Originally published: 1878
Genres: Adventure, Western
Goodreads link: https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/122860457-wood-king
Gutenberg link: https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/69490
Chapters: 11
Warning: This may include outdated and derogatory language and attitudes.
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 curdog 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 trousers 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, a 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 riverbank, that, though low at the ford, here rose abruptly into a considerable hill.
Holding a 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 riverbank.
The fugitive heard their cries and glanced back over his shoulder. He saw several of them with bent 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 not 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 as 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 lifeblood 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 tonight, 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 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, and 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, and 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 a 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 around 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 grapevine 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 riverside. 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, on 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 a full 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 rang 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.
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