Free Zane Grey by The Spirit of the Border

cold, his jaw square and set; his
coal-black eyes glittered with almost a superhuman fire. 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!"
    The hunter was tied to a tree and left in view of the Indian
populace. The children ran fearfully by; the braves gazed long at
the great foe of their race; the warriors passed in gloomy silence.
The savages' tricks of torture, all their diabolical ingenuity of
inflicting pain was suppressed, awaiting the hour of sunrise when
this hated Long Knife was to die.
    Only one person offered an insult to the prisoner; he was a man of
his own color. Jim Girty stopped before him, his yellowish eyes
lighted by a tigerish glare, his lips curled in a snarl, and from
between them issuing the odor of the fir traders' vile rum.
    "You'll soon be feed fer the buzzards," he croaked, in his hoarse
voice. He had so often strewed the plains with human flesh for the
carrion birds that the thought had a deep fascination for him. "D'ye
hear, scalp-hunter? Feed for buzzards!" He deliberately spat in the
hunter's face. "D'ye hear?" he repeated.
    There was no answer save that which glittered in the hunter's eye.
But the renegade could not read it because he did not meet that
flaming glance. Wild horses could not have dragged him to face this
man had he been free. Even now a chill crept over Girty. For a
moment he was enthralled by a mysterious fear, half paralyzed by a
foreshadowing of what would be this hunter's vengeance. Then he
shook off his craven fear. He was free; the hunter's doom was sure.
His sharp face was again wreathed in a savage leer, and he spat once
more on the prisoner.
    His fierce impetuosity took him a step too far. The hunter's arms
and waist were fastened, but his feet were free. His powerful leg
was raised suddenly; his foot struck Girty in the pit of the
stomach. The renegade dropped limp and gasping. The braves carried
him away, his gaudy feathers trailing, his long arms hanging
inertly, and his face distorted with agony.
    The maidens of the tribe, however, showed for the prisoner an
interest that had in it something of veiled sympathy. Indian girls
were always fascinated by white men. Many records of Indian maidens'
kindness, of love, of heroism for white prisoners brighten the dark
pages of frontier history. These girls walked past the hunter,
averting their eyes when within his range of vision, but stealing
many a sidelong glance at his impressive face and noble proportions.
One of them, particularly, attracted the hunter's eye.
    This was because, as she came by with her companions, while they all
turned away, she looked at him with her soft, dark eyes. She was a
young girl, whose delicate beauty bloomed fresh and sweet as that of
a wild rose. Her costume, fringed, beaded, and exquisitely wrought
with fanciful design, betrayed her rank, she was Wingenund's
daughter. The hunter had seen her when she was a child, and he
recognized her now. He knew that the beauty of Aola, of Whispering
Winds Among the Leaves, had been sung from the Ohio to the Great
Lakes.
    Often she passed him that afternoon. At sunset, as the braves untied
him and led him away, he once more caught the full, intense gaze of
her lovely eyes.
    That night as he lay securely bound in the corner of a lodge, and
the long hours wore slowly away, he strained at his stout bonds, and
in his mind revolved different plans of escape. It was not in this
man's nature to despair; while he had life he would fight. From time
to time he expanded his muscles, striving to loosen the wet buckskin
thongs.
    The dark hours slowly passed, no sound coming to him save the
distant bark of a dog and the monotonous tread of his guard; a dim
grayness pervaded the