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he poured the powder into the palm of his hand, measuring the quantity with
his eye--for it was an evidence of a hunter's skill to be able to get the
proper quantity for the ball. Then he put the charge into the barrel. Placing
a little greased linsey rag, about half an inch square, over the muzzle, he
laid a small lead bullet on it, and with the ramrod began to push the ball
into the barrel.
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A slight rustle behind him, which sounded to him like the gliding of a
rattlesnake over the leaves, caused him to start and turn round. But he was
too late. A crushing blow on the head from a club in the hand of a brawny
Indian laid him senseless on the ground.
When Isaac regained his senses he felt a throbbing pain in his head, and then
he opened his eyes he was so dizzy that he was unable to discern objects
clearly. After a few moments his sight returned. When he had struggled to a
sitting posture he discovered that his hands were bound with buckskin thongs.
By his side he saw two long poles of basswood, with some strips of green bark
and pieces of grapevine laced across and tied fast to the poles. Evidently
this had served as a litter on which he had been carried. From his wet clothes
and the position of the sun, now low in the west, he concluded he had been
brought across the river and was now miles from the fort. In front of him he
saw three Indians sitting before a fire. One of them was cutting thin slices
from a haunch of deer meat, another was drinking from a gourd, and the third
was roasting a piece of venison which he held on a sharpened stick. Isaac knew
at once the Indians were Wyandots, and he saw they were in full war paint.
They were not young braves, but middle aged warriors. One of them Isaac
recognized as Crow, a chief of one of the Wyandot tribes, and a warrior
renowned for his daring and for his ability to make his way in a straight line
through the wilderness. Crow was a short, heavy Indian and his frame denoted
great strength He had a broad forehead, high cheek bones, prominent nose and
his face would have been handsome and intelligent but for the scar which ran
across his cheek, giving him a sinister look.
"Hugh!" said Crow, as he looked up and saw Isaac staring at him. The other
Indians immediately gave vent to a like exclamation.
"Crow, you caught me again," said Isaac, in the Wyandot tongue, which he
spoke fluently.
"The white chief is sure of eye and swift of foot, but he cannot escape the
Huron. Crow has been five times on his trail since the moon was bright. The
white chief's eyes were shut and his ears were deaf," answered the Indian
loftily.
"How long have you been near the fort?"
"Two moons have the warriors of Myeerah hunted the pale face."
"Have you any more Indians with you?"
The chief nodded and said a party of nine Wyandots had been in the vicinity
of Wheeling for a month. He named some of the warriors.
Isaac was surprised to learn of the renowned chiefs who had been sent to
recapture him. Not to mention Crow, the Delaware chiefs Son-of-Wingenund and
Wapatomeka were among the most cunning and sagacious Indians of the west.
Isaac reflected that his year's absence from Myeerah had not caused her to
forget him.
Crow untied Isaac's hands and gave him water and venison. Then he picked up
his rifle and with a word to the Indians he stepped into the underbrush that
skirted the little dale, and was lost to view.
Isaac's head ached and throbbed so that after he had satisfied his thirst and
hunger he was glad to close his eyes and lean back against the tree. Engrossed
in thoughts of the home he might never see again, he had lain there an hour
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without moving, when he was aroused from his meditations by low guttural
exclamations from the Indians. Opening his eyes he saw Crow and another Indian
enter the glade, leading and half supporting a third savage.
They helped this Indian to the log, where he sat down slowly and wearily,
holding one hand over his breast. He was a magnificent specimen of Indian
manhood, almost a giant in stature, with broad shoulders in proportion to his
height. His head-dress and the gold rings which encircled his bare muscular
arms indicated that he was a chief high in power. The seven eagle plumes in
his scalp-lock represented seven warriors that he had killed in battle. Little
sticks of wood plaited in his coal black hair and painted different colors
showed to an Indian eye how many times this chief had been wounded by bullet,
knife, or tomahawk.
His face was calm. If he suffered he allowed no sign of it to escape him. He
gazed thoughtfully into the fire, slowly the while untying the belt which
contained his knife and tomahawk. The weapons were raised and held before him,
one in each hand, and then waved on high. The action was repeated three times.
Then slowly and reluctantly the Indian lowered them as if he knew their work
on earth was done.
It was growing dark and the bright blaze from the camp fire lighted up the
glade, thus enabling Isaac to see the drooping figure on the log, and in the
background Crow, holding a whispered consultation with the other Indians.
Isaac heard enough of the colloquy to guess the facts. The chief had been
desperately rounded; the palefaces were on their trail, and a march must be
commenced at once.
Isaac knew the wounded chief. He was the Delaware Son-of-Wingenund. He
married a Wyandot squaw, had spent much of his time in the Wyandot village and
on warring expeditions which the two friendly nations made on other tribes.
Isaac had hunted with him, slept under the same blanket with him, and had
grown to like him.
As Isaac moved slightly in his position the chief saw him. He straightened
up, threw back the hunting shirt and pointed to a small hole in his broad
breast. A slender stream of blood issued from the wound and flowed down his
chest
"Wind-of-Death is a great white chief. His gun is always loaded," he said
calmly, and a look of pride gleamed across his dark face, as though he gloried
in the wound made by such a warrior.
"Deathwind" was one of the many names given to Wetzel by the savages, and a
thrill of hope shot through Isaac's heart when he saw the Indians feared
Wetzel was on their track. This hope was short lived, however, for when he
considered the probabilities of the thing he knew that pursuit would only
result in his death before the settlers could come up with the Indians, and he
concluded that Wetzel, familiar with every trick of the redmen, would be the
first to think of the hopelessness of rescuing him and so would not attempt
it.
The four Indians now returned to the fire and stood beside the chief. It was
evident to them that his end was imminent. He sang in a low, not unmusical
tone the death-chant of the Hurons. His companions silently bowed their heads.
When he had finished singing he slowly rose to his great height, showing a
commanding figure. Slowly his features lost their stern pride, his face
softened, and his dark eyes, gazing straight into the gloom of the forest,
bespoke a superhuman vision.
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"Wingenund has been a great chief. He has crossed his last trail. The deeds
of Wingenund will be told in the wigwams of the Lenape," said the chief in a
loud voice, and then sank back into the arms of his comrades. They laid him
gently down.
A convulsive shudder shook the stricken warrior's frame. Then, starting up he
straightened out his long arm and clutched wildly at the air with his sinewy
fingers as if to grasp and hold the life that was escaping him.
Isaac could see the fixed, sombre light in the eyes, and the pallor of death [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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