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his hair. His screams were echoed from the hilltop as if in mockery.
The white dog stood near, his hair bristling, his teeth snapping.
The dark birds sat on the dead branches above the hilltop, as if waiting for
their feast.
Chapter XXVIII.
Zane turned and cut the young missionary's bonds. Jim ran to where Nell was
lying on the ground, and tenderly raised her head, calling to her that they
were saved. Zane bathed the girl's pale face. Presently she sighed and opened
her eyes.
Then Zane looked from the statuelike form of Wingenund to the motionless
figure of Wetzel. The chief stood erect with his eyes on the distant hills.
Wetzel remained with folded arms, his cold eyes fixed upon the writhing,
moaning renegade.
"Lew, look here," said Zane, unhesitatingly, and pointed toward the chief.
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Wetzel quivered as if sharply stung; the cold glitter in hie eyes changed to
lurid fire. With upraised tomahawk he bounded across the brook.
"Lew, wait a minute!" yelled Zane.
"Wetzel! wait, wait!" cried Jim, grasping the hunter's arm; but the latter
flung him off, as the wind tosses a straw.
"Wetzel, wait, for God's sake, wait!" screamed Nell. She had risen at Zane's
call, and now saw the deadly resolve in the hunter's eyes. Fearlessly she
flung herself in front of him; bravely she risked her life before his mad
rush; frantically she threw her arms around him and clung to his hands
desperately.
Wetzel halted; frenzied as he was at the sight of his foe, he could not hurt
a woman.
"Girl, let go!" he panted, and his broad breast heaved.
"No, no, no! Listen, Wetzel, you must not kill the chief. He is a friend."
"He is my great foe!"
"Listen, oh! please listen!" pleaded Nell. "He warned me to flee from Girty;
he offered to guide us to Fort Henry. He has saved my life. For my sake,
Wetzel, do not kill him! Don't let me be the cause of his murder! Wetzel,
Wetzel, lower your arm, drop your hatchet. For pity's sake do not spill more
blood. Wingenund is a Christian!"
Wetzel stepped back breathing heavily. His white face resembled chiseled
marble. With those little hands at his breast he hesitated in front of the
chief he had hunted for so many long years.
"Would you kill a Christian?" pleaded Nell, her voice sweet and earnest.
"I reckon not, but this Injun ain't one," replied Wetzel slowly.
"Put away your hatchet. Let me have it. Listen, and I will tell you, after
thanking you for this rescue. Do you know of my marriage? Come, please listen!
Forget for a moment your enmity. Oh! you must be merciful! Brave men are
always merciful!"
"Injun, are you a Christian?" hissed Wetzel.
"Oh! I know he is! I know he is!" cried Nell, still standing between Wetzel
and the chief.
Wingenund spoke no word. He did not move. His falcon eyes gazed tranquilly
at his white foe. Christian or pagan, he would not speak one word to save his
life.
"Oh! tell him you are a Christian," cried Nell, running to the chief.
"Yellow-hair, the Delaware is true to his race."
As he spoke gently to Nell a noble dignity shone upon his dark face.
"Injun, my back bears the scars of your braves' whips," hissed Wetzel, once
more advancing.
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"Deathwind, your scars are deep, but the Delaware's are deeper," came the
calm reply. "Wingenund's heart bears two scars. His son lies under the moss
and ferns; Deathwind killed him; Deathwind alone knows his grave. Wingenund's
daughter, the delight of his waning years, freed the Delaware's great foe, and
betrayed her father. Can the Christian God tell Wingenund of his child?"
Wetzel shook like a tree in a storm. Justice cried out in the Indian's deep
voice. Wetzel fought for mastery of himself.
"Delaware, your daughter lays there, with her lover," said Wetzel firmly,
and pointed into the spring.
"Ugh!" exclaimed the Indian, bending over the dark pool. He looked long into
its murky depths. Then he thrust his arm down into the brown water.
"Deathwind tells no lie," said the chief, calmly, and pointed toward Girty.
The renegade had ceased struggling, his head was bowed upon his breast. "The
white serpent has stung the Delaware."
"What does it mean?" cried Jim.
"Your brother Joe and Whispering Winds lie in the spring," answered Jonathan
Zane. "Girty murdered them, and Wetzel buried the two there."
"Oh, is it true?" cried Nell.
"True, lass," whispered Jim, brokenly, holding out his arms to her. Indeed,
he needed her strength as much as she needed his. The girl gave one shuddering
glance at the spring, and then hid her face on her husband's shoulder.
"Delaware, we are sworn foes," cried Wetzel.
"Wingenund asks no mercy."
"Are you a Christian?"
"Wingenund is true to his race."
"Delaware, begone! Take these weapons an' go. When your shadow falls
shortest on the ground, Deathwind starts on your trail."
"Deathwind is the great white chief; he is the great Indian foe; he is as
sure as the panther in his leap; as swift as the wild goose in his northern
flight. Wingenund never felt fear." The chieftain's sonorous reply rolled
through the quiet glade. "If Deathwind thirsts for Wingenund's blood, let him
spill it now, for when the Delaware goes into the forest his trail will fade."
"Begone!" roared Wetzel. The fever for blood was once more rising within
him.
The chief picked up some weapons of the dead Indians, and with haughty
stride stalked from the glade.
"Oh, Wetzel, thank you, I knew -" Nell's voice broke as she faced the
hunter. She recoiled from this changed man.
"Come, we'll go," said Jonathan Zane. "I'll guide you to Fort Henry." He
lifted the pack, and led Nell and Jim out of the glade.
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