a look of triumph swept over the blood-stained face of the wolf demon as he looked upon the lifeless form of the shawnee warrior.
from the cut in the head of the wolf the blood was slowly trickling, but he did not seem to mind the hurt.
with a hoarse cry of joy he knelt by the side of the man whom he had strangled to death with his powerful arms.
he tore the hunting-shirt from the breast of the dead chieftain; then he drew the dead man’s knife from his girdle.
three rapid dashes and the red arrow, graven in the flesh, was blazoned on the breast of the shawnee warrior.
“inhuman dog, more like the wolf in heart than i, thus do i mark you,” the wolf demon cried in a voice hoarse with passion. “eleven red demons slew the red arrow, eleven shawnee warriors have i slain. not one of the murdering band has escaped my steel. she fell in the blazing cabin amid the great green wood, near where the muskingum waters laugh and play. the assassins have fallen in the glade and in the woodland, by the banks of the scioto and the ohio, in the paths of the shawnee village and by the lodge-fires of the chillicothe. i have struck them down by night and by day. and on each breast, in memory of the indian maid that i once loved so well, have i stamped the red arrow. now, at last, the chief of the red band of slayers has felt the edge of the scalping-knife. my work is done—my mission ended, and now, death, take me for thine own.” the wolf demon rose to his feet and glared wildly around him. his eyes were starting from their sockets and gleamed like balls of fire.
“what is this i see?” he cried, suddenly; “a river of blood! it is the blood of the red warriors that have fallen by my hand, and she the loved and lost is in its center. she beckons me to her. i see her as plainly as i did an hour ago when she sprung from the earth in the woodland glade by the hollow oak, to save the young indian warrior from my vengeance. i know that he was not one of the assassin band that took thy life, but in his veins ran the blood of the accursed shawnees, and i had doomed him to the death. but i spared him. did you not come from thy spirit home among the blest and lift up thy hand to stay my arm? go on, i’ll follow thee! death is near. it is welcome, for it brings me to thee, my love. i hear the song of angels in mine ears! i am coming.”
slowly, with his eyes fixed vacantly on the air, the wolf demon came from the lodge, descended the bank, and hid by it from sight, left the shawnee village.
boone and kenton from their ambush perceived him approach.
boone touched kenton on the arm as if to call his attention, but kenton had already perceived the terrible figure.
“shall we fire at him?” questioned kenton, in a whisper, and the usually firm hand of the borderer trembled as he fumbled with the lock of his gun.
“no, no!” cried boone, quickly, and in a cautious whisper; “the report would bring the hull of the shawnee village down upon as, jist like stirring up a nest of hornets.”
“what shall we do, then?”
“we’ll follow and attack him in the forest,” answered boone.
the wolf demon came slowly on, his eyes staring full upon the air before him. he passed by the ambush of the two woodmen and entered the thicket.
as he passed, the two noted the signs of a conflict so apparent upon him.
“jist look at his face! it’s kivered all over with blood!” exclaimed boone, in wonder.
“he’s fixed another shawnee, i reckon,” said kenton, seriously.
“sim, it’s a terrible thing to attack this awful critter,” said boone, with a grave look upon his honest face.
“but the death of poor lark—”
“must be avenged!” exclaimed the old hunter, compressing his lips together, firmly.
“that’s so, said kenton, with a pale face and a throbbing heart, yet with undaunted courage.
“i didn’t see as he had any we’pons, but ef he’s the devil, he don’t need any. come on, we’ll give him a tussle, anyway. lord, i wish i could remember a prayer or two,” said boone, seriously.
then with cautious steps they followed on the trail of the wolf demon.
the singular being pursued the same path returning that he had taken when coming through the wood.
he moved so slow that the two in pursuit followed him without difficulty.
every now and then he halted for a moment and then again went on.
his steps became irregular. the hunters, following close behind, noticed that he was reeling like a drunken man.
from side to side he swayed as he made his way through the forest.
he reached the little glade by the side of which stood the hollow oak.
“let’s attack him in the glade!” cried boone, as he and kenton reached the edge of the opening and beheld the wolf demon standing motionless, as if irresolute, in the center of it.
“come on, then.”
clubbing their rifles—they did not dare to fire for fear of the report arousing the indian village—the two scouts dashed into the opening.
hearing the noise of their footsteps, the wolf demon turned, extended his arms as if to stay their progress, and then, with a heavy groan, fell sideways to the ground. the sudden shock burst the wolf-head from its fastenings to the body, and it rolled away from the prostrate figure.
the scouts halted in astonishment.
the wolf-head gone, the head of a man, covered with light, clustering curls, was revealed to their gaze.
quickly they knelt by the side of the wolf demon and wiped the blood and war-paint from his face.
the superstitious fear of the woodmen was all gone now, for they knew that it was a human form that lay extended on the earth before them.
the terrible wolf demon was dying. the tomahawk of the shawnee had given him his death-wound. the strong limbs, once so powerful, were now made feeble by the near approach of that terrible mystery that human mind never yet has solved.
the two scouts lifted up the head of the dying man. his eyes opened slowly and, with a vacant look, he gazed around him.
“oh, what a terrible dream!” he murmured, faintly.
the woodmen bent their heads, eagerly, to listen.
“it seems as if i have waded through a river of blood—fresh, warm blood, gushing, freely, from terrible wounds. i dreamed that i had been changed into a wolf, a beast with a human soul, and in that soul one thought only, vengeance on the shawnee nation. in the light and in the darkness i sought that vengeance. the red braves fell around my path as the wheat falls around the reaper, yet i staid not my hand, for the cry went up for blood, rivers of it. on each victim i cut my mark, a red arrow, in remembrance of the wife that the red demons tore from me a year ago by the muskingum. i was gifted with the cunning of a maniac, for at times i am mad. the wound on my head, that i received from a falling rafter on that fearful night when my wife was killed, affected my brain. in my madness i must have dreamed all these terrible things. dreamed that i fashioned myself a wolf-skin like a wolf, and then struck down my foes. a hollow oak in the forest was my home; there i concealed my wolf-skin when my mad fit was over. oh! it was a terrible dream.”
boone and kenton exchanged glances; they knew that the dream was a reality.
then the eyes of the stricken man, glaring around him, fell upon the strange disguise that covered his person.
“what is this?” he cried, in horror; “the skin of a wolf! then it is not a dream! no, no, i see all clearly now; the near approach of death has cleared my eyes unto the truth. in my madness i have been like an avenging angel to the shawnee nation. i see their tall forms around me now—masculine warriors—the tomahawk cut is on their skulls, and on their breast is graven in lines of warm blood the emblem of vengeance, the red arrow!”
exhausted by the outburst, his head sunk back upon the knee of boone.
“heaven have mercy on his soul,” said the rough old indian-fighter, solemnly.
kenton turned his head aside to brush away a tear. he had seen many a death-scene, but none like this.
again the dying man raised his head. a soft light now gleamed in his blood-shot eyes.
“i see you,” and he extended his hand feebly toward the thicket. kenton and boone looked in amazement, but they beheld nothing. the sight was visible to the eyes of the stricken man, alone.
“see, she beckons me to come—no more blood, but peace—peace and love eternal. i will come—see! she is there amid the cloud, i come—wait.”
with a stifled gasp his head sunk back.
[44]
boone could not repress a shudder, for he felt that he held a corpse in his arms.
no more would the wolf demon carry terror to the hearts of the shawnee warriors.
with their hunting-knives the two scouts scooped a shallow grave beneath the boughs of the hollow oak, and there, by the pale light of the dying moon, they placed the mortal remains of abe lark, the terrible wolf demon, the white husband of the indian girl—ke-ne-ha-ha’s daughter—“the red arrow.”
the blood on lark’s cap was easily accounted for by the woodmen when they noticed a slight wound on the forehead of the body, made by some bramble in the madman’s rapid flight through the forest.
boone and kenton returned to point pleasant, and great was the wonder of all when they learned who the wolf demon was.
the indian expedition was abandoned. the death of the shawnee chieftain broke up the proposed confederacy.
winthrop and virginia were married in due time, much to the disgust of clement murdock, who, shortly after, with bob tierson, emigrated to kentucky, and there met his death at the hands of the regulators for horse-stealing. tierson, less guilty, escaped with a sound thrashing.
kate bore her cross with resignation, and none guessed the love that was in her heart.
our task is ended. the strange legend of the wolf demon is ended. it is some six years since—with fishing-rod in hand—the writer explored the pleasant tract of country bounded by the scioto, the ohio, and the muskingum; and he little dreamed then, when, in a rude log-hut, an aged hunter told the strange old indian legend, that he should ever give to the world the story of the red arrow and the wolf demon.
