CHAPTER XIII.
WHAT THE GRAY WOLF SAW IN DEAD-MAN’S FOREST.
Little more remains to be told. When the gallant settlers, with the happy lovers under their escort, arrived at the settlement, they were joyfully greeted by their wives and daughters, Hettie among the rest.
The outlaws were nearly all killed, and were entirely exterminated from their haunts. To Hettie’s dismay, nothing was ever heard of Downing, he having not been seen since the hunchback had felled him to the ground.
Much more the surprise at the hunchback’s odd appearance and disappearance, and for a long time it was the subject of fireside gossip and conjecture, until a wedding occurred which forever banished it. It is needless to say who the parties were, nor how very gay the company was, nor how blushing and happy the bride, and exultant the groom—the intelligent reader has, ere this, suspected it. But, it is, perhaps, necessary to state that, in time, Hettie lost her unfortunate attachment for the robber chief, and, suddenly discovering that Eben was a fine young man, yielded to his suit and became Mrs. Jacobs.
And so, after so much hard trial and pain, these hearts were at last happy. We can do nothing more for them, as their cup of joy is complete, so we bid them all good-by.
The moon looked palely down from the zenith upon Dead-Man’s Forest; it looked down in its steely light upon the swamp in the forest—Shadow Swamp.
Truly was it named Shadow Swamp—for in its quiet, ghostly mazes, a shadow was flitting to and fro across a glade—a glade, in the center of which stood a tree—the terrible tree.
The shadow was that of a man—a cripple; and he was flitting in the midnight hour on some preconceived and arranged labor. Dry sticks he gathered from the glade and carried to the tree, depositing them at the base. After he had collected a large quantity he changed his task—bringing limbs and pieces of dry logs to his pile. Then, again, he changed—this last time bringing larger limbs and branches and small logs, which he arranged on the summit of the others.
When he had completed his task to his satisfaction he chuckled in horrible delight; then he disappeared.
Shortly he returned—not alone; a man was with him—a captive. This could be seen by the thongs which bound him, by his pale face, and frightened, nervous air.
The hunchback led his captive to the tree, and placed him, back against it. Again that hideous chuckle rung out. The captive was standing in the center of the fagots, which the cripple piled closely around him, the pile reaching quite to his shoulders, leaving only his head visible. Then taking a cord from his clothing, he bound the prisoner closely to the tree. Then, stepping back, he contemplated his prisoner, and gave vent to a shrill, maniacal laugh.
“Ha!” he said, pacing softly to and fro before his prisoner, “The work is nearly done. Revenge is sweet—sweet!
“Yes,” he continued, “you are doomed. When the moon casts a shadow over your face, this dagger will be driven to your black heart, and the fagots will burn your foul body from the earth which detests it.
“In three minutes the shadow will cover your face. Robert Davis, have you any last words—any thing to say?”
The prisoner uttered no word—made no sign: but, tied securely to the tree, prepared to meet his doom.
“Once more, Robert Davis, have you any last message? That much will I do for you. I shall not speak again.”
No answer. The shadow crept slowly down the tree toward the doomed man’s face.
All is quiet in Dead-Man’s Forest, to-night. The wild animals are still, and the night is calm. Still creeps the shadow down. To and fro paces the executioner, still watches the prisoner his captor. Still creeps the shadow.
A thousand fantastic shadows play about the moonlit glade, and the prisoner notes them mechanically. One in particular he watches—a shadow stealing on from the glade toward him.
What is it—an animal? Yes. Bear, perhaps? No. Perhaps an Indian? No; it is a gaunt, gray wolf. The prisoner asks and answers these questions, then looks at the cripple. Still creeps the shadow; still plods the moon; still all is silence in Dead-Man’s Forest.
The gray wolf creeps nearer and licks his chops cravingly as he peers at the prisoner. Perhaps he anticipates a repast—perhaps he does.
The shadow is obscuring the captive’s head now—part of it; in a few moments it will be down over his face. Still he watches the gray wolf, still the gray wolf watches him, and still creeps the shadow—down down, down!
Still the moon wanes; and shadows about the glade are slightly changed, now. The captor silently draws his knife, whetting it on his palm. The prisoner watches him quietly.
The gray wolf might be mistaken for a dog, sitting so near on his haunches; but he is still a hungry wolf.
Part of the face is in the shadow now—only a portion; but the captor still whets the knife, while the prisoner quietly watches him.
The gray wolf howls mournfully as the shadow entirely clouds the white, bleak face.
The captor strikes a light among the lighter fagots; they blaze up, brightly. The flames quickly communicate with the other and larger fagots. They are dry and will burn until exhausted. The prisoner scowls.
There is a sudden movement of the captor’s arm; a bright, steely glimmer is in mid air; there is a dull blow and the sound of gurgling blood; and the gray wolf howls mournfully.
A figure, misshapen and deformed, glides over the glade, into the forest, and vanishes in silence; a gray wolf stalks up to a man in the midst of a burning pile; he sees a dagger in the man’s heart, and the man’s head is on his shoulder; he is alone with the dead.
Howling at the fire, he turns and trots reluctantly away from its crackle and blaze and its glaring light; and all is quiet in Dead-Man’s Forest.