the spirit of the border-第11部分

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from　his　rest　in　the　shade。　French　fur　traders　came　curiously　from　their

lodges；　and　renegades　hurriedly　left　their　blankets；　roused　to　instant　action

by　the　well…known　summons。



The　hunter；　led　down　the　lane　toward　the　approaching　crowd；　presented　a　calm

and　fearless　demeanor。　When　the　Indians　surrounded　him　one　prolonged；　furious

yell　rent　the　air；　and　then　followed　an　extraordinary　demonstration　of　fierce

delight。　The　young　brave's　staccato　yell；　the　maiden's　scream；　the　old　squaw's

screech；　and　the　deep　war…cry　of　the　warriors　intermingled　in　a　fearful

discordance。



Often　had　this　hunter　heard　the　name　which　the　Indian　called　him；　he　had　been

there　before；　a　prisoner；　he　had　run　the　gauntlet　down　the　lane；　he　had　been

bound　to　a　stake　in　front　of　the　lodge　where　his　captors　were　now　leading　him。

He　knew　the　chief；　Wingenund；　sachem　of　the　Delawares。　Since　that　time；　now

five　years　ago；　when　Wingenund　had　tortured　him；　they　had　been　bitterest　foes。



If　the　hunter　heard　the　hoarse　cries；　or　the　words　hissed　into　his　ears；　if　he

saw　the　fiery　glances　of　hatred；　and　sudden　giving　way　to　ungovernable　rage；

unusual　to　the　Indian　nature；　if　he　felt　in　their　fierce　exultation　the

hopelessness　of　succor　or　mercy；　he　gave　not　the　slightest　sign。



〃Atelang！　Atelang！　Atelang！〃　rang　out　the　strange　Indian　name。



The　French　traders；　like　real　savages；　ran　along　with　the　procession；　their

feathers　waving；　their　paint　shining；　their　faces　expressive　of　as　much

excitement　as　the　Indians'　as　they　cried　aloud　in　their　native　tongue：



〃Le　Vent　de　la　Mort！　Le　Vent　de　la　Mort！　La　Vent　de　la　Mort！〃



The　hunter；　while　yet　some　paces　distant；　saw　the　lofty　figure　of　the

chieftain　standing　in　front　of　his　principal　men。　Well　he　knew　them　all。　There

were　the　crafty　Pipe；　and　his　savage　comrade；　the　Half　King；　there　was

Shingiss；　who　wore　on　his　forehead　a　scarthe　mark　of　the　hunter's　bullet；

there　were　Kotoxen；　the　Lynx；　and　Misseppa；　the　Source；　and　Winstonah；　the

War…cloud；　chiefs　of　sagacity　and　renown。　Three　renegades　completed　the

circle；　and　these　three　traitors　represented　a　power　which　had　for　ten　years

left　an　awful；　bloody　trail　over　the　country。　Simon　Girty；　the　so…called　White

Indian；　with　his　keen；　authoritative　face　turned　expectantly；　Elliott；　the

Tory　deserter；　from　Fort　Pitt；　a　wiry；　spider…like　little　man；　and　last；　the

gaunt　and　gaudily　arrayed　form　of　the　demon　of　the　frontierJim　Girty。



The　procession　halted　before　this　group；　and　two　brawny　braves　pushed　the

hunter　forward。　Simon　Girty's　face　betrayed　satisfaction；　Elliott's　shifty

eyes　snapped；　and　the　dark；　repulsive　face　of　the　other　Girty　exhibited　an

exultant　joy。　These　desperadoes　had　feared　this　hunter。



Wingenund；　with　a　majestic　wave　of　his　arm；　silenced　the　yelling　horde　of

frenzied　savage　and　stepped　before　the　captive。



The　deadly　foes　were　once；　again　face　to　face。　The　chieftain's　lofty　figure

and　dark；　sleek　head；　now　bare　of　plumes；　towered　over　the　other　Indians；　but

he　was　not　obliged　to　lower　his　gaze　in　order　to　look　straight　into　the

hunter's　eyes。



Verily　this　hunter　merited　the　respect　which　shone　in　the　great　chieftain's

glance。　Like　a　mountain…ash　he　stood；　straight　and　strong；　his　magnificent

frame　tapering　wedge…like　from　his　broad　shoulders。　The　bulging　line　of　his

thick　neck；　the　deep　chest；　the　knotty　contour　of　his　bared　forearm；　and　the

full　curves　of　his　legsall　denoted　a　wonderful　muscular　development。



The　power　expressed　in　this　man's　body　seemed　intensified　in　his　features。　

His　face　was　white　and　cold；　his　jaw　square　and　set；　his　coal…black　eyes

glittered　with　almost　a　superhuman　fire。　And　his　hair；　darker　than　the　wing　of

a　crow；　fell　far　below　his　shoulders；　matted　and　tangled　as　it　was；　still　it

hung　to　his　waist；　and　had　it　been　combed　out；　must　have　reached　his　knees。



One　long　moment　Wingenund　stood　facing　his　foe；　and　then　over　the　multitude

and　through　the　valley　rolled　his　sonorous　voice：



〃Deathwind　dies　at　dawn！〃



The　hunter　was　tied　to　a　tree　and　left　in　view　of　the　Indian　populace。　The

children　ran　fearfully　by；　the　braves　gazed　long　at　the　great　foe　of　their

race；　the　warriors　passed　in　gloomy　silence。　　The　savages'　tricks　of　torture；

all　their　diabolical　ingenuity　of　inflicting　pain　was　suppressed；　awaiting　the

hour　of　sunrise　when　this　hated　Long　Knife　was　to　die。



Only　one　person　offered　an　insult　to　the　prisoner；　he　was　a　man　of　his　own

color。　Jim　Girty　stopped　before　him；　his　yellowish　eyes　lighted　by　a　tigerish

glare；　his　lips　curled　in　a　snarl；　and　from　between　them　issuing　the　odor　of

the　fir　traders'　vile　rum。



〃You'll　soon　be　feed　fer　the　buzzards；〃　he　croaked；　in　his　hoarse　voice。　　He

had　so　often　strewed　the　plains　with　human　flesh　for　the　carrion　birds　that

the　thought　had　a　deep　fascination　for　him。　〃D'ye　hear；　scalp…hunter？　　Feed

for　buzzards！〃　He　deliberately　spat　in　the　hunter's　face。　〃D'ye　hear？〃　he

repeated。



There　was　no　answer　save　that　which　glittered　in　the　hunter's　eye。　But　the

renegade　could　not　read　it　because　he　did　not　meet　that　flaming　glance。　　Wild

horses　could　not　have　dragged　him　to　face　this　man　had　he　been　free。　　Even　now

a　chill　crept　over　Girty。　For　a　moment　he　was　enthralled　by　a　mysterious　fear；

half　paralyzed　by　a　foreshadowing　of　what　would　be　this　hunter's　vengeance。

Then　he　shook　off　his　craven　fear。　He　was　free；　the　hunter's　doom　was　sure。

His　sharp　face　was　again　wreathed　in　a　savage　leer；　and　he　spat　once　more　on

the　prisoner。



His　fierce　impetuosity　took　him　a　step　too　far。　The　hunter's　arms　and　waist

were　fastened；　but　his　feet　were　free。　His　powerful　leg　was　raised　suddenly；

his　foot　struck　Girty　in　the　pit　of　the　stomach。　　The　renegade　dropped　limp

and　gasping。　The　braves　carried　him　away；　his　gaudy　feathers　trailing；　his

long　arms　hanging　inertly；　and　his　face　distorted　with　agony。



The　maidens　of　the　tribe；　however；　showed　for　the　prisoner　an　interest　that

had　in　it　something　of　veiled　sympathy。　Indian　girls　were　always　fascinated　by

white　men。　Many　records　of　Indian　maidens'　kindness；　of　love；　of　heroism　for

white　prisoners　brighten　the　dark　pages　of　frontier　history。　These　girls

walked　past　the　hunter；　averting　their　eyes　when　within　his　range　of　vision；

but　stealing　many　a　sidelong　glance　at　his　impressive　face　and　noble

proportions。　One　of　them；　particularly；　attracted　the　hunter's　eye。



This　was　because；　as　she　came　by　with　her　companions；　while　they　all　turned

away；　she　looked　at　him　with　her　soft；　dark　eyes。　She　was　a　young　girl；　whose

delicate　beauty　bloomed　fresh　and　sweet　as　that　of　a　wild　rose。　Her　costume；

fringed；　beaded；　and　exquisitely　wrought　with　fanciful　design；　betrayed　her

rank；　she　was　Wingenund's　daughter。　The　hunter　had　seen　her　when　she　was　a

child；　and　he　recognized　her　now。　He　knew　that　the　beauty　of　Aola；　of

Whispering　Winds　Among　the　Leaves；　had　been　sung　from　the　Ohio　to　the　Great

Lakes。



Often　she　passed　him　that　afternoon。　At　sunset；　as　the　braves　untied　him　and

led　him　away；　he　once　more　caught　the　full；　intense　gaze　of　her　lovely　eyes。



That　night　as　he　lay　securely　bound　in　the　corner　of　a　lodge；　and　the　long

hours　wore　slowly　away；　he　strained　at　his　stout　bonds；　and　in　his　mind

revolved　different　plans　of　escape。　It　was　not　in　this　man's　nature　to

despair；　while　he　had　life　he　would　fight。　From　time　to　time　he　expanded　his

muscles；　striving　to　loosen　the　wet　buckskin　thongs。



The　dark　hours　slowly　passed；　no　sound　coming　to　him　save　the　distant　bark　of

a　dog　and　the　monotonous　tread　of　his　guard；　a　dim　grayness　pervaded　the

lodge。　Dawn　was　close　at　handhis　hour　was　nearly　come。



Suddenly　his　hearing；　trained　to　a　most　acute　sensibility；　caught　a　faint

sound；　almost　inaudible。　It　came　from　without　on　the　other　side　of　the　lodge。

There　it　was　again；　a　slight　tearing　sound；　such　as　is　caused　by　a　knife　when

it　cuts　through　soft　material。



Some　one　was　slitting　the　wall　of　the　lodge。



The　hunter　rolled　noiselessly　over　and　over　until　he　lay　against　the　skins。　

In　the　dim　grayness　he　saw　a　bright　blade　moving　carefully　upward　through　the

deer…hide。　Then　a　long　knife　was　pushed　into　the　opening；　a　small；　brown　hand

grasped　the　hilt。　Another　little　hand　followed　and　felt　of　the　wall　and　floor；

reaching　out　with　groping　fingers。



The；　hunter　rolled　again　so　that　his　back　was　against　the　wall　and　his　wrists

in　front　of　the　opening。　He　felt　the　little　hand　on　his　arm；　then　it　slipped

down　to　his　wrists。　The　contact　of　cold　steel　set　a　tremor　of　joy　through　his

heart。　The　pressure　of　his　bonds　relaxed；　ceased；　his　arms　were　free。　He

turned　to　find　the　long…bladed　knife　on　the　ground。　The　little　hands　were

gone。



In　a　tinkling　he　rose　unbound；　armed；　desperate。　In　another　second　an　Indian

warrior　lay　upon　the　ground　in　his　death…throes；　while　a　fleeing　form　vanished

in　the　gray　morning　mist。







Chapter　VII。



Joe　felt　the　heavy　lethargy　rise　from　him　like　the　removal　of　a　blanket；　his

eyes　became　clear；　and　he　saw　the　trees　and　the　forest　gloom；　slowly　he

realized　his　actual　position。



He　was　a　prisoner；　lying　helpless　among　his　sleeping　captors。　Silvertip　and

the　guard　had　fled　into　the　woods；　frightened　by　the　appalling　moan　which　they

believed　sounded　their　death…knell。　And　Joe　believed　he　might　have　fled

himself　had　he　been　free。　What　could　have　caused　that　sound？　He　fought　off　the

numbing　chill　that　once　again　began　to　creep　over　him。　He　was　wide…awake　now；

his　head　was　clear；　and　he　resolved　to　retain　his　senses。　He　told　himself

there　could　be　nothing　supernatural　in　that　wind；　or　wail；　or　whatever　it　was；

which　had　risen　murmuring　from　out　the　forest…depths。



Yet；　despite　his　reasoning；　Joe　could　not　allay　his　fears。　That　thrilling　cry

haunted　him。　The　frantic　flight　of　an　Indian　bravenay；　of　a　cunning；

experienced　chiefwas　not　to　be　lightly