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struggle soon to come, he knew not. Did this boiling spring, shimmering in the
sliver moon-rays, hold in its murky depths a secret? Did these lonesome,
shadowing trees, with their sad drooping branches, harbor a mystery? If a
future tragedy was to be enacted here in this quiet glade, could the murmuring
water or leaves whisper its portent? No; they were only silent, only
unintelligible with nature's mystery.
The waiting man cursed himself for a craven coward; he fought back the
benumbing sense; he steeled his heart. Was this his vaunted willingness to
share the Avenger's danger? His strong spirit rose up in arms; once more he
was brave and fierce.
He fastened a piercing gaze on the plumed guard. The Indian's lounging
posture against the rock was the same as it had been before, yet now it seemed
to have a kind of strained attention. The savage's head was poised, like that
of a listening deer. The wary Indian scented danger.
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A faint moan breathed low above the sound of gently splashing water
somewhere beyond the glade.
"Woo-o-oo."
The guard's figure stiffened, and became rigidly erect; his blanket slowly
slid to his feet.
"Ah-oo-o," sighed the soft breeze in the tree tops.
Louder then, with a deep wail, a moan arose out of the dark gray shadows,
swelled thrilling on the still air, and died away mournfully.
"Um-m-mmwoo-o-o-o!"
The sentinel's form melted into the shade. He was gone like a phantom.
Another Indian rose quickly, and glanced furtively around the glade. He bent
over a comrade and shook him. Instantly the second Indian was on his feet.
Scarcely had he gained a standing posture when an object, bounding like a dark
ball, shot out of the thicket and hurled both warriors to the earth. A
moonbeam glinted upon something bright. It flashed again on a swift, sweeping
circle. A short, choking yell aroused the other savages. Up they sprang,
alarmed, confused.
The shadow-form darted among them. It moved with inconceivable rapidity; it
became a monster. Terrible was the convulsive conflict. Dull blows, the click
of steel, angry shouts, agonized yells, and thrashing, wrestling sounds
mingled together and half drowned by an awful roar like that of a mad bull.
The strife ceased as suddenly as it had begun. Warriors lay still on the
grass; others writhed in agony. For an instant a fleeting shadow crossed the
open lane leading out of the glade; then it vanished.
Three savages had sprung toward their rifles. A blinding flash, a loud
report burst from the thicket overhead. The foremost savage sank lifelessly.
The others were intercepted by a giant shadow with brandished rifle. The
watcher on the knoll had entered the glade. He stood before the stacked rifles
and swung his heavy gun. Crash! An Indian went down before that sweep, but
rose again. The savages backed away from this threatening figure, and circled
around it.
The noise of the other conflict ceased. More savages joined the three who
glided to and fro before their desperate foe. They closed in upon him, only to
be beaten back. One savage threw a glittering knife, another hurled a stone, a
third flung his tomahawk, which struck fire from the swinging rifle.
He held them at bay. While they had no firearms he was master of the
situation. With every sweep of his arms he brought the long rifle down and
knocked a flint from the firelock of an enemy's weapon. Soon the Indians' guns
were useless. Slowly then he began to edge away from the stone, toward the,
opening where he had seen the fleeting form vanish.
His intention was to make a dash for life, for he had heard a noise behind
the rock, and remembered the guard. He saw the savages glance behind him, and
anticipated danger from that direction, but he must not turn. A second there
might be fatal. He backed defiantly along the rock until he gained its outer
edge. But too late! The Indians glided before him, now behind him; he was
surrounded. He turned around and around, with the ever-circling rifle whirling
in the faces of the baffled foe.
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Once opposite the lane leading from the glade he changed his tactics, and
plunged with fierce impetuosity into the midst of the painted throng. Then
began a fearful conflict. The Indians fell before the sweep of his powerful
arms; but grappled with him from the ground. He literally plowed his way
through the struggling mass, warding off an hundred vicious blows. Savage
after savage he flung off, until at last he had a clear path before him.
Freedom lay beyond that shiny path. Into it he bounded.
As he left the glade the plumed guard stepped from behind a tree near the
entrance of the path, and cast his tomahawk.
A white, glittering flash, it flew after the fleeing runner; its aim was
true.
Suddenly the moonlight path darkened in the runner's sight; he saw a million
flashing stars; a terrible pain assailed him; he sank slowly, slowly down;
then all was darkness.
Chapter XVII.
Joe awoke as from a fearsome nightmare. Returning consciousness brought a
vague idea that he had been dreaming of clashing weapons, of yelling savages,
of a conflict in which he had been clutched by sinewy fingers. An acute pain
pulsed through his temples; a bloody mist glazed his eyes; a sore pressure
cramped his arms and legs. Surely he dreamed this distress, as well as the
fight. The red film cleared from his eyes. His wandering gaze showed the stern
reality.
The bright sun, making the dewdrops glisten on the leaves, lighted up a
tragedy. Near him lay an Indian whose vacant, sightless eyes were fixed in
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