CHAPTER VI.

OUT OF THE CAVE TO DOOM.

During the brief siege described in the foregoing chapter, but two persons occupied the cave. These were Mayne Fairfax and the beautiful Eudora Morriston.

The young hunter reclined on the couch, and Eudora sat beside him, holding one of his hands in hers.

“I wonder how this will end, Mayne,” she said, gazing into his deep eyes, that never grew weary of gazing into her face.

“I do not know, Eudora,” replied the hunter; “but I feel that the end is not far distant. The capitulation of the hermit’s fort, in my mind, is but a question of time. If Tecumseh can not burn the door, he can starve us out. But hark, girl! That sounded like a rifle shot.”

“And that shriek, Mayne!” cried the girl. “An Indian has fallen beneath the Lone Man’s rifle. Perhaps it was Tecumseh?”

“No, no, Eudora. Hewitt did not fire that shot. He sheds the blood of no fellow-man. If an Indian fell, it was beneath Oonalooska’s aim. Listen! That was the voice of Tecumseh.”

The conversation ceased, and in the silence that followed the lovers heard the second shot, that sent Nethoto to the earth.

“Another!” cried Eudora. “Where do the shots come from, Mayne?”

“From the top of a giant oak,” answered the young hunter. “Yon subterranean passage ends beneath the trunk of a great, hollow tree. Inside, steps lead to the top of the giant, from whence Oonalooska is smiting the red men.”

“What a singular man the hermit is!” cried Eudora, as the faint tones of the Wolf-Queen--faint to the cave listeners--came from the wood. “He is a mystery to the savages. Girty hates, but fears him, and, to Tecumseh, he is an enigma. I--”

“The third shot!” interrupted Mayne, and a minute later the giant hermit stepped into the cave.

“Our enemies are routed,” he said, bestowing a smile upon the lovers. “Beneath Oonalooska’s rifle fell two chiefs and Leperto.”

“Alaska’s wolf,” said Eudora, turning to Fairfax. “The poor woman will be inconsolable now.”

“Oonalooska wanted to shoot the queen, but I covered the flint with my hand in time to save her life. I could not witness the killing of that poor mad-woman, though if we ever fall into her hands we will receive no mercy.”

“Her wolves tore Oonalooska’s venison once,” hissed the chief, who stood beside the hermit, and he added, in an undertone. “Some day when Lone Man is abroad, Oonalooska’s flint will not be covered by a pale hand.”

“Do you think our enemies will return?” asked the young Virginian, looking into the hermit’s face.

“Yes. Already I believe that Tecumseh’s spies lurk in the vicinity, and, ere long, the chief will return with a large force, which can not be successfully resisted. I know Tecumseh as few men know him. I have watched him grow to manhood, unforgiving and vindictive.”

“In view of our situation, then, what do you propose?” questioned Fairfax, with eagerness.

“Flight--to Chillicothe,” was the reply.

“Not by day?”

“No; to the contrary. We are not far from the river, which I believe will not be guarded to-night. From this cave leads a passage which terminates not a great ways from the river. That passage I have never had occasion to use, having never, until this day, been besieged. Above the termination of that passage, the crust has not been broken. We will use that to-night, and near dawn, no accidents intervening, we will be beyond danger. My boy, can you crawl to the opening of the passage? Thence we will assist you to the boat.”

“Yes,” cried Fairfax, rising with a mighty effort, that sent a thousand painful arrows throughout his frame, “I feel strong again--the events of the last twenty-four hours have made me a giant.”

Hewitt shook his head doubtingly, and faintly smiled, as a sense of giddiness forced the young hunter upon the couch again.

“Tecumseh will not return before nightfall,” continued the hermit, after a brief silence, “and while they besiege the cave, we will be flying up the river to Chillicothe--which, for us, means safety.”

Then the strange man drew a repast from his store, and the victuals were discussed with a relish, and conversation in which they tried to forget their perilous situation.

Slowly the day waned, and, at length, a growl from the mastiff, who lay at the brush-burdened door, told the hunted that an Indian was near.

Then Oonalooska disappeared in the subterranean passage, already used during the progress of our romance; but presently returned with the information that several spies were in the wood, at the mouth of the cave.

The hour for escape had arrived.

“I’ve lived in this hole in the ground for eighteen years,” said the hermit, taking a mournful survey of the cave, whose walls were lined with the skins of all animals, “and you may think that it goes hard with me to leave it. But if I stay here now, Alaska’s wolves will drink Hewitt blood. I want to live till I can see my boy again, and--” here he turned away, and muttered in an undertone: “Yes, I’d like to see her, too. I could forgive her now; but, oh, God! will I ever meet my wife on earth more?”

A great tear dewed his tawny cheek, and a tremor crossed his giant frame, as he turned to the trio.

“Well, we’re ready now,” he said, calm again. “Here, girl, take the extra rifle. I’ve heard tell as how you can use it.”

“I can and will, if I must,” said Eudora, proudly, as she took the proffered firearm.

The hermit stepped to the further end of the cave, and revealed a gloomy passage, by throwing aside a wolf-skin that concealed it.

“Lead off, Oona,” he said, addressing the Indian. “Wolf and I’ll bring up the rear.”

The Indian dropped upon all fours, and entered the passage; and the dog bounded in, in advance of his master.

“Good-by, old home,” said the hermit, taking a last look at the apartment. “Mebbe I’ll come back again, and mebbe I won’t, that’s all.”

The curtain fell and the cave was tenantless.

The underground corridor seemed interminable; but, at last, Oonalooska paused. The end was reached.

It was the noiseless work of a few moments to admit an invigorating current of night-air into the gloomy way, and the Shawnee emerged upon _terra firma_.

“Now for the river,” whispered Hewitt, throwing himself in advance of the party.

The night was dark around, though many stars twinkled in the blue overhead.

Eudora trod in the hermit’s tracks, and her lover leaned upon the arm of Oonalooska.

At length they stood upon the right bank of the Scioto. It was lined with thick clumps of weeping willows, the leaves of which touched the dark water, causing many faint ripples, that fell ominously upon the ears of the hunted quartette.

The hermit glided from his companions, and, after a long absence, returned with the startling information that his boat was gone!

Mayne Fairfax’s groan of despair was stifled by Hewitt’s hand, and in his ear were breathed these words:

“We are within thirty feet of a gang of red-skins.”

The hermit turned to Oonalooska, when a grunt from his dog startled every one.

Instantaneously the tramp of many feet smote the ears of the imperiled ones, and a circle of Indians seemed to rise from the earth.

“Spare all!” was heard the voice of Jim Girty, as he rushed forward, at the head of the main band.

He met the man he feared--the strong hermit--in whose arms he was but a child.

Hewitt raised the renegade above his head, and tossed him far out into the Scioto. Oonalooska fought nobly, and would have escaped had he not stumbled over a prostrate Indian, and been seized before he could rise. Mayne Fairfax, weak from his wounds, did not resist, and he and Eudora, who fought valiantly with clubbed rifle, were made prisoners.

It cost the Shawnees a Herculean struggle to secure the hermit and it was not until the entire band rushed upon him _en masse_, that he became a captive.

At the conclusion of the victory, a chief sent a shrill whoop through the forest.

“Why shout the Shawnees?” asked the hermit, with a nonchalance which, under the circumstances was truly wonderful.

“Manitowoc calls Tecumseh,” was the reply. “The great chief and Alaska are at the Lone Man’s hole in the ground.”

The reply sent an indescribable feeling to the prisoners’ hearts, and no wonder.

All--with, perhaps, a single exception--felt that they had marched from the cave to doom.