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Updated: June 26, 2025
The lameness had been a trick, for now he covered ground with a swiftness which caused his former progress to seem slow. The Indians, matured and seasoned warriors though they were, gave but one glance at this huge, brown figure bearing down upon them like a fiend, and, uttering the Indian name of Deathwind, wavered, broke and ran.
Helen knew, though the borderman spoke not, that somewhere among the grasses of the broad plains, or on the moss of the wooded hills, lay dead the perpetrators of this outrage, their still faces bearing the ghastly stamp of Deathwind. Happier days than she had hoped for, dawned upon Helen after the first touch of border sorrow. Mabel Lane did not die.
The bordermen met each other's glance, and had little need of words. Wetzel's great shoulders began to sag slightly, and his head lowered as his eyes sought the grass; a dark and gloomy shade overcast his features. Thus he passed from borderman to Deathwind. The sough of the wind overhead among the almost naked branches might well have warned Indians and renegades that Deathwind was on the trail!
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!"
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