It is a night of fearful storm, but one that has been full of events to the captives. Taken to the Indian village they were doomed to the stake; but the counterfeit Black Bear coming in with Florence, had learned all—the assault on the cave, the death of Allacotah, which freed the unhappy wife from a bond that must have broken her heart—and by co-operating with Rainbolt, whom Florence brought to the guidance of the released captives, the brave Solomon Strange had, under cover of the storm, set the whole party free; and we now behold them gathered in the Ranger’s Cave, happy enough over their release. But the happiest of all was the ranger himself, who, with his restored wife in his arms, was repaid for his long, long days of suffering.
Only Solomon Strange was abroad on that night. Furiously the wind drove in his face as he moved westward through the woods, guided by the lightning’s glare. But, what cared the mysterious Solomon Strange for the bellowing thunder, the rumbling wind, the sullen roar of the trees, the crashing of fallen timber, the vivid lightning and the rain? Ah, what cared he?
On through the forest aisles he went. On, on.
Presently he entered a small opening in the woods and stopped.
That spot seemed to recall a dark deed to his mind, for it was there that he had beaten down the renegade, Blufe Brandon; and but a little ways off he could hear the waters rushing wildly through the black gorge into which he had thrown the body.
After a moment’s pause he crossed the glade and entered the forest. A few steps more and he had disappeared in the cavern, wherein that day he had left his bear-skin disguise.
Ten minutes passed and then he came forth again, but he wore not the disguise of the Black Bear.
His long yellow hair and whiskers floated around his head and face like ragged streamers in the wild winds.
At the mouth of the cavern he paused and leaned upon his knotted club.
Just then a vivid flash of lightning revealed the figure of a man with a thin, ghastly face and hollow eyes standing before him.