Part 16

We discovered nothing, and the next day and many others went by with no better luck. Sometimes we encountered the slots of deer or bear, and the woodcraft of my comrades would be baffled temporarily until they had proved beyond doubt that the trace was not used by human feet. Once we came upon signs of old encampments, and diligently scouted the vicinity, only to be convinced they were the relics of some casual hunting-party.

Our provisions were exhausted, and we were compelled to live from hand to mouth upon such game as Ta-wan-ne-ars could snare or kill with his tomahawk--and certes he was wondrous proficient in both arts. But we kept on, bearing always eastward and quartering the country in every direction. Game there was in plenty, sure testimony that man seldom came here; dense underbrush linked the towering trunks; there was not so much as a footprint in hundreds of square miles to reveal human occupancy.

Yet in the very midst of this deserted wilderness we came upon what we sought. We had abandoned the headwaters of the Mohawk and were following one of its middle branches, a shallow stream with pebbly, shelving banks, wading close inshore so as not to disturb the close-growing shrubbery. We all saw it simultaneously--a tattered, weather-stained fragment of canvas, caught on a snag in the current. I fished it out with my musket-barrel.

"A pack-cofer," declared Peter immediately.

"And safely identified," I added, putting my finger on an unmistakable thistle in green paint with three-quarters of a letter "M" above it.

A mile farther on Ta-wan-ne-ars exclaimed and pointed upward to the trunk of a tall elm. Partly shaded by the foliage of the lower boughs a deep blaze was revealed in the bark.

We waded ashore and investigated. The underbrush was as thick as elsewhere, but presently Peter gave a heave with his bull-like shoulders and a whole section of growths, which had been laced together with vines on a backing of boughs, lifted gate-fashion. Beyond stretched a narrow alley, whose carpet of grass showed it to be seldom traveled.

"If this be not the Doom Trail 'tis worth a look none the less," I whispered.

Peter nodded, and slipped through the opening. I followed him, and Ta-wan-ne-ars brought up the rear.

Here in this hidden path the forest noises became remote. Even the birds ceased to twitter overhead, and the slightest stirring of the treetops made us drop to earth in expectancy of attack. Yet when the attack came we were taken completely by surprize.

We had progressed some five miles from the beginning of the trail, and had reached a point where it forked--or perhaps I should say was joined by a second trail. At any rate the united trails continued into a beaver swamp, where they disappeared. We scouted the swamp, but could see no signs of a path across it; and Peter led the way to the right, intending to encircle it.

The beavers had thinned the timber hereabout and cut down most of the brushwood, so that we walked at ease between wide-spaced trunks. We were all of us alert, but the first warning that we were under observation was a green-feathered arrow which sang between Peter and me and buried its head in the ground.

"Don'dt fire, whatefer you do," muttered Peter as he threw himself behind the nearest trunk.

Ta-wan-ne-ars and I copied his example. I found myself on the right of the three. The others had selected standing trunks. I had chosen, perforce, a fallen giant which some forest wind had overthrown. I crawled along the trunk into the tangle of roots, and from there gained a clump of bushes growing about the hole from which it had been torn. I could see Ta-wan-ne-ars crouched behind his trunk, with his musket beside him and his tomahawk in his hand. Peter was concealed from view.

The green-feathered arrow had ceased quivering and I idly followed the angle of its inclination. My eyes traveled forward--and focused upon a hideous painted face which peered from a screen of sumac.

The watcher motioned behind him, and a second painted visage glided to his side. Ta-wan-ne-ars, seeking to draw their fire, thrust out the end of his scalp-lock, and the first watcher instantly drew bow and sent an arrow that grazed the trunk.

Nothing happened for a while. The Keepers waited, and Ta-wan-ne-ars and Peter remained under cover. I surveyed the situation. From the hole in which I lay a depression of the ground ran eastward past the lair of the Cahnuagas in the sumac clump. I started to crawl up it, dragging my musket after me, but before I had gone a dozen feet I was obliged to abandon the gun in order to insure that my progress should be silent.

Ta-wan-ne-ars, aware that I was up to something, called to Peter, and the two of them executed a series of feints which kept the Keepers occupied. When I was parallel with the sumac clump I sought shelter under a patch of wild blackberry-bushes. Cautiously parting my screen--which was exceedingly thorny and painful--I was able to view the Keepers from the rear. They were ensconced in what was evidently a permanent sentry-post. Beyond the sumacs was a low bark hut masked with boughs. At their feet were muskets. The bows they held were employed for the purpose of adding mystery to their attack.

So accustomed were the Keepers to the overpowering spell of the Doom Trail, which weakened the nerves of all trespassers, that they were wholly confident of the success of their tactics in first frightening us and afterward running us down at pleasure. They stood behind the sumac screen, their bushy feather head-dresses close together, grins of anticipation cracking the paint on their evil faces.

I worked myself a little more in rear of their position, then rose quietly and drew knife and tomahawk. I was an amateur at casting the ax, but this was no time for hesitation. I flung it with all my might, and yelled the nearest approach I could compass to the war-whoop.

The tomahawk struck one of the Keepers with the flat of its blade, felling him. The other savage turned quickly and loosed his arrow at me, aiming wide in his confusion. He stooped for his musket, but I was on him with my knife and he was forced to leap back and meet me on even terms. Ta-wan-ne-ars and Peter came running between the trees, whooping encouragement.

They arrived in the nick of time, for the Cahnuaga I had tried to tomahawk was on his feet, ready to shoot me as I dodged the knife-blade of his mate. The Seneca brained this man with the butt of his gun, and Peter methodically tripped my adversary and helped me pinion him.

Ta-wan-ne-ars paused long enough to remove what was left of the scalp of his victim, then crossed to us and set his bloody knife to the throat of the survivor.

"Is it to be torture or a quick death, Cahnuaga dog!" he demanded.

The red eyes of the Keeper glared at him. "Death," the man spat, and strove to gnaw at the hands which held him.

"Then speak truly. Who travels Doom Trail today?"

"Nobody. We watch always."

Ta-wan-ne-ars pricked him slightly.

"You watch always," assented the Seneca. "Yes. And who comes?"

A shout echoed through the forest aisles. The red eyes of the Cahnuaga flared exultantly. His mouth opened.

"Yaaa-aaaa-aaa-ah--"

Ta-wan-ne-ars drove his point home, and the scream ended in an awful bubbling gasp.

The shout was repeated.

XXII

WE MEET RED DEATH AND BLACK DEATH

The crashing of branches sounded as some heavy body ran along the Doom Trail.

"Did ye hear that screech?" shouted a rough voice.

"Yaas, Red, me hear him. He bery much like feller feel something he not like."

Peter nudged me, and Ta-wan-ne-ars seized the bow and quiver of one of the dead Keepers. We crouched beside the bodies behind the sumac screen. My gun was still where I had left it in the gully by which I had approached the lair of the watchers. In its stead I selected the musket of the man the Seneca had just knifed.

"Funny they don't answer us--'nless that was an answer we heard," continued the rough voice. "Give 'em another hail in their own lingo."

A third voice was raised--in the Cahnuaga dialect, which was a corruption of the Iroquois speech and perfectly understandable to my comrades.

"_Qua_, O Keepers who watch," shouted the third speaker. "We acquaint you that we approach. We have with us the Red One and the Black One."

We remained quiet, but Peter possessed himself of the gun of the second Cahnuaga and placed it where he could reach it as soon as his own piece was discharged.

"That's ---- funny, Tom," called the first speaker, who was plainly Bolling.

"Yaas, him ---- ---- funny," answered the negro.

They were approaching over the trail which forked into the one we had followed from the stream with the pebbly banks. And at this point apparently they came to the junction of the two branches.

"Hullo," commented Bolling's great voice--he spoke habitually in a roar. "Somebody come by this way."

"Mebbe them Keepers go look for us the other way," suggested Tom.

"Mought be so, but I ain't figgerin' on takin' no chances with them green arrows. French put the Injuns up to dippin' the points in rattlesnake p'ison, and I seed them try it on a poor devil of a Mohican they gathered in. I ain't hankerin' to die in no snake-snarl."

The Indian who had shouted before repeated his hail.

"Them Keepers done gone away, Red," declared Tom. "Mebbe some Maquas[1] come dis way. The Keepers chase 'em out o' hyuh."

[1] Hostile term for Mohawks.

"----! I'm agoin' to find out," returned Bolling.

He trotted out of the mouth of the trail into the open space on the brink of the muskrat swamp.

"Nobody here," he called back after a casual look around. "Guess you was right, Tom. The Keepers got after somebody--or else the lazy dogs have turned in for a sleep. I'll find out later for sure. Now you rustle them packs up, and I'll get the dugout ready."

He dragged a canoe hollowed from a tree-trunk from its hiding-place in a bed of reeds, and produced two paddles from the prostrate trunk of a hollow tree. But we paid scant attention to him. Our eyes were fastened upon the odd procession which emerged from the trail in obedience to his summons.

First walked the negro Tom, a huge pack bowing his enormous shoulders. After the negro, in single file, came eight Cahnuagas, each with a large pack braced on a _ga-ne-ko-na-ah_, or burden frame. They carried their muskets in their hands.

"We've got to hurry if we're goin' to get everything ferried over the swamp tonight," grumbled Bolling. "Waall, what's bitin' you?"

This question was addressed to a Cahnuaga who, in unslinging his burden-frame, had chanced to see the arrow in the ground which the Keepers had shot in their first attempt to bait us.

The Cahnuaga pointed silently to the green-feathered shaft.

"By ----!" swore Bolling with a start. "D'ye see that, Tom?"

The negro dropped his pack and shook some fresh priming into the pan of his musket.

"Nobody nebber done come here befo'," he said dubiously. "Howcome dat arrow dere, Red?"

"---- it, how the ---- do I know? I want to tell you this ain't no joke. Something's happened here."

Bolling glanced about him uneasily.

"The Keepers have gone, that's sure," he announced. "What most likely happened was some party broke in here, and the Keepers chased 'em."

He chuckled wickedly.

"Ain't no blood nor nothin' around, so it 'pears likely the Keepers got the jump on 'em."

Ta-wan-ne-ars, who had been occupied in extracting arrows from a quiver and setting them in a row before him with points lightly thrust into the ground, now notched a shaft.

"Shall we begin, brothers?" he whispered. "Hold your fire until I run out of arrows."

"Ja," agreed Peter. "Budt do not shoot Red Jack or der nigger. We will safe them if we can."

"You can take on the negro," I spoke up. "Leave Bolling to me."

Peter looked doubtful.

"He is a goodt knife-fighter," he commenced to argue; but Ta-wan-ne-ars chose that moment to open his bombardment, and the Dutchman's remonstrance went for naught.

A green arrow streaked across the grove and buried its barbed bone head in the chest of one of the Cahnuagas. The man shrieked and tore at the shaft with his hands. His companions scattered right and left. But Ta-wan-ne-ars gave them no respite. His shafts filled the air. The green arrows drove into the packs, quivered in tree-trunks, pierced another unfortunate.

"Are ye crazy?" shouted Bolling at the strangely hostile sumac clump. "Don't ye see----"

"It's dem ---- False Faces," cried Tom, dancing with rage. "Dey got some hocus-pocus up. Fire at 'em."

Thus adjured, the Cahnuagas let off a ragged volley which whistled over our heads. Ta-wan-ne-ars discharged the last of his arrows and reached for his musket. At the same moment Peter fired, and I tailed him. We saw two of the Indians collapse. Peter caught up his second musket and he and Ta-wan-ne-ars shot again. 'Twas impossible to miss. Besides Bolling and Tom, only two of the enemy were left.

"Knife and hatchet for the rest," said Ta-wan-ne-ars grimly. "Are my brothers ready?"

Peter answered him with the Iroquois war-whoop, and we sprang from the sumac clump, dodging right and left through the tree-trunks.

"Here they come," yelled Bolling in warning.

He fired his musket, and I felt the wind of its bullet on my cheek. Tom shot with no better results. The two surviving Cahnuagas threw away their guns and fled.

"I will take care of them, brothers," shouted Ta-wan-ne-ars, casting aside his own musket. "One Seneca against two Cahnuagas--that should be fair odds."

He put on speed as he spoke, waved his hand and was gone, running like a greyhound after the two frightened savages, who were scurrying around the swamp.

The field was left to Peter and me and the two ruffians whom the frontier called Red Death and Black Death. They seemed nothing loath to meet us.

"Ho, ho, ho," roared Bolling. "D'ye see who it is, Tom?"

The negro's apelike face was distorted by a grin which showed his yellow tusks. His wicked little eyes gleamed ferociously.

"Massa Murray done goin' to gib us a heap o' presents fo' this," he answered. "Ah reckon mebbe we get all der rum we wants to drink."

"Waall, I will," chuckled Bolling, "but you won't."

Tom slobbered like an animal regretting its inability to eat sufficiently.

"Ah'm aimin' to try," he said.

"There ain't enough," returned Bolling. "Waall, young feller"--this to me--"was you intendin' to amuse me some!"

"I'm intending to let a little clean air into your dirty skin," I answered.

He threw back his head as if much amused.

"Ho, ho, ho! Now ain't you got the smart way o' puttin' things! Young feller, I'll tell yer what: you're too good for the frontier. You----"

As quick as lightning, and without an indication in advance to warn me, he flung his tomahawk at my head. I saw it coming, and instinctively did the only thing possible to save myself--raised my own ax to guard. Bolling's hatchet struck mine and knocked it from my hand, leaving my arm sore and tingling.

"You wasn't expectin' that, was you?" he gibed. "Waall, young feller, there's a heap o' other things you ain't expectin', but they're a-goin' to happen. Yes, right now. You watch."

He poised himself on the balls of his feet, and pranced around me, his big, double-edged scalping-knife held ready in his right hand.

"I'm aimin' to carve you, my lad," he warned me. "You ain't got the chance a squirrel has ag'in an eagle. There ain't a knife-fighter in these parts can stand up to me. D'ye know what they call me?"

"The Red Death," I said. "And I am going to redden more than your hair."

"Ho, ho, ho! The cockerel can crow! Boy, I'm 'most ready to be sorry for ye. I feel that bloody-minded I ain't got no mercy left at all.

"It ain't just that I'm a-goin' to kill ye, ye understand. That wouldn't be so bad. But no, I'm goin' to take my time about it and carve ye up first--bit by bit. I'll take a little off en your arm first. Like that!"

He made a sudden leap, but I had been watching his eye, as the fencing-masters taught us to watch an opponent with the small-swords--and knife-fighting is much like sword-play in this respect--and I was prepared for him. I jumped backward, and his knife-point jabbed the sod underfoot. He was on his feet again in a second.

"Thought ye was smart, eh?" he snarled, his ugly face a blaze of ferocity. "Waall, for that, I'll torment ye the longer. Take this now!"

He attacked me with a peculiar sweeping blow that was aimed at my shoulder, but fell at the level of the waist. Had it passed my guard, 'twould have disemboweled me. I parried his blade with mine, and struck back for the first time with such venom that he leaped away in alarm.

The suspension in his attack gave me opportunity to glance over my shoulder toward the edge of the swamp, where Peter and the negro were circling each other warily, tomahawks poised for throwing.

The sight put an idea in my mind. I remembered my duel with the Cahnuaga in the glade by the Great Trail and the discovery that he was at a disadvantage when I used the knife as I had learned to use the sword. I promptly shifted my grip on the knife-hilt and held it straight before me as if it were a rapier. At the same time I inclined my other arm behind me to balance it. Bolling viewed this manoeuvre with derision.

"Ye pore babby," he sneered. "Think ye can meet a knife-fighter like me with one arm? Or fight me off with the point? I'll show ye."

He charged upon me like a battering-ram, his knife a whirling point of steel, its broad blade slashing in both directions. I retired slowly, anxious to increase his self-confidence.

"Stand up to me!" he yelled finally. "Be ye feared?"

I laughed at this, and it made him furious. He stamped around me, slashing and stabbing, and it was several minutes before he discovered that however viciously he struck I was always able to parry him with an economy of effort. I kept my point in the restricted circle which the experts of fence decree to be the most potent guard.

Breathing heavily, he retreated several paces and stood, glaring at me, his knife upraised.

"You don't understand, Bolling, do you?" I mocked him.

"Understand what, ye ---- swine?" he ripped.

"Fighting the way gentlemen fight."

"Ye call that a gentleman's way!" he laughed harshly. "I call it a coward's way! Why don't ye take the edge?"

"I will if you'll take the point," I retorted.

"Come on," he proffered, and he crept forward like a huge cat, feet spread wide, shoulders crouched, knife a menacing flame.

Somewhat to his surprize I did not give ground to him this time, but met him squarely as he advanced. My arm was extended, full-length, tipped with a good ten inches of steel. He struck, and I parried his blow. He slashed, and I put it aside. He struck again, and I almost succeeded in twisting his blade from his hand by an old trick of the _salle des armes_. But my knife was not long enough to get the necessary purchase with it.

"Why don't ye fight fair?" he growled, wringing his arm.

"Why don't you?" I returned.

He charged with wonderful celerity, dropped to his knee and slashed upward so effectively that his point cut the skirt of my leather shirt.

"I'll get ye yet," he howled with glee.

But I refuse to be intimidated. Indeed, I was no longer doubtful of the issue. I knew that I could outfight him or any fighter of his caliber by my adaptation of sword-play to knife-fighting.

I leaped upon him by way of answer, and pressed the fighting. He yielded ground to me, seeking to retreat into the woods by the trail; but I rounded him up and herded him steadily toward the edge of the swamp.

Out of the corner of my eye I saw Peter fling his tomahawk at Tom and Tom hurl his knife in reply. Then my opponent shifted ground once more, and I was occupied in driving him back in the direction I meant him to go. We hovered nearer and nearer to the swamp edge, and Bolling's breath began to come in labored gasps.

I shortened our fighting-range, and gave him the point, drawing blood occasionally. He kept his head down, and parried desperately, trying to escape to one side, but I was on him so swiftly that he was afraid of a blow from the rear, and must needs stand to defend himself. At last he stood on the very brink of the morass, with no avenue of escape open.

I paused a moment.

"How will you die, my friend?" I asked. "You can smother to death if you prefer it."

His answer was a bellow of insensate rage and his knife, thrown point-first at my chest. By sheer luck I caught its point on my hilt, turned it aside and met his rush. He wrapped his arms around me, intent on carrying me with him into the ooze and slime. But I stabbed him to the heart before his bear's hug was completed, and he fell away from me, arms spread wide, and lay in a noisome heap by the tussocks of marsh grass.

I stood over him, panting from my exertions, when a shout from Ta-wan-ne-ars attracted my attention. The Seneca was returning from his pursuit of the two Cahnuagas. He shouted again, and pointed behind me. I turned to see Peter and the negro locked in each other's arms, and as I looked, Tom heaved Peter into the air and sought to throw him. But Peter locked his legs around the negro's waist, and they rolled over and over across the ground.

I reached them just as they struggled to their feet, grips unrelaxed. Peter warned me off.

"Standt clear," he croaked. "I finish this myself."

Certes, nobody but Peter could have finished it. The negro's strength was colossal. His arms were half again as long as Peter's and Peter was a big man. The negro's shoulder and back muscles were iron bands--we afterward estimated the pack he had been carrying at three hundred weight and a half. He fought like a wildcat, with teeth and nails and legs. But Peter met him phlegmatically, refusing to be angered by the vilest attempt.

Once, whilst Ta-wan-ne-ars and I stood by, Peter tried to break his back. Any other man's back would have been broken. A second time Tom rolled the Dutchman on the ground and clawed at his eyes; but Peter kept one arm across them and escaped with bleeding cheeks. Again, Peter rose up to his full height and jolted the negro down upon his head. It seemed as if the fellow's neck must break if his skull resisted the shock. Yet he bounded to his feet unhurt, and with a swift look around made a dash for liberty, which Ta-wan-ne-ars and I headed off.

Then Peter closed with him. They had torn the clothing from each other's shoulders and flanks. They dripped blood. Their skins shone with sweat. Their chests heaved with the effort for breath.

Tom stooped and flung his arms around Peter's waist, driving his head for the Dutchman's loins. Peter retaliated by bringing up his knee against the negro's chin. Tom reeled back, and Peter swooped upon him. One arm hooked Tom's waist, the other caught him by the neck.

Dazed and with a mouthful of shattered teeth, Tom struggled feebly, but without avail. Peter twisted him, bore him to the ground, shifted grip rapidly, drove his knee into the quivering belly and throttled the life out of the black throat.

"So I make an endt of him," panted the Dutchman as he staggered to his feet.

"Aye, we have made an end to Red Death and Black Death," I answered.

"And I slew the two who ran," added Ta-wan-ne-ars, touching two scalps whose clustered feathers protruded from his belt.

"A clean sweep," I said. "There will be none to carry the tale to La Vierge du Bois."

"That is ever the criminal's belief," interrupted a voice in French.

We spun round in amazement to face a gaunt figure in the black habit of the Jesuits.

"Black Robe!" exclaimed Peter.

Ta-wan-ne-ars glowered at the priest.

"What do you do here, Père Hyacinthe?" I asked in French.