason for returning to the Beautiful Spring.
Slowly Wetzel’s forefinger stiffened; slowly he lowered the black rifle.
Wingenund had returned to bury Whispering Winds.
Wetzel’s teethe clenched, an awful struggle tore his heart. Slowly the rifle rose, wavered and fell. It rose again, wavered and fell. Something terrible was wrong with him; something awful was awakening in his soul.
Wingenund had not made a fool of him. The Delaware had led him a long chase, had given him the slip in the forest, not to boast of it, but to hurry back to give his daughter Christian burial.
Wingenund was a Christian!
Had he not been, once having cast his daughter from him, he would never have looked upon her face again.
Wingenund was true to his race, but he was a Christian.
Suddenly Wetzel’s terrible temptation, his heart-racking struggle ceased. He lowered the long, black rifle. He took one last look at the chieftain’s dark, powerful face.
Then the Avenger fled like a shadow through the forest.
CHAPTER XXX.
It was late afternoon at Fort Henry. The ruddy sun had already sunk behind the wooded hill, and the long shadows of the trees lengthened on the green square in front of the fort.
Colonel Zane stood in his doorway watching the river with eager eyes. A few minutes before a man had appeared on the bank of the island and hailed. The colonel had sent his brother Jonathan to learn what was wanted. The latter had already reached the other shore in his flatboat, and presently the little boat put out again with the stranger seated at the stern.
“I thought, perhaps, it might be Wetzel,” mused the colonel, “though I never knew of Lew’s wanting a boat.”
Jonathan brought the man across the river, and up the winding path to where Colonel Zane was waiting.
“Hello! It’s young Christy!” exclaimed the colonel, jumping off the steps, and cordially extending his hand. “Glad to see you! Where’s Williamson. How did you happen over here?”
“Captain Williamson and his men will make the river eight or ten miles above,” answered Christy. “I came across to inquire about the young people who left the Village of Peace. Was glad to learn from Jonathan they got out all right.”
“Yes, indeed, we’re all glad. Come and sit down. Of course you’ll stay over night. You look tired and worn. Well, no wonder, when you saw that Moravian massacre. You must tell me about it. I saw Sam Brady yesterday, and he spoke of seeing you over there. Sam told me a good deal. Ah! here’s Jim now.”
The young missionary came out of the open door, and the two young men greeted each other warmly.
“How is she?” asked Christy, when the first greetings had been exchanged.
“Nell’s just beginning to get over the shock. She’ll be glad to see you.”
“Jonathan tells me you got married just before Girty came up with you at Beautiful Spring.”
“Yes; it is true. In fact, the whole wonderful story is true, yet I cannot believe as yet. You look thin and haggard. When we last met you were well.”
“That awful time pulled me down. I was an unwilling spectator of all that horrible massacre, and shall never get over it. I can still see the fiendish savages running about with the reeking scalps of their own people. I actually counted the bodies of forty-nine grown Christians and twenty-seven children. An hour after you left us the church was in ashes, and the next day I saw the burned bodies. Oh! the sickening horror of the scene! It haunts me! That monster Jim Girty killed fourteen Christians with his sledge-hammer.”
“Did you hear of his death?” asked Colonel Zane.
“Yes, and a fitting end it was to the frontier ‘Skull and Cross-bones’.”
“It was like Wetzel to think of such a vengeance.”
“Has Wetzel come in since?”
“No. Jonathan says he went after Wingenund, and there’s no telling when he’ll return.”
“I hoped he would spare the Delaware.”
“Wetzel spare an Indian!”
“But the chief was a friend. He surely saved the girl.”
“I am sorry, too, because Wingenund was a fine Indian. But Wetzel is implacable.”
“Here’s Nell, and Mrs. Clarke too. Come out, both of you,” cried Jim.
Nell appeared in the doorway with Colonel Zane’s sister. The two girls came down the steps and greeted the young man. The bride’s sweet face was white and thin, and there was a shadow in her eyes.
“I am so glad you got safely away from—from there,” said Christy, earnestly.
“Tell me of Benny?” asked Nell, speaking softly.
“Oh, yes, I forgot. Why, Benny is safe and well. He was the only Christian Indian to escape the Christian massacre. Heckewelder hid him until it was all over. He is going to have the lad educated.”
“Thank Heaven!” murmured Nell.
“And the missionaries?” inquired Jim, earnestly.
“Were all well when I left, except, of course, Young. He was dying. The others will remain out there, and try to get another hold, but I fear it’s impossible.”
“It is impossible, not because the Indian does not want Christianity, but because such white men as the Girty’s rule. The beautiful Village of Peace owes its ruin to the renegades,” said Colonel Zane impressively.
“Captain Williamson could have prevented the massacre,” remarked Jim.
“Possibly. It was a bad place for him, and I think he was wrong not to try,” declared the colonel.
“Hullo!” cried Jonathan Zane, getting up from the steps where he sat listening to the conversation.
A familiar soft-moccasined footfall sounded on the path. All turned to see Wetzel come slowly toward them. His buckskin hunting costume was ragged and worn. He looked tired and weary, but the dark eyes were calm.
It