Almost blinded by horror, and staggering with weakness, Joe turned to leave the cabin.
Realizing that he was seriously, perhaps dangerously, wounded he wisely thought he
must not leave the place without weapons. He had marked the pegs where the renegade's
rifle hung, and had been careful to keep between that and his enemies. He took down the
gun and horns, which were attached to it, and, with one last shuddering glance at poor
Kate, left the place.
He was conscious of a queer lightness in his head, but he suffered no pain. His garments
were dripping with blood. He did not know how much of it was his, or the Indian's.
Instinct rather than sight was his guide. He grew weaker and weaker; his head began to
whirl, yet he kept on, knowing that life and freedom were his if he found Whispering
Winds. He gained the top of the ridge; his eyes were blurred, his strength gone. He called
aloud, and then plunged forward on his face. He heard dimly, as though the sound were
afar off, the whine of a dog. He felt something soft and wet on his face. Then
consciousness left him.
When he regained his senses he was lying on a bed of ferns under a projecting rock. He
heard the gurgle of running water mingling with the song of birds. Near him lay Mose,
and beyond rose a wall of green thicket. Neither Whispering Winds nor his horse was
visible.
He felt a dreamy lassitude. He was tired, but had no pain. Finding he could move without
difficulty, he concluded his weakness was more from loss of blood than a dangerous
wound. He put his hand on the place where he had been stabbed, and felt a soft, warm
compress such as might have been made by a bunch of wet leaves. Some one had unlaced
his hunting-shirt--for he saw the strings were not as he usually tied them--and had dressed
the wound. Joe decided, after some deliberation, that Whispering Winds had found him,
made him as comfortable as possible, and, leaving Mose on guard, had gone out to hunt
for food, or perhaps back to the Indian encampment. The rifle and horns he had taken
from Girty's hut, together with Silvertip's knife, lay beside him.
As Joe lay there hoping for Whispering Winds' return, his reflections were not pleasant.
Fortunate, indeed, he was to be alive; but he had no hope he could continue to be favored
by fortune. Odds were now against his escape. Girty would have the Delawares on his
trail like a pack of hungry wolves. He could not understand the absence of Whispering
Winds. She would have died sooner than desert him. Girty had, perhaps, captured her,
and was now scouring the woods for him.
"I'll get him next time, or he'll get me," muttered Joe, in bitter wrath. He could never
forgive himself for his failure to kill the renegade.
The recollection of how nearly he had forever ended Girty's brutal career brought before
Joe's mind the scene of the fight. He saw again Buzzard Jim's face, revolting, unlike
anything human. There stretched Silvertip's dark figure, lying still and stark, and there
was Kate's white form in its winding, crimson wreath of blood. Hauntingly her face
returned, sad, stern in its cold rigidity,.
