in the glade and by the moonlight.
the great, round moon looked down in a flood of silver light upon the virgin forest by the banks of the scioto, the beautiful river which winds through the richest and fairest valley in all the wide western land—the great corn valley of the shawnee tribe—those red warriors who, in their excursions across the ohio (the “la belle” river of the early french adventurers) had given to the plains and valleys of kentucky the name of “the dark and bloody land.”
the tree-tops were green and silver; but under the spreading branches, sable was the gloom.
the strange, odd noises of the night broke the forest stillness. one hears all noises in the night even in a civilized land; how much more wondrous then are the wild, free cries of the inhabitants of the great greenwood, untrammeled by the restraining hand of man!
the free winds surged with a mournful sound through the branches of the wood.
a ring around the moon told the coming storm.
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dark masses of clouds dashed across the sky, ever and anon vailing in the “mistress of the night,” as though some unquiet spirit was envious of the pale moonbeams, and wished to cover, with its mantle, the earth, and cloak an evil deed.
a frightened deer came dashing through the aisles of the forest—a noble buck with branching horns that told of many a year spent under the greenwood tree.
across a little open glade, whereon the moonbeams fell—kissing the earth as though they loved it—dashed the deer, and then, entering again the dark recesses of the forest, the brown coat of the wood-prince was lost in the inky gloom.
then in the trail of the buck, guided by the noise of the rustling branches, came a dark form.
as the form stole, with noiseless tread, across the moonlit glade, it displayed the person of an indian warrior.
a red brave, decked out in deer-skin garb, stained with the pigments of the earth in many colors, and fringed in fanciful fashion.
the warrior was a tall and muscular savage, one of nature’s noblemen. a son of the wilderness untrammeled by the taint of civilization—a brave of the great shawnee tribe, the lords of the ohio valley from the oil “licks” of the alleghany stream to the level prairies where the wabash and the white pour their muddy tide into the great river of the new world, the winding, smiling ohio.
fast on the trail of the deer he followed, although the chase was almost hopeless.
hardly had the warrior crossed the glade and entered the thicket, when, on his track—following him as he was following the deer—came another form through the forest.
a form that moved with noiseless steps; a form that cast behind it a shadow gigantic in its hight.
the form did not pass across the glade, but skulked around it in the shadow, as though it feared the moonlight.
the warrior penetrated into the thicket beyond the glade, but a hundred yards or so. then satisfied that the deer was thoroughly alarmed and had sought safety in flight, the warrior began to retrace his steps. the shawnee brave dreamed not of the dark and fearful form—that seemed neither man nor beast—that lurked in his track.
he had hunted the deer, but little thought that he, too, in turn was hunted.
the red chief guessed not that the dread demon of his nation—the terrible foe who had left his red “totem” on the breast of many a stout shawnee brave—was even now on his track, eager for that blood which was necessary to its existence.
with careless steps the warrior retraced his way.
from behind a tree-trunk came the terrible form. one single blow, and a tomahawk crashed through the brain of the red-man.
with a groan the shawnee chief sunk lifeless to the earth.
the dark form bent over him for a moment. three rapid knife-slashes, and the mark of the destroyer was blazoned on the breast of the victim, reddened with blood.
then through the aisles of the forest stole the dark form.
all living things—the insects of the earth—the birds of the night—shrunk from its path.
it crossed the glade full in the soft light of the moon.
the rays of the orb of night fell upon a huge gray wolf, who walked erect like a man! the face of the wolf was that of a human. in the paw of the beast glistened the tomahawk of the red-man, the edge now scarlet with the blood of the shawnee chief.
for a moment the moon looked upon the huge and terrible figure, and then, as if struck with deadly fear at the awful sight, hid itself behind a dark cloud.
when it again came forth, the strange and terrible being, that wore the figure of a wolf and the face of a man, had disappeared, swallowed up in the gloom of the forest.
once again the creatures of the night came forth. again the shrill cries broke the stillness of the wood.
