Even while the arrow-maker carried the wounded woman, arrows of the same shape as that which had stabbed her tender flesh were threatening the little village on the River of Three Fires. For days several war-parties from the South had been stealing through the country, raiding the lesser villages, and bent on destroying the nation of Soft Hand, and possessing his hunting-grounds. It was a laggard of one of the smaller bands that had wounded the woman. She had been far from her lodge at the time, seeking some healing herbs in the forest, and he had fired on her out of fear that she had discovered him and would warn her people. In her pain and fright, she had wandered coastward for several miles.

Silent as shadows, the invading warriors drew down toward the little meadow. Clouds were over the face of the white October moon. A cold mist floated in the valley. The leaders of the invaders, lying low among the alders at the edge of the clearing, could see the unguarded people moving about their red fires. There was a scent of cooking deer-meat in the chill air. The chief of the attacking party lay on the damp grass and peered between the stems of the alders. He smiled exultantly. A quick slaughter, and then to a feast already prepared. He and his braves had enjoyed but poor fare during their long march.

So shall I leave him, sniffing the breath of the cooking fires, and turn to Wolf Slayer. Late of that afternoon Wolf Slayer had sallied forth in quest of something to kill. The woods had seemed deserted, and in less than an hour after his valorous exit from the camp, he had fallen asleep on a warm and sheltered strip of shingle. The river flashed in front, and on three sides brooded the crowding trees. When he awoke, the sun had set, and the river, a curved mirror for the western sky, was red as fire—or blood. Down-stream, about two hundred yards distant, a sombre bluff thrust its rocky breast into the water. The boy gazed at this, and his eyes widened with dismay. Then they narrowed with hate. Out of the shelter of the rocks and the shadows, and into the flaming waters, came figure after figure. They waded knee-deep, hip-deep, shoulder-deep, into that molten glory. Then they swam; and the ripples washed back from gleaming neck and shoulder like lighter flames. One by one they stole from the shadow, swam the radiance, and again sought the shadow.

The boy trembled. The devils of fear and rage had their fingers on him. Spellbound, he watched close upon a hundred warriors make the passage of the river. Then he, too, sank noiselessly into the shelter of the trees. He was old enough to know what this meant, and his heart hurt him with its pent-up fury as he crawled through the underbrush. He was dismayed at the sound of his own breathing. He heard the distant rapping of a woodpecker, the fall of a spent leaf from an alder, and the soft breath of a dying wind; and the familiar sounds filled him with awe. And yet, but for these sounds, the whole world might be dead and the forest empty. Thought of the hundred fighting men moving steadily upon the unguarded homes of his people, with no more warning than the sound of a swamp-bird's flight, was like a nightmare. But presently the courage that had helped him slay the wolf came to him, and he thought of the glory to be won by saving the threatened village. He did not strengthen his heart to the task for sake of his mother's life and the lives of his playmates; but because the warriors would call him a hero. Keeping just within the edge of the woods, he moved up-stream as speedily as he might without making any sound. He came upon a brown hare crouched beside a clump of ferns. He might have touched it with his hand, so unaware was it of his presence. He passed beneath an alder branch whereon perched a big slate-gray jay. It was not a foot from his back as he crawled under, and it did not take flight. But it eyed him intently, to make sure that he was not a fox. Sometimes he lay still for a little, listening. He heard nothing, though he started at a hundred fancied sounds. Twilight deepened into dusk, and dusk into gloom. The moon sailed up over the hills, and long banners of cloud passed across the face of it.

Presently Wolf Slayer came within sight of the fires of the village. The red light flashed on the angry river beyond, but left the lagoon in darkness. He crawled into the water inch by inch, scarcely breaking the calm, black surface. Then he swam, without noise of splashing, and landed at the foot of the meadow like a great beaver. He crawled into the red circle of one of the fires, and told his news to the braves gathered around. Men slipped from fire to fire. Without any unwonted disturbance, the whole village armed itself. Suddenly, with a fierce shout and a flight of arrows, the alders were attacked. The invaders were checked at the very moment of their fancied victory.

The fighting scattered. Here three men struggled together in the shallows at the head of the lagoon. Farther out, one tossed his arms and sank into the black depths. In the open a half-score warriors bent their bows. Among the twisted stems of the alders they pulled and strangled, like beasts of prey. Back in the spruces they slew with clubs and knives, feeling for one another in the dark. Their war-cries and shouts of hate rang fearfully on the night air, and awoke unholy echoes along the valley.

In the front of the battle Wolf Slayer fought like a man. His lack of stature saved him from death more than once in that fearful encounter. Many a vicious blow glanced harmless, or missed him altogether, as he stumbled and bent among the alders. At first he fought with a long, flint knife,—the work of the old arrow-maker. But this was splintered in his hand by the murderous stroke of a war-club. He wrenched a spear from the clutch of a dying brave. A leaping figure went down before his unexpected lunge. It rolled over; then, queerly sprawling, it lay still. An arrow from the open ripped along an alder stem, rattled its shaft among the dry twigs, and struck a glancing blow on the young brave's neck. He stumbled, grabbing at the shadows. He fell—and forgot the fight.

In light and darkness the battle raged on. Wigwams were overthrown, and about the little fires warriors gave up their violent lives. At last the encampment was cleared, and saved from destruction; and those of the invaders who remained beside the trampled fires had ceased to menace. Along the black edges of the forest ran the cries and tumult of the struggle. Spent arrows floated on the lagoon. Red knives lifted and turned in the underbrush.

Wolf Slayer, dizzy and faint, crawled back to the lodges of his people. Other warriors were returning. They came exultant, with the lust of fighting still aflame in their eyes. Some strode arrogantly. Some crawled, as Wolf Slayer had. Some staggered to the home fires and reeled against the lodges, and some got no farther than the outer circle of light. And many came not at all.

The chief, with a great gash high on his breast (he had bared arms and breast for the battle), sought about the clearing and trampled fringe of alders, and at last, returning to the disordered camp, found Wolf Slayer. With a glad, high shout of triumph, he lifted the boy in his arms and carried him home. The mother met them at the door of the lodge. In fearful silence the man and woman washed and bound the young brave's wound, and watched above his faint breathing with anxious hearts.

"Little one, strengthen your feet against the turn of the dark trail," whispered the mother. "See, our fires are bright to guide you back to your own people."

"Little chief, though this battle is ended, there are many good fights yet to come," whispered the father. "The fighters of the camp will have great need of you when we turn from our sleep. The old bear grumbles at the mouth of his den!—will you not be with us when we singe his fur?"

"Hush, hush!" cried the woman.

The boy, opening his eyes, turned the feet of his spirit from the dark trail.

"I saw the lights of the lost fires," he murmured, "and the hunting-song of dead braves was in my ears."

Wolf Slayer was nursed back to health and strength. Not once—not even at the edge of Death's domain—had his arrogance left him. It seemed that the days of suffering had but hardened his already hard heart. Lad though he was, the villagers began to feel the weight of his hand upon them. He bullied and beat the other boys of the camp.