The Wood King; or, Daniel Boone's last trail

Though faint and far away, there could be no mistaking these sharp, spiteful reports for other than the voice of rifles. The sound was no uncommon one for that region, which is even yet noted for its quantity of game; half a century since "the Osage Country" was truly a hunter's paradise.

A man was crossing the Osage river, at a ford, and though near the middle of the stream, the water barely reached his knees. As the twin reports came echoing across the eastern forest, the hunter abruptly paused, bending his head, listening intently.

The rifle-shots alone could scarcely have occasioned the surprise written so plainly upon the man's features, since this was hunting-ground common to all--red as well as white. He himself had fired more than once that day.

But closely following the reports came a series of short, peculiar yells--the cries so strongly resembling the yelping of a cur-dog when in hot pursuit of a rabbit, that an Indian sends forth when closing rapidly upon a fleeing foe.

The hunter could not mistake this sound, nor its full significance. For nearly half a century it had been familiar to his ear. Many a time had it rung out upon his own trail, as he fled for dear life through the forests of the "dark and bloody ground."

"Thar's mischief afoot--can it be that the varmints have r'ailly took to the war-path?" he muttered, glancing keenly around. "They're makin' this way--it's the only ford for miles--reckon I'd better hunt cover!"

The alarm came from the point toward which the hunter's face had been turned, and as he listened, the quick, sharp yells grew plainer and more distinct. Turning, he rapidly retreated to the shore he had recently left.

As he neared cover, it became evident that the hunter was white; though his face was deeply bronzed, almost copper-hued, where the stout jean trowsers had been rolled above his knees, the skin showed clear and white.

Nearing cover, he turned and listened. All was still; the yells no longer echoed through the forest. It seemed as though the deed was done.

Bending forward, the hunter was clearly revealed by the bright rays of the noonday sun. That he was old, the long, snowy locks that fell below his rude skin cap plainly evidenced. Yet the weight of years seemed to sit lightly upon his frame. His step was light yet firm, his motions quick and supple. The rude garb of gray jeans only half-concealed his great muscular development. Altogether, he was what one might well term an awkward customer to meet in a hand-to-hand struggle, despite his age.

"No, they hain't got him yet, whoever he is," muttered the veteran.

Upon the crest of a hill, full quarter of a mile beyond the river, his keen glance detected the form of a human being. Only for a moment; then the tree-tops hid him from view.

Scarcely had he disappeared, when the hill-top was again occupied, this time by a full score of men, apparently the pursuers. Again the sharp, yelping cries came to the veteran's ears.

"It's warm for a footrace, so I'd best take to cover. Lucky the cave's handy."

Turning, the veteran hunter strode rapidly through the shallow water, his bare feet leaving no impress upon the gravelly bed. Two score yards above his position a dark opening appeared in the river-bank, that, though low at the ford, here rose abruptly into a considerable hill.

Holding rifle and powder-horn above his head, the hunter suddenly sunk down and swam rapidly into the opening. Just before the cave-mouth the water was several yards in depth.

Pausing just within the entrance, the hunter turned his face toward the eastern shore. He had not long to wait.

A man dashed through the undergrowth, sprung down the sandy bank, and ran rapidly across the level bar, stumbling at the water's-edge, falling at full length. From his cover, the hunter could see a knife-blade flash in the sunlight, and then the fugitive cast from him the severed part of an arrow that had pierced his leg.

Freed from this incumbrance, he arose and dashed through the shallow water toward the western shore. But several precious moments had been lost, and, with yells of vindictive exultation, nearly a score of savages sprung out upon the river-bank.

The fugitive heard their cries, and glanced back over his shoulder. He saw several of them with bended bows, and suddenly flung himself forward at full length in the water, at this point about knee-deep.

His ruse was successful. The barbed shafts passed over his head, burying themselves harmlessly in the sparkling water.

A loud voice from the bank gave utterance to several hasty words, and as though in obedience to it, half a dozen braves sprung toward the water, the remainder bending their bows ready for instant use in case the fugitive should arise to continue his flight.

With eager interest the white hunter watched this scene, though his countenance showed evident relief when he saw that the fugitive as well as pursuers were Indians. Though far from being one of that class termed Indian-haters, he bore the race little love, for they had dealt his heart more than one crushing blow.

Even at that distance, he could distinguish peculiarities that marked the pursuers as Osages, once the all-powerful rulers of that vast tract of country. Whether or no the fugitive belonged to the same tribe, he could not tell, owing to his so suddenly burying all but head and shoulders in the water.

Eagerly he watched the result. He saw a sudden movement of the hunted red-skin's arms. At the same moment the foremost savage flung aloft his hands, and fell backward, a feathered shaft quivering deep in his brain.

With yells of rage the Osages upon the bank let fly a shower of arrows, while the others dashed into the shallow water. The hunter's heart beat fast as he saw the fugitive disappear beneath the surface. He thought him dead.

But not so. With his feet braced against the gravelly bed, he had impelled his body through the water a full dozen yards, the arrows falling harmlessly in his wake.

Again his arms rose--once more the sharp twang of the bowstring sounded. Again the death-yell of the Osage rung out upon the air--again his comrades yelled furiously, and then the entire party sprung forward.

The fugitive rose to his feet and uttering a single cry, dashed toward the western shore. It was a peculiar yell--the sharp, shrill war-cry of the Kickapoos.

A little cry broke from the hunter's lips as he heard this defiant shout. He recognized it--and more; he recognized the fugitive for a true and tried friend!

A peculiar cry broke from his lips--low, yet clear and penetrating. It met the ear of the Kickapoo, and he perceptibly faltered, casting a swift glance along the now near shore. The Osages also heard the signal, for they slackened their pace, seemingly fearful lest they should be drawn into an ambush.

The hunter's fingers still lingered at his lips, his gaze roving over the enemy. The odds were long--at least ten to one. It seemed as though nothing but death could follow his attempt to aid the fugitive.

Yet the signal was uttered, and as with renewed life, the Kickapoo dashed through the water toward the dark opening. He knew that there at least one friend awaited him.

The Osage at this ford is narrow; but little if any over a hundred yards in width. Then a very few moments carried the Kickapoo to the edge of the deep pool before the cave entrance.

"Come in, chief," guardedly called out the old hunter, as the savage sunk down into the water. "The varmints are bethinkin' themselves of their we'pons ag'in. Down--down, chief!"

A volley of arrows shot toward the cave, but the Kickapoo quickly dove, and the hunter was shielded by a point of rock. The missiles pattered harmlessly around.

Then as the Osages splashed rapidly forward, the rifle of the hunter spoke. For the third time within as many minutes a death-yell broke the air, and the clear water was stained with the life-blood of an Osage warrior.

With laughable celerity the survivors scattered and buried themselves in the water, barely keeping their noses above the surface, dreading a volley from the cave. Nor was their chagrin lessened by hearing the taunting cry of the Kickapoo echo out from the dark opening in the bank.

A low, hearty laugh greeted the fugitive as he rose beside the old hunter, who was now rapidly recharging his rifle. Driving home the leathered bullet, the white man remarked:

"Well, chief, the varmints hunted you close. But why is it? The Kickapoos and Osages have long been friends."