CHAPTER XIII.

THE BAFFLED RENEGADE.

Jim Girty, the renegade, was elate with anticipated triumph when he left the lodge of the widowed squaws.

He had succeeded in inflaming their revengeful passions and their fingers itched to clutch the captives’ throats.

“When Tecumseh sleeps, we will come to the strong lodge, bind his braves, take the captives into the dark woods, and burn them with fire,” cried the stalwart Amasqua, one of the stricken chief’s squaws. “We will do more.”

“What will Amasqua and her women do?” asked Girty.

“We will tear the white weakling from Alaska’s wolves, and burn him with the other captives.”

“Amasqua and her women must be wary,” said the renegade, “Alaska’s children bite.”

“We will first transfix them with arrows.”

“Ah!” ejaculated Girty, “then Amasqua can take the white lout’s heart.”

Thus was the plot for the violent death of our three male friends concocted, and it is not to be wondered that the renegade returned to his lodge with heart elate.

During the short interval that elapsed between his return and dawn, he slept but little, and when the first streak of day penetrated the village he sprung from his couch.

After glancing into Eudora’s apartment, and finding her still asleep, he set to work cleaning his rifle.

“I may need the gun,” he said in an undertone, “and now above all times it should be cleaned. Tecumseh says that weak lout is Alaska’s child. Who’d have thought that crazy hag would take such an outlandish notion? Her boy! So am I, then, and I know that I am old enough to be her father. Curse the weakling! If he hadn’t come into these parts, I’d ’a’ been enjoying myself with the girl--after the Indian fashion she would have been my wife. And then that crazy hag would not be against me. Oh! curse that boy!”

As he uttered the imprecation, he dashed a fierce look toward Alaska’s lodge, plainly visible from his own.

“If the lout would show himself now, I’d shoot him,” hissed Girty, “ay, and none could tell whence the shot came, for all save my guards still sleep. Why don’t he take an airing? I wish--Ha! have I no more than to wish?”

As if intent upon the gratification of the renegade’s desires, Mayne Fairfax parted the curtains of Alaska’s lodge, and stepped beyond the threshold, where he paused to enjoy the beauties of the morning.

“It’s your last airing, my boy,” hissed Girty, quickly throwing the different parts of his rifle into their proper places, while the fiendish light of revenge lit up his countenance with a lividness as horrible as unnatural. “I’ll forestall the mad squaws in a portion of their work!”

Stepping aside, that he might not be perceived by his intended victim, Girty rammed a bullet home, and again returned to the curtain.

Unsuspicious of danger, our young hero still stood before Alaska’s lodge. His keen eyes seemed to be employed in surveying the village, no doubt for future action.

With a muttered oath the renegade drew his gun to his shoulder, and his eye glanced along the freshly-polished barrel.

“Shall I take him atween the eyes or through the heart?” he asked, self-communingly. “I want to make a dead shot--I want to keep up my reputation as such, and if I fire at his heart I might fail. I can see his forehead; his accursed heart is hidden.”

Then he elevated the gun just the least degree, and threw all his energies into the drawing of the “bead” upon Fairfax’s forehead.

“Now--here--you--go!” muttered Girty, and his finger pressed the trigger.

The last word still quivered his lips when something sprung past him, and the rifle was knocked from his grasp.

“Hell and Furies!” yelled Girty, darting to his feet, and clutching the swan-like throat of the girl who fearlessly confronted him. “You’re a she-wolf, and, curse you, I’ve a mind to throttle you!”

She could not speak, but her look was indicative of triumph over the brute.

At length he released her, and, shorn of her strength by his vice-like grip, Eudora fell to the ground.

“Back!” cried Girty to the guards, who were crowding into the lodge. “Warriors never desert their posts. I will attend to the girl. Back! I say.”

Overawed by the renegade’s manner, the Indians slunk away, and Girty, still crimson with rage, lifted Eudora from the earth, and rudely tossed her back into her chamber.

“There! curse you, live or die, I care not which!” he hissed. “If I have choked you to death, I’m sure that I don’t care; but I guess you’ll worry it through, for a woman is as hard to kill as a cat.”

He continued to gaze awhile upon Eudora, who lay motionless upon her couch, admirably counterfeiting death. Then he strode from the lodge, pausing a moment to say to one of the guards:

“If the white girl steps upon the trail of death, bear her beyond the village, and throw her body to the fishes in the swift stream.”

The Indians exchanged startled glances, and listened at the door, as the renegade walked away.

No sound came to their ears.

One ventured to peep into the captive’s apartment. Eudora still lay motionless, without a sign of returning life. Had the renegade’s grip proved fatal?

* * * * *

“Who fired at Alaska’s boy?” asked the Wolf-Queen, when Mayne Fairfax sought her lodge, after Girty’s shot.

His face indicated that his young life had been attempted.

“I know not,” he answered. “The ball almost touched my cheek.”

“Who would shoot Co Hago, but the White Chief?” cried Alaska, springing to his side. “Whence came the ball?”

Fairfax stepped to the opening, and indicated the path of the renegade’s bullet.

“Yes, yes; the White Chief fired the lead at Co Hago,” she said, “but why did he not hit him? White Chief never misses. He has the eye of an eagle.”

“Providence turned the ball aside,” said Fairfax.

Alaska stared at the young hunter, unable to comprehend his words.

“The Great Spirit saved Co Hago,” he said, that she might understand him.

“The Great Spirit?” she said, in a low tone, drawing him back into the lodge. “A long time ago, when Alaska’s head and heart were not sore, she sung songs to the Great Spirit, beside a little stream where the birds warbled their happy hymns.”

“When was that, mother?” asked Mayne, anxious to fathom the story of her life, before insanity swayed her mind.

A smile illumined her face at the word “mother,” and she imprinted a kiss on the Virginian’s forehead.

“Alaska was a little girl when she sung with the birds by the great tree, split by the Great Spirit’s fiery ax.”

“How singular!” mused Mayne Fairfax. “Not far from my home, where once a cabin stood, stands a great lightning-riven oak. Can it be that this poor mad-woman once lived so near Fairfax manor?”

The crazy queen watched him narrowly, as he communed with himself.

“Did Alaska--my mother, dwell near the riven oak? Why did my mother come to the Shawnees?”

“Alas! Alaska forgets every thing save the big tree and her boy,” said the woman. “Some day the Great Spirit will chase the pain from this head, as the Shawnees chase the deer from their coverts.”

The young hunter was almost satisfied that Alaska, in the days of sanity, had dwelt near his own home; but her chaotic mind refused her the recollection he coveted.

Again and again he questioned her; but, learning nothing, at last gave up in despair.

He hoped that the “some day” to which she referred with prophetic mien, would soon arrive, and he prayed that he might witness its arrival.

He felt deeply interested in that insane woman!

During the day he busied himself in forming the acquaintance of Alaska’s wolves. At first the animals were inclined to shyness and war; but their queen drew them to Mayne Fairfax’s side, and at last they acknowledged their king--coming at his beck and call.

“After three more sleeps,” said Alaska, when the shades of night were gently falling around the village, “Co Hago will be proclaimed King of the Wolves, in the presence of the entire Shawnee nation. Then he can come and go when and where he pleases, and none--not even the hated White Chief--dare cross his path.”

“Then,” murmured our hero, “I can work, and I will snatch my friends from their perilous situations, upon my life.”

He retired early to the inner apartment, and an hour later a hand roused him from slumber.

He started to his feet and confronted Alaska.

“Hist!” she cried with finger upon lip.

A chorus of yells penetrated the lodge.

“The mad squaws seek the captives’ lives!” cried Alaska, seizing Mayne’s arm, and darting from the wigwam. “Alaska will let them burn the prisoners, for the blood of Nethoto and Sagasto cry aloud from the forest.”

As she uttered the last words she sprung forward in the direction from whence floated the hell of mad cries.

Had her hand not encircled the hunter’s wrist, he would have experienced great difficulty in keeping beside her.

With every bound the yells grew more distinct, and presently they found a response from the wolves that trotted at Alaska’s heels.