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"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.
When he saw me he tried to get up, but he was too weak. He smiled, pointed to the wound and said: 'Deathwind not heap times bad shot. Then he bowed his head and waited for the tomahawk. Well, I picked him up and carried him ashore and made a shack by a spring. I staid there with him.
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.
He was lithe and supple, but not young. His grave, shadowy-lined, iron visage showed the traces of time and experience. All gazed at him as at one whose wisdom was greater than theirs. "Old Horse," said Brandt in English. "Haven't I seen bullet holes like this?" The Chippewa bent over Case, and then slowly straightened his tall form. "Deathwind!" he replied, answering in the white man's language.
"The life of any borderman is that; but Wetzel's is particularly so." "What is he called by the Indians?" "They call him Atelang, or, in English, Deathwind." "By George! That's what Silvertip said in French 'Le Vent de la Mort." "Yes; you have it right. A French fur trader gave Wetzel that name years ago, and it has clung to him.
She saw this man so like the white father. Her piteous gaze tried to turn from that white face; but the cold, steely eyes fascinated her. She had saved one only to be the other's doom! She had always been drawn toward white men. Many prisoners had she rescued. She had even befriended her nation's bitter foe, Deathwind. She had listened to the young missionary with rapture; she had been his savior.
The savage Brandt indicated was a big Indian just coming into manhood. His swarthy face still retained some of the frankness and simplicity of youth. "Chief," said Legget in the Indian tongue. "The great paleface hunter, Deathwind, lies hid in the woods." "Last night the Shawnee heard the wind of death mourn through the trees," replied the chief gloomily. "See! What did I say?" cried Brandt.
"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?"
Only for Deathwind will Ashbow trade his captive." "See? It ain't no use," said Legget, spreading out his hands, "Let him go. He'll outwit the bordermen if any redskin's able to. The sooner he goes the quicker he'll git back, an' we can go to work. You ought'er be satisfied to git the girl " "Shut up!" interrupted Brandt sharply.
"Deathwind" was one of the many names given to Wetzel by the savages, and a thrill of hope shot through Isaac's heart when he saw the Indians feared Wetzel was on their track.
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