Grable granted the request, and then returned with Edith to where Abel Dare lay. Here he began taunting the young man with all the ingenuity of a foul-mouthed rascal, until called hastily away by a shout from the savages without. Rushing to the entrance, he found his braves greatly excited. In a moment he learned the truth. The settlers were about to attack them, despite his sanguinary threats.
Spreading out, holding their rifles primed and cocked, in readiness for an instantaneous shot, the settlers were approaching the sloping trail. A few yards from its base six of them halted, their weapons covering the ledge. Two men glided up to each of the six, laying their rifles at their feet, then making a rush for the mound. These last had their knives and all the pistols belonging to the party. The other six were to protect them while clambering up.
Several Indians rushed to where a good-sized bowlder lay, rolling it to the edge. Two rifles cracked—two Osages dropped, shot through the brain, having carelessly exposed their persons. The scaling party shouted exultantly. Those who had fired dropped the empty weapons and seized fresh ones, once more covering the ledge.
A savage drops flat upon his face, then pushes the bowlder forward by main strength. It rests upon the edge—another effort, and it topples over. A cry comes from the foremost man, now nearly at the top of the trail.
It is Boone. The next behind him is Jim Fosdick. The latter bows his head to the rock, clutching the sides of the hollow path. The feet of Boone rests upon his broad shoulders. His open hands are flung up and meet the bowlder. A moment of horrible suspense. If his muscles were unequal to the task, their fate was sealed.
A desperate effort that causes the whole human line to quiver and shake—then the bowlder is turned aside and goes thundering down the mound, dashing far out upon plain, its jagged points stained only with blood from the palms of the Wood King. Loud yell those below—the Osages howl with baffled fury.
The White Wolf shouts a few words, then rushes into the cavern. The Osages clutch their weapons and spring forward. The rifles of the marksmen below speak rapidly, each bullet sounding a death-knell. A savage kneels down and aims a vicious blow at the Wood King with a hatchet. His arm raises—a pistol flashes—the Indian falls forward, his skull shattered to atoms, his hot blood besprinkling Boone's face.
A yell, horrible and unearthly, comes echoing from the passage into the hills behind them. Then a wild, maniacal laugh. Instinctively the combatants pause, wondering, awe-stricken.
Two Osages dart into the darkness; they are sworn friends to the White Wolf. They fear he has met harm. That thought conquers their superstition, redoubles their courage.
Passing the fire, they pause. Where the captives laid, there is only one body now—that of a man. They reach its side, stoop over it—start back in horror. It is the gory form of the White Wolf!