“he’s a plucky young cuss, ain’t he?” said boone, in a whisper to kenton, when he heard the bold defiance of the indian warrior.

“the wolf demon will make mince-meat out of him ef he puts his claws onto him,” replied kenton, in the same cautious whisper that boone had used.

“i wonder if the spook will come?” said boone.

“i reckon not; them things never come when they’re expected. they alers take their own time,” returned kenton.

“how easy we could ‘rub’ him out now, eh?” boone observed, suggestively.

“i’m afeard it would bring a hull grist of his relations down on top of us, thick as skeeters in a swamp,” said kenton.

“that’s so.”

a movement on the part of the indian put a stop to their conversation, and eagerly they bent their eyes upon him.

after pronouncing his war-like defiance, the warrior, with his tomahawk in one hand and his keen-edged scalping-knife in the other, remained motionless as a bronze statue.

full five minutes he waited.

his eager eye, quick and piercing as the eye of a hawk, surveyed the forest before him.

he heard each rustling leaf that stirred in obedience to the soft night-wind’s commands; the noise of the pinions of the owl, winging its nocturnal flight through the dim aisles of the great, green wood; the cry of the tree-toad; the chirrup of the cricket, deep down in the earth. but, none of these stirred the senses of the indian. he knew the voices of the night full well, for he was a child of the forest and had slept many an hour beneath the shadows of the spreading boughs.

he listened for a sound that he heard not—the tread of the great gray wolf, who wore the face of a man.

impatient, the warrior uttered a guttural exclamation.

again he addressed the silence and the gloom, called for the dread being to appear, at whose approach all living things of the earth or air fled.

“the warrior is weary of waiting. if the wolf demon is in the thicket let him come forth. the white dog will strip off his hide, or else the wolf demon shall take his scalp and mark the totem of the red arrow on his breast.”

but the silence and the gloom replied not to the bold defiance.

after a pause of a few moments the warrior uttered a contemptuous exclamation.

“the wolf demon should wear the skin of the muskrat; he skulks in the dark and fears to meet his foe face to face.”

the chief turned upon his heel and thrust his scalping-knife into his girdle as if to depart.

one single step he made, and then a sound fell upon his ears that made him pause; made him draw the keen-edged knife again from his belt; made him prepare for battle.

the quick ear of the indian—trained from infancy to note the noises of the forest, the plain and river—heard a stealthy step prowling through the thicket.

the noise came from behind him. quick as thought the warrior turned and faced the point from whence the noise proceeded.

no form stepped from the timber into the little glade, whereon the soft moonbeams fell, but the indian still heard the sound of the stealthy steps.

the steps seemed to come no nearer, and yet the sound grew no fainter.

whoever was within the wood was circling around the indian as if to attack him in the rear, and by surprise.

the chief guessed the truth, and as the unknown foe moved, he moved. slowly he turned, keeping his face always in the direction from whence came the sound of the steps.

the two borderers, concealed in the thicket, watched the movements of the indian with astonishment.

when he assumed the attitude of defense and drew again the knife, boone nudged kenton.

“he hears something,” he whispered.

“’pears like it,” kenton replied.

and as they watched the shawnee, they, too, heard the sound of stealthy steps approaching them.

they noted that, as the steps approached, the face of the chief seemed to follow the direction of the steps.

at once the indian-fighters guessed the truth; guessed that the terrible wolf demon, lurking in the thicket, was circling around the chief, eager to spring upon him unawares.

the stealthy steps came nearer and nearer to the concealed men.

boone, stretched out so near to kenton that he touched him, felt that the stout borderer was trembling like an aspen leaf; and, to speak the truth, the blood in boone’s veins was running cold with horror.

there, not a dozen paces from them, within the thicket, they saw the terrible form of the wolf demon.

with stealthy step he moved through the wood, his eyes glaring, like coals of fire, upon the indian warrior. in his paw he carried the fatal tomahawk that had brained so many shawnee chieftains.

the terrible form was moving in a circle around the warrior. but the indian was on his guard, and, guided by the sound of the stealthy steps, kept his front always to his foe.

the wolf demon completed the circle, and then, as if fully satisfied that he could not take the warrior by surprise, came slowly from the thicket and stood within the open space; not, though, in the soft light of the moonbeams, but half hid by the shadows thrown by the forest monarchs that hemmed in the little glade.

the keen eyes of the indian detected the appearance of the terrible form.

the light of fierce determination shone upon the face of the shawnee warrior, and firmly he grasped his weapons and waited for the onset of the foe.

boone and kenton, in breathless suspense, watched from their leafy covert, eager to see the issue of the contest that was, apparently, so near at hand.

a few seconds only the wolf demon paused within the friendly shadows of the wood; then, with the swiftness of forked lightning, he leaped upon the shawnee warrior.

bravely the indian met the assault. with his tomahawk he parried the blow aimed at his head, and, at the same moment, drove his long knife, up to its haft, in the side of the phantom foe; but, the glittering blade met no flesh in its passage, and not a single drop of blood dimmed the brightness of the steel.

the thrust of the shawnee chieftain cost him dear, for, ere he could withdraw his knife again, the tomahawk of the wolf demon descended upon his head. by a quick motion of his own ax he partly parried the blow, but the force of the stroke bore him over backward to the earth.

with a howl of triumph the wolf demon planted his foot upon the warrior’s breast, and the glittering tomahawk gleamed before his eyes, raised to give the death-blow.

the warrior felt that he was lost.

the death-note of his nation broke from his lips.

then, forth from the timber, from the direction in which the indian village lay, came the shawnee girl, le-a-pah.

she had arrived upon the scene of conflict just in time to witness the discomfiture of her lover.

with outstretched arms and a cry of horror—regardless of her own life—she rushed forward to save her lover from the edge of the fatal tomahawk, which was raised to drink his blood.

the paw of the wolf demon which clutched the tomahawk remained poised in the air as the girl advanced. the blow descended not upon the unprotected head of the prostrate man.

the phantom form, motionless as one of the forest oaks, glared upon the indian girl with its eyes of fire as if struck dumb with horror.

it was a startling tableau.

the scouts looked on with awe-struck eyes. they expect each instant to see the tomahawk descend, and the indian girl fall lifeless at the blow.

steadily for a few moments the demon form glared at the girl, and then, taking its foot from the breast of the down-trodden chief, it retreated backward with slow steps, toward the forest, still, however, keeping its eyes upon the face of the girl as though under the influence of some terrible enchantment.

the indian chief, hardly able to realize that he was saved from the death that but a moment before seemed so certain, made no effort to rise, but appeared transfixed with horror.

the wolf demon gained the shadow of the thicket, and then—as if the spell that had bound him had been broken—with a terrible cry, that rung through the forest like the wail of a lost soul, doomed forever to eternal fires, he vanished amid the darkness.

the cry of the wolf demon froze the blood of his hearers with horror.

the girl, with a sob of terror, sunk down by the side of the young chieftain.

rising, the shawnee warrior tenderly lifted the light form of le-a-pah from the greensward.

“light of my heart, thou hast saved the life of the red chief!” cried the warrior.

“le-a-pah could not bear the thought that her lover should seek the terrible wolf demon in the wood; she followed in his track to urge him to return,” said the maiden.

“the white dog has tried to win le-a-pah. if he has[42] failed to kill the wolf demon, it is because the great spirit wills that he shall not die by the hand of a red-man.”

“let us seek my father. i will beg him to release you from the cruel task.”

then the chief and the maiden left the glade.

after a few minutes boone and kenton came from their hiding-place.

“now, let’s look for lark,” said boone. “i’ve a thought that he has met this terrible wolf demon when he was hyer afore, and that the sight has made him mad.”

the two left the glade, and to their surprise found they stood before the hollow oak which had served them as a rendezvous when in the wood before.

at the foot of the oak they found lark’s cap. as boone picked it up, it felt moist.

he looked at his hand.

it was stained with blood.

“by heaven!” he cried, in horror. “lark has been killed, and perhaps by the wolf demon!”