villainous expression left his face; the storm of rage subsided. Great incentive there must have been for him thus to repress his emotions so quickly. He looked long at her with sinister, intent regard; then, with the laugh of a desperado, a laugh which might have indicated contempt for the failure of his suit, and which was fraught with a world of meaning, of menace, he left her without so much as a salute.
Helen pondered over this sudden change, and felt relieved because she need make no further pretense of friendship. He had shown himself to be what she had instinctively believed. She hurried on toward Betty’s, hoping to find Colonel Zane at home, and with Jonathan, for Brandt’s hint of leaving Fort Henry, and his evident chagrin at such a slip of speech, had made her suspicious. She was informed by Mrs. Zane that the colonel had gone to a log-raising; Jonathan had not been in for several days, and Betty went away with Will.
“Where did they go?” asked Helen.
“I’m not sure; I think down to the spring.”
Helen followed the familiar path through the grove of oaks into the glade. It was quite deserted. Sitting on the stone against which Jonathan had leaned the day she kissed him, she gave way to tender reflection. Suddenly she was disturbed by the sound of rapid footsteps, and looking up, saw the hulking form of Metzar, the innkeeper, coming down the path. He carried a bucket, and meant evidently to get water. Helen did not desire to be seen, and, thinking he would stay only a moment, slipped into a thicket of willows behind the stone. She could see plainly through the foliage. Metzar came into the glade, peered around in the manner of a man expecting to see someone, and then, filling his bucket at the spring, sat down on the stone.
Not a minute elapsed before soft, rapid footsteps sounded in the distance. The bushes parted, disclosing the white, set face and gray eyes of Roger Brandt. With a light spring he cleared the brook and approached Metzar.
Before speaking he glanced around the glade with the fugitive, distrustful glance of a man who suspects even the trees. Then, satisfied by the scrutiny he opened his hunting frock, taking forth a long object which he thrust toward Metzar.
It was an Indian arrow.
Metzar’s dull gaze traveled from this to the ominous face of Brandt.
“See there, you! Look at this arrow! Shot by the best Indian on the border into the window of my room. I hadn’t been there a minute when it came from the island. God! but it was a great shot!”
“Hell!” gasped Metzar, his dull face quickening with some awful thought.
“I guess it is hell,” replied Brandt, his face growing whiter and wilder.
“Our game’s up?” questioned Metzar with haggard cheek.
“Up? Man! We haven’t a day, maybe less, to shake Fort Henry.”
“What does it mean?” asked Metzar. He was the calmer of the two.
“It’s a signal. The Shawnees, who were in hiding with the horses over by Blueberry swamp, have been flushed by those bordermen. Some of them have escaped; at least one, for no one but Ashbow could shoot that arrow across the river.”
“Suppose he hadn’t come?” whispered Metzar hoarsely.
Brandt answered him with a dark, shuddering gaze.
A twig snapped in the thicket. Like foxes at the click of a trap, these men whirled with fearsome glances.
“Ugh!” came a low, guttural voice from the bushes, and an Indian of magnificent proportions and somber, swarthy features, entered the glade.
CHAPTER XI
The savage had just emerged from the river, for his graceful, copper-colored body and scanty clothing were dripping with water. He carried a long bow and a quiver of arrows.
Brandt uttered an exclamation of surprise, and Metzar a curse, as the lithe Indian leaped the brook. He was not young. His swarthy face was lined, seamed, and terrible with a dark impassiveness.
“Paleface-brother-get-arrow,” he said in halting English, as his eyes flashed upon Brandt. “Chief-want-make-sure.”
The white man leaned forward, grasped the Indian’s arm, and addressed him in an Indian language. This questioning was evidently in regard to his signal, the whereabouts of others of the party, and why he took such fearful risks almost in the village. The Indian answered with one English word.
“Deathwind!”
Brandt drew back with drawn, white face, while a whistling breath escaped him.
“I knew it, Metz. Wetzel!” he exclaimed in a husky voice.
The blood slowly receded from Metzar’s evil, murky face, leaving it haggard.
“Deathwind-on-Chief’s-trail-up-Eagle Rock,” continued the Indian. “Deathwind-fooled-not-for-long. Chief-wait-paleface-brothers at Two Islands.”
The Indian stepped into the brook, parted the willows, and was gone as he had come, silently.
“We know what to expect,” said Brandt in calmer tone as the daring cast of countenance returned to him. “There’s an Indian for you! He got away, doubled like an old fox on his trail, and ran in here to give us a chance at escape. Now you know why Bing Legget can’t be caught.”
“Let’s dig at once,” replied Metzar, with no show of returning courage such as characterized his companion.
Brandt walked to and fro with bent brows, like one in deep thought. Suddenly he turned upon Metzar eyes which were brightly hard, and reckless with resolve.
“By Heaven! I’ll do it! Listen. Wetzel has gone to the top of Eagle Mountain, where he and Zane have a rendezvous. Even he won’t suspect the cunning of this Indian; anyway it’ll be after daylight tomorrow before he strikes the trail. I’ve got twenty-four hours, and more, to get this girl, and I’ll do it!”
“Bad move to have weight like her on a march,” said Metzar.
“Bah! The thing’s easy. As for you, go on, push ahead after we’re started. All I ask is that you stay by me until the time to cut loose.”
“I ain’t agoin’ to crawfish now,” growled Metzar. “Strikes me, too, I’m losin’ more’n you.”
“You won’t be a loser if you can get back to Detroit with your scalp. I’ll pay you in horses and gold. Once we reach Legget’s place we’re safe.”
“What’s yer plan about gittin’ the gal?” asked Metzar.
Brandt leaned forward and spoke eagerly, but in a low tone.
“Git away on hoss-back?” questioned Metzar, visibly brightening. “Wal, that’s some sense. Kin ye trust ther other party?”
“I’m sure I can,” rejoined Brandt.
“It’ll be a good job, a good job an’ all done in daylight, too. Bing Legget couldn’t plan better,” Metzar said, rubbing his hands,
“We’ve fooled these Zanes and their fruit-raising farmers for a year, and our time is about up,” Brandt muttered. “One more job and we’ve done. Once with Legget we’re safe, and then we’ll work slowly back towards Detroit. Let’s get out of here now, for someone may come at any moment.”
The plotters separated, Brandt going through the grove, and Metzar down the path by which he had come.
* * * *
Helen, trembling with horror of what she had heard, raised herself cautiously from the willows where she had lain, and watched the innkeeper’s retreating figure. When it had disappeared she gave a little gasp of relief. Free now to run home, there to plan what course must be pursued, she conquered her fear and weakness, and hurried from the glade. Luckily, so far as she was able to tell, no one saw her return. She resolved that she would be cool, deliberate, clever, worthy of the borderman’s confidence.
First she tried to determine