WETZEL, THE SCOUT;
OR,
THE CAPTIVES OF THE WILDERNESS.

BY BOYNTON BELKNAP, M. D.

NEW YORK:
BEADLE AND ADAMS, PUBLISHERS,
98 WILLIAM STREET.

Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1871, by
FRANK STARR & CO.,
In the office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington.

CONTENTS

[I On the Ohio] 9 [II Pompey in War] 16 [III The Renegade] 19 [IV Surrounded by Peril] 22 [V Thrilling Adventures] 29 [VI At the Settlement] 36 [VII Waiting and Watching] 39 [VIII Home Again] 44 [IX The Night Attack] 54 [X Colonel Clark and His Rangers] 68 [XI The Captain and the Indian] 77 [XII {Sowing the Wind}] 80 [XIII Reaping the Whirlwind] 84 [XIV {Conclusion}] 94

WETZEL, THE SCOUT

CHAPTER I.
ON THE OHIO.

“Who fired that gun?” demanded Captain Parks, as he turned around and faced his terrified negro, Pompey. “Hang me, if I don’t believe it was you, Pompey.”

“Heben sabe me, massa captain; I wouldn’t do such a ting for ten fousand dollars!”

“Let me see your gun.”

The trembling African obeyed. It required but a moment for the irascible captain to ascertain that the piece had just been discharged.

“Yes, you black rascal, it was you! Take that!” he added giving his servant a tremendous kick. The latter paid not the least heed to it, and finally added, as if addressing himself,

“Come to tink soberly on de matter, I bring to mind I did have de hammer up, so as to be ready for de Injins when dey do come, and jist now I stubbed my toe, and jerked on de trigger, and I s’pose dat am what made de blasted ting go off so mighty suddint like.”

“Of course it was, you black rascal! It came within an inch of my head. If anything like that happens again, I’ll leave you here in the woods for the Indian’s tomahawk.”

“Heben sabe me, I’ll be careful.”

Captain Parks, a blunt, corpulent, middle-aged man, who had served and been wounded in the Revolutionary war, was toilsomely making his way along the banks of the Ohio, near the close of day, followed by his servant, a great fat negro, of about as much use as a common ox would have been. He was endeavoring to reach a certain point, which had been described to him by the renowned ranger Lew Wetzel, for the purpose of being taken on board a flat-boat on its way down the Ohio. His own family and a number of friends were on board, and after seeing them embark, a goodly number of miles above, he had gone overland for some distance in order to meet a man on an important business matter. Remaining with him no longer than could be helped, he made all haste toward the rendezvous, which he had just reached at the time we introduce him to the reader.

“Yes, Pompey, here’s the spot!” exclaimed Captain Parks, looking around in surprised pleasure. “There’s the uprooted tree, with the shrubbery growing around its roots, that Wetzel told me to be on the look-out for.”

“Yaas, and dar am de riber dat he said would be dar, too.”

“The river, you blockhead? Of course, else how could we meet the flat-boat.”

“Dat am so,” returned Pompey, thoughtfully, and a moment later he shouted, “Ki yi? dar he comes now.”

“You blasted fool, that is a canoe full of Indians! Stoop down, or they’ll have our scalps in ten minutes.”

The men sank down out of sight, while the canoe that had attracted their attention, made its way swiftly across the river several hundred yards above. Its inmates seemed unaware of their presence, as they advanced straight across the river without swerving to the right or left.

As Captain Parks was anxiously scanning the savages he was certain he saw a white man sitting in the stern, and from appearances he was the guiding spirit of the forces. While scrutinizing him the negro at his elbow again spoke.

“Dar it am dis time, shuah.”

He was not mistaken this time. Coming around a bend above, the flat-boat floated slowly and silently forward under the perfect control of the current. When first seen it had the appearance of a large, square box, at either end of which was hung a lengthy oar, which now and then swayed and dipped in the water. The cabin ran the entire length, except at each end there was a small space left sufficient to contain a half-dozen men. Above these open spaces the heavy bullet-proof sides rose for five feet. A small narrow window was pierced in the sides, opening and shutting at pleasure, while a trap afforded egress to those within. The spaces at the ends communicated with the cabin by means of another small door, so that the inmates of the boat, whoever they might be, were able to pass and repass without exposing themselves to danger from an ever watchful foe without.

Viewed from the shore, not a sign of life would have been seen at first. Some invisible but skilful hand seemed to dip and sweep the long guiding oars and keep the boat in the channel. But a closer view would have shown a small, dark spot-like appearance above the gunwale at the stern, which at long intervals changed its position, and then for so long a time remained stationary as to give the impression that it was a part of the boat itself. This small object was a coon-skin cap, and it rested upon the head of him who was guiding this boat through the perils that environ it. A nearer approach, and a low hum, as though persons were conversing in the cabin, might have been heard; but no other appearances of life would have been seen upon the outside, except the one individual referred to. He was a man young in years, yet with an expression of face and appearance of dress that showed he had much experience in backwoods life. He was rather dull, of a muscular, massive frame, and had a fine, intelligent expression of countenance. His nose was small and finely formed, his eyes black and glittering, his long black hair fell in curling masses over his shoulders, his mouth was small and expressive, and there was an appearance of compactness about his frame that showed his formidable reserve of strength and activity. He was attired in the usual hunting costume of the day—coon-skin cap, with hunting shirt, leggins and moccasins made of deer-skin. A belt passing around the waist was the repository of a couple of savage-looking knives, while a long polished rifle rested against the cabin.

Our two friends on shore waited until the flat-boat was nearly opposite, when Captain Parks arose to his feet and made a signal with his hat. The eagle eye of Wetzel quickly detected it, and swinging his own cap over his head to signify that all was right, a small sort of canoe was instantly lowered, and propelled by the skilful paddle of the renowned ranger himself, it soon reached the shore, and received the two men on board.

“Dar am a hundred fousand Ingines!” whispered Pompey in a horrified whisper. “Let’s got back to de flat-boat a little sooner dan possible.”

Wetzel looked inquiringly at the captain, who made answer:

“A canoe full, passed just before you came in sight.”

“I seen ’em,” returned the ranger. “There’s a white man with ’em too. I’m afraid we’ll have trouble from ’em afore long, too.”

“Golly hebbin! let’s go back home.”

“Shut up, you black rascal.”

A few minutes later our friends were received on board the flat-boat, and most joyfully welcomed by its occupants. It was already getting dark, so that the meeting had not occurred too soon. It singularly happened that both Captain Parks and the flat-boat were delayed several hours in reaching the appointed spot.

There were a dozen upon the boat beside Wetzel, including the females of Stuart, Kingman and Parks, and several young, enterprising men.

Stuart was a sturdy, middle-aged farmer, who had first proposed this undertaking, and was the leading spirit of the enterprise. He was a corpulent, good-natured man, and was accompanied by his wife, and a meek, blue-eyed daughter of eighteen or twenty years. Kingman was a relative of Stuart’s, was of about the same age, and of the same pleasant, social disposition. His only child was a son, just verging into manhood, who had hopefully joined the little expedition. The third mentioned was Parks, our first acquaintance, who was about forty years of age, with a heavy grizzly beard and bushy hair, and of so irascible a disposition that he had gained the name of the “Mad Captain.” He was childless, having lost his only son in battle some years before.

The party at the time we introduce them to the notice of the reader, were engaged over their evening meal, and thus the hunter Wetzel was undisturbed by the presence of any of them.

Suddenly, like the flash of a demon’s eye, a bright spot of fire flamed from the inky blackness of the western shore, the sharp crack of a rifle burst upon the night air, its sullen echoes rolling far up and down the river. Not a motion or word on the flat-boat betrayed that the sound of a rifle had been heard. Wetzel was standing as usual, resting quietly on the oar, and heard the whizz of the bullet as it skimmed over the boat in front of him. Not the least discomfited, he neither spoke nor changed his position at the startling sound. A deliberate half-turning of the head and an apparently casual glance at the shore from which the shot had come, were all that betokened his knowledge of the threatened danger. There was little need of cautioning the inmates, as they were well aware of the dangers by which they were surrounded. Around Wetzel stood Kingman and Parks, while at the opposite end were young Kingman and a friend by the name of Russel. The females remained below.

The night was one of those clear, beautiful ones, when the silence is so perfect that the dark forest seems to have a deep, sullen, and almost inaudible roar, and there is soft music in the hum of the myriads of insects in the air. As the moonlight rested upon the youthful, but already bronzed face of the brave Wetzel, it disclosed one of no ordinary intelligence.

There is a magic power in the moonlight, when it rests like a silver veil upon the countenance, softening and mellowing the outlines, until every feature glows with a radiant mildness.

And, when a few moments later, Irene Stuart made her appearance, her face was of surpassing beauty. She was rather below the medium size, of a light delicate frame. As she emerged from below a heavy shawl enveloped her, concealing her faultless form to the shoulders. There was no covering for the head, and her dark clustering hair gathered loosely behind, fell in a black mass over her shoulders. The moonlight gave to the mild blue eyes a languid softness, and the whiteness of the face seemed increased by the same enchanting veil. The night journey was continued in safety, and the next day the wished-for settlement was reached. Here they were all received with open arms, and were speedily incorporated into the settlement proper.

The men had come for the purpose of carving out new homes for themselves in this great wilderness, and they went to work with the determination to do so. By mutual assistance, cabins for all were soon erected, and a large portion of the forest cleared and put under cultivation.

Matters progressed well until, after the lapse of a few months, rumors reached the settlement of a frightful increase of the outrages upon the part of the savages. The menacing danger to the settlement finally assumed such a form that stockades were erected and the place put in a state of defense.

A month or two passed thus, until the succeeding spring, when Wetzel arrived at the settlement with a call for twenty men to join a company that were going to march into the Indian country for the purpose of teaching them that the whites could not be murdered with impunity.

The desired twenty at once responded to the call. Among these were Mad Captain Parks, Kingman, Stuart, and others who were in the flat-boat. Wetzel was to be the leader until they reached the appointed rendezvous, a number of miles up the river, when the whole was to be placed under the command of Col. Sandford, a man who had experienced considerable Indian fighting. The entire force was to number two hundred and fifty, and it was confidently hoped that a summary check would be put to the outrages that were becoming frightfully common along the frontier.

At the appointed time the whole two hundred and fifty gathered at Fort Lafayette (the one of ancient days) and with high hopes they set out for the Indian town of Lushne, under the lead of the gallant Colonel Sandford.

To reach this, it was necessary to cross a large stream—a tributary of the Ohio. This was done in safety, and late one night they encamped within a comparatively short distance of the Indian town. A greater number of sentinels were put on duty, and the rest lay down to be ready for the “tug of war” that they confidently counted on for the morrow.

In spite of the extraordinary precautions that were taken the picket line was broken through, and an overwhelming body of Indians poured into the camp. The officers endeavored to rally them; but Colonel Sandford was almost instantly shot, and the panic become complete.

Many of the men performed prodigies of valor. Wetzel raged like a madman; but the men broke, and were scattered like chaff, and were hewn down as they ran.

Finding it was all useless to attempt to stay the tide, Wetzel, Captain Parks and Kingman attempted to save themselves. The two former successfully made their escape in the darkness, but the latter was wounded, and crawled for safety beneath a cluster of bushes. Here he lay all night, while the dreadful carnival went on. He caught sight of the shadowy forms rushing to and fro, heard the continual shrieks of the victims, and now and then the death yell of some over-venturesome Indian. He expected every moment to be discovered, and to share the fate of his companions.

When the morning finally dawned, the tumult died away, and overpowered by his exhaustion he fell asleep. When he awoke the day was well advanced. As he regained his consciousness he looked about him; but no person was visible. The massacre was finished.

Kingman crawled to a brook near by and quenched his thirst, and then made his way back again, seeing no prospect for him but to lie there and perish, or suffer a death of violence from the hands of the first one who should discover him.

He lay there all day. At nightfall he was startled by the appearance of a little whiffit of a dog directly in front of him. Knowing that some one else must be close at hand, he managed to lure the brute to him, when he cut his throat from ear to ear.

“There,” he muttered, as he wiped the blood from his hands, “you can’t betray my hiding place.—sh!”

Just then he looked up and saw the renegade Johnson but a few rods away, and apparently looking for something.

CHAPTER II.
POMPEY IN WAR.

“Dis yer gemmen ob color orter for to go to war, dat am sartin. While de rest am sheddin’ dar blood round dese parts, it ain’t right for him to be idle.”

Thus soliloquized Pompey when the forces marched from his village to join those in invading the Indian country. The reason he gave himself, however, was not the true step that influenced him. Through his thick skull there crept some such logic as this:

“If de best men lebe dis place, den dis place becomes de weakes’. De Injins will find dis out, and den what’s to sabe us dat stays behind? Whereas and wherefore dem dat goes away will be de safes’. Darfore, inasmuch as, de best ting I can do is to go wid ’em. Darfore, howsumever, I go.”

He hurried along and overtook the party before they had penetrated any great distance in the forest. The leaders were disposed to send him back; but he was so earnest in his entreaties to be allowed to go that they finally consented, and he formed one of the party.

When the attack was made, Pompey broke for cover. His prudent resolve was to remain out of sight as long as there was danger, and then to be “in at the death,” and claim his share of the glory.

Such being his situation, it was out of his power, as a matter of course, to comprehend at once the disaster that had befallen Colonel Sandford and his command. When he found the whites were scattering and seeking individual safety, and the Indians roaming everywhere in search of victims, he began to suspect that all had not gone as well as he had hoped.

“Gerrynation! I begin to tink it’s time dis yer black man was tinking of libing.”

At the time he gave expression to this thought, Pompey was crouched beneath some thick undergrowth, and glaring out upon the Indians, who seemed to be passing all around and in every direction. Here he remained until broad daylight. He had wit enough to understand that it was now impossible for him to escape discovery. The place in which he lay was the very one which a frightened fugitive would naturally secrete himself, and was therefore the one which the Shawnees would search. It would be certain death to attempt to escape by fleeing. His huge feet and short legs could not be compared with those of his enemies. He therefore hit upon the brilliant idea of feigning death until nightfall, when he could make off under cover of darkness.

He had barely made this resolution, when a stalwart Indian walked straight to the bushes, and pulling them aside, peered in. Perhaps the glare of the sun, or the utter darkness of Pompey himself, made the negro invisible for a few moments; for it is certain that some considerable time elapsed ere the savage uttered his all-expressive “Ugh!”

Pompey kept his eyes open until he saw the red-skin glaring down upon him, and then he shut his orbs as tightly as if he were expecting to hold a fly beneath each lid. At the same moment he drew in a long breath, stoutly resolved to hold it until the Indian went away. But as second after second passed, his discomfort rapidly became overwhelming. But he held out like a hero, until absolutely human nature could do no more. Suddenly he gave a tremendous puff, somewhat after the fashion of a laboring steam-engine.

“Gosh hang it! dar! no use tryin’! If I’d kept in any longer I’d busted!”

The Shawnee indulged in a huge grin as he discerned the African stretched out upon the ground, his eyes rolling, and his great white teeth chattering with fear.

“Ugh! come out—me kill.”

“Oh, good Mr. Injin, I love you ’most to death. Please don’t hurt me! Oh, good Mr. Injin, please don’t hurt a feller like me!”

“What do here?”

“Please don’t hurt me. I come along, good Mr. Injin jes’ to keep de rest from hurtin’ you. You can ax any of ’em if I didn’t.”

What would have been the ultimate result of all this it is impossible to say, but there can be little doubt but that the negro would have been tomahawked had not a peculiar whoop attracted the attention of the Indian. Without further noticing the supplicant he leaped away in the woods, uttering a reply to the signal, and disappeared almost instantly.

Pompey took advantage of this opportunity. He left that part of the neighborhood as fast as he could travel, and continued walking all night.

The whole distance back to the settlement was made alone, without encountering a single human being. A kind Providence watched over the poor fellow’s footsteps. The first man he saw was the sentinel of the town, who discharged his gun at him, excusing himself on the plea that he was so dark he thought it was night itself, and fired his gun into it to clean out the barrel.

CHAPTER III.
THE RENEGADE.

The renegade stooped and narrowly examined the marks which his dog had made in searching for the new trail, but as he had been to the spring once or twice, and had gone in many other directions beside the one toward Kingman’s retreat, it was impossible to follow up the right one.

It was now getting dark rapidly. Already the shadows of the wood were growing darker each moment, and blending together.

The renegade moved cautiously about, peering at each spot which he judged possible to contain a human being.

“Don’t ’pear to find any, though I shouldn’t wonder if thar’s two, there ’bout. Like to know where Nero is.”

He stopped and called again his brute, but, of course, he came not.

“Beats the devil whar that dorg am!” he exclaimed, somewhat nettled. “I’ll have to wollop him when he comes home ag’in.”

It was now so dark that his form was quite indistinct to Kingman. The latter saw him stand a moment and then soliloquize:

“Now, s’pose there war some feller hid under them bushes, he’d have a fine chance to bring me down, wouldn’t he? Thunder! I didn’t think of that all the time I’ve been standin’ here.”

This sudden discovery appeared considerably to affect him, for he turned on his heel and disappeared in the darkness. Pete Johnson, the renegade, was perhaps as incarnate a monster as Simon Girty; but, added to his crimes, he had a failing which the other great renegade had not. He was cowardly and fearful of his personal safety in battle. Girty, no one will deny, was a brave and daring fighter, and was often perfectly reckless of danger, while Johnson invariably showed the white feather when in peril.

Darkness had now settled over the forest, and Kingman, having greatly recovered, stealthily emerged from his hiding-place.

“Yes,” he muttered, looking toward the spot where he had last seen his enemy; “yes, there was a fellow under a bush, and nothing in the world would have given him a greater pleasure than to have sent a bullet through that black heart of yours. Never mind; your reward will come some day.”

And he turned and plunged in the forest.

The spot where the battle recorded had taken place, was in Sciota Valley, but a short distance from the river of that name, and toward this Kingman bent his steps. He could hear the shouts of the savages, and see their lights flitting through the trees, as they moved about in the village. Some, he knew, were still absent in the forest, searching for prey, and he was yet by no means out of danger, as the river bank would probably be watched the whole night. His wound pained him now more than usual, and he was fearful of a fever renewing itself before morning.

He took the river bank, for by following this he would avoid that singular mistake which persons lost in the wilderness so often make—that of coming, after a long time, back to the precise spot from which they started. The Sciota emptied into the Ohio, and by following its banks he would in time reach the settlement, as Wetzel and the hunters had done some time before.

As he approached the river, the moon was shining upon it, and he could plainly discover the dark line of the opposite shore. He hurried along the bank in the hope of finding some Indian canoe, but was disappointed. As every moment was of value to him, he commenced his homeward march at once. For a mile or so he kept within the wood, until, judging that he had gone far enough to be beyond danger, he took the shore and hastened onward. For a mile or so the beach was composed of a hard, gravelly sand, which made the walking easy and pleasant on such a warm moonlight night. Kingman could not help congratulating himself upon his own pleasant lot, when he reflected upon the fate of so many others, despite the severe and troublesome wound he had received.

“Yes,” he exclaimed, half aloud, “I’m in a fair way to get home again, and I thank Heaven for it. If I should happen——hello!”

The latter exclamation had good reason for its utterance. In coming around a sharp bend in the river, he had encountered a Shawnee Indian, and the two stood face to face! They were not fifty feet apart, and each appeared equally astonished. As Kingman stood, the moon shone upon his back, so that his features were concealed from his enemy, while the face of the latter was as distinctly visible as at noonday. Kingman saw his large, dark eyes glowing, and his whole countenance working with passion; but suddenly it changed, and losing the hold upon his knife, a grim smile came over his swarthy features as he said in a low tone,

“You scare Long Tom, Pete. He tink you oder man.”

Kingman saw in a moment that he had been mistaken for the renegade. His dress was similar, and his stature about the same, so that it could not be wondered at.

Without losing a moment he availed himself of the mistake.

“Wal, I reckon I did scarce you, Tom! Wagh! wagh!” he laughed, imitating as nearly as he remembered the renegade’s tones and actions.

“What scarce me for?”

“’Cause you was fool enough to git scart, wagh! But ain’t there no more of Injins with you?”

“Long Tom all alone.”

“Wal, he won’t be long.”

“Why tink so?”

“’Cause here’s as’ll send him whar thar are more. Wal, I will.”

“Send Long Tom where?”

“You’ll see in a minute. But what made ye come down this way alone, Tom? Ye mought ov met some o’ the white men.”

“Damme! wish me had.”

“What would you do?”

“Me do so,” and the savage made a motion with his hands as though he were scalping a person.

“You’ve come a good ways lookin’ fur him, wagh!”

“Me go furder.”

“Thar won’t be need of that.”

“Why, white dog round here?” eagerly asked the Indian, approaching nearer.

CHAPTER IV.
SURROUNDED BY PERIL.

This conversation, as will probably be seen, was purposely carried on by Kingman in order to throw the savage off his guard. An encounter he saw was unavoidable between them, and Kingman, in his wounded state, was fearful of the consequences to himself unless he employed some such stratagem as this.

He glanced at his rifle and saw he had preserved the priming from loss and moisture.

“I think the woods are full of the whites, Tom. Haven’t you seen any?”

“Only dem shoot in battle. Me no find any in woods.”

“I seed one hid in a tree. Wal, I reckon I did.”

“You kill him?”

“That’s a purty question to ax Pete Johnson. Thought you knowed better, Tom, than that. Ef Pete didn’t raise thar har bootyful then smash me.”

“Eh! fix ’em did, Pete? Good!” added the savage approaching still closer.

The two were now within ten yards of each other. Kingman feared a discovery each moment.

“Would you like to shoot a white, Tom?”

“Eh? wouldn’t Tom serve him so quick!” replied the savage, again going through the motions of scalping in the air.

“Wal, just look ’cross the river. Don’t you think there is something there that looks suspicious?”

The unsuspecting Indian turned and gazed in the direction indicated. At the same moment he heard the click of Kingman’s rifle.

As he turned his alarmed gaze around he received the bullet full in the heart, and with a wild yell sprang several feet in the air.

The savage saw at once the treachery which had been practised upon him, and in his death-struggle, as he was, he hurled his tomahawk with tremendous force at Kingman.

So truly was it aimed, that a mere accident may be said to have saved his life.

He had only lowered his musket, and the barrel was still before his breast.

As the weapon whizzed through the air it was driven directly at Kingman’s body, but in its passage it encountered the gun-barrel, emitting a stream of sparks at the concussion, and glanced off several yards into the river, and fell with a loud splash.

“There, Long Tom, I didn’t want to kill you, but I had no choice. I feel sorry for you,” said Kingman, as he saw the savage clutching the sand in his agony.

He avoided looking at him, and rapidly passed on, hoping to get beyond so sickening a sight.

Had the savage been any other than a Shawnee, Kingman would have felt more pity for him; but he well knew that the whole trouble upon the frontiers was owing to this same tribe. In fact, it is a question whether a more villainous tribe of Indians ever existed upon the North American Continent then than the Shawnees. They had figured in many of the blackest tragedies of the “dark and bloody ground,” and their very name for a long time was one of the greatest terror to the settlers. There was no compact, however sacred, no treaty, however pledged, that they hesitated to violate.

Then first known, their hunting-grounds were in the everglades of Florida and the adjoining country. Here their savage, treacherous disposition became at last so unbearable to the other tribes that the Choctaws, Cherokees, and most powerful tribes of the South united together and swore eternal destruction to them.

The Shawnees stubbornly maintained their ground for a number of years, until, seeing that nothing but decimation or utter annihilation remained to them, they gathered together and left their hunting-grounds forever.

Journeying northward, they reached the Ohio in time, when they determined to settle. There were broad, waving prairies, and deep, glorious forests, where the deer and buffalo ranged in thousands, and bright, flashing rivers, in which the fish sported in myriads. The Wyandots (as friendly then, when a mighty nation, as now, when the miserable remnant of one) welcomed them, spread the deer-skin for them to sit upon, and smoked the calamut as the token of eternal friendship.

Here the Shawnees grew to be one of the most powerful tribes in the whole North-west, and at the same time their vindictive, blood-thirsty disposition seemed to increase. None were more active in the old French war, and none more difficult to bring into Wayne’s treaty, when forty years afterward the war on the frontiers was believed to have been brought to a close.

After the celebrated victory of Mad Anthony, the Shawnees remained peaceful for a dozen years, when they again broke out in the well-known war under their renowned Tecumseh. As this is a matter of history, it is not necessary further to refer to it here.

Of course, it is not to be supposed that this long digression passed through the brain of Kingman after slaying the Shawnee before him, for the good reason that one half of the events mentioned had not yet taken place. It was now only 1780, and the Shawnees were in the fell tide of their strength, and had received no check from the pioneers. Kingman only remembered that the Indian he had slain was a Shawnee—his most mortal enemy.

The moon was now high in the heavens and as he journeyed along the shore, its light was so intense as to render it quite perilous to remain so exposed.

Once or twice the long, low howl of the wolf was heard faintly in the distance, and the shrill, human-like cry of the panther sounded fearfully nigh. The fact that there were others than human enemies in the wood made him hesitate about plunging into it. As he had used his ammunition, he had also thrown his rifle away, so as not to be encumbered with it, and with no weapon but his knife, he was in no condition to run into danger.

But at last the low, gravelly beach terminated. The dark overhanging forest, with its matted undergrowth, reached down to the water’s edge, and his path must now lead through to this tangled maze.

As he stood hesitating whether in his present exhausted condition it was best to camp for the night, or to continue his journey, a bright thought struck him. Directly before him lay a small tree, shivered by lightning. It was partly decayed, light and buoyant, and could be easily shoved into the water. This was quickly done, and he once more returned to congratulate himself upon his success. The water was warm and pleasant, and as it was a cool summer night, much warmer than the air. The sapling contained a number of dead branches and knots upon it, and being considerably lighter than Kingman at first supposed, he was able to float upon it with scarcely more than wetting his feet.

Fatigued and exhausted as he was, he found a heavy drowsiness gradually creeping over him. He had had little sound sleep for the past ten nights, and his exertions had been so great, that he felt certain it would be impossible to resist the feeling. So, placing his limbs so securely among the branches as could be done he gave way to the feeling, and prepared for a pleasant night’s slumber.

Gliding unresistingly along with the smooth current, with nothing but the gentle, liquid rippling of the river around, and the bright moon overhead, and the sullen, hollow roar of the forest on shore, no one could resist the drowsy goddess. Slowly but surely unconsciousness was creeping over him. Sky, forest, and water were mingling in a delightful confusion from which he felt no desire to separate them; and as all things were assuming that blankness which precedes our passing off into sleep, he was startled and recalled to his senses by a sudden shock. Starting up, he saw that he had struck against the upper end of a small sandy island, and the tree had remained fast. It required but a few moments to free this, and once more he was floating gently with the current. This time he slept, but he was destined to have a startling awaking. His wound made him feverish, and all sorts of fantastic visions were darting through his head. Bears, Indians, renegades, and dying friends, passed continually before him, and finally, after a fitful hour’s sleep, he partially awoke. As he lay languidly stretched on the tree, striving to set things right before him a peculiar clicking noise sounded in the water. At first, it seemed a part of his dreams, and he took no further notice of it; but it continued regularly, and was evidently approaching. He waited a few moments, until thoroughly awakened—he raised his head and looked about him. The moon was pouring a flood of light upon the river, so that the slightest object was discernible. As he turned his eye toward shore, he discovered a canoe, propelled by a single man, rapidly bearing down upon him. He looked hurriedly at the person, and was satisfied that it was no other than Pete Johnson the renegade.

“I’d rather see the bear, or the devil, than you,” was Kingman’s mental ejaculation as he quietly dropped off the tree, and commenced swimming toward the opposite shore. He did not believe the renegade was after him, or had discovered him, but was only crossing the river; and, as he was likely to pass rather uncomfortably close to the tree, he thought it best to get out of his way.

But such was not the case. As he turned his head, he saw that the canoe was pursuing him. Still hoping that he had not been seen, he came up a dozen feet away, and commenced swimming in an opposite direction. But the canoe was after him, no mistake.

“No use, ole hoss, I’ve got you this time!” exclaimed he in the boat.

“What do you want of me?” demanded Kingman. “Keep off, or I’ll shoot you.”

“Wagh! wagh! You will, eh? Blaze away, if you can. Come, you might as well knock under and go ’long docile, for there’s no airthly help for yer.”

As he said this the canoe shot rapidly ahead again, almost upon him.

The latter again dove, and came up directly under the stern of the canoe, where he hoped he would not be discovered. He felt he would rather be shot in the water than fall into the hands of the renegade.

Hearing a movement in the boat, and fearing discovery, he closed his feet together to sink again; but, before his head disappeared beneath he was caught by the hair, and in spite of every resistance he could offer, was pulled into the canoe.

As he was pulled head foremost into the canoe, he fully expected to be brained upon the spot, and more than once his head rang with the expectation of the blow. He lay for a moment on his face, without moving. In his feverish, exhausted condition, what resistance could he offer to the herculean strength of the renegade? His clothes were wet, and clinging to his shivering body, and a more miserable being probably never existed than he was at this moment.

Astonished at the silence of his enemy, he raised his head and looked up. Instantly one of the loudest, heartiest, most ringing laughs he ever heard greeted his ears.

“Wal, Kingman, you’re the most doleful-looking rat I ever heard on! Why, who’d you take me for? Ha! ha! ha!”

“Why, Abram Moffat, is this you?”

“No, it’s me. How are you? Give us your paw for old acquaintance.”

Not the renegade, but Kingman’s old friend was sitting before him. The very person of all he wished to see.

“Where in the name of creation did you come from?” asked Kingman.

“And where, I may ask, did you start?”

“Why, you known well enough. I was wounded in the battle, and have been trying to reach home.”

“Trying to swim all the way?” asked Moffat, with a sly look.

“No, only a part of it. I believe I stand a chance of getting a ride the rest of the way.”

“Yes, a slight chance if you behave yourself, and don’t jump overboard and try to paddle off.”

“No danger of that, for I am about used up now.”

“Yes, I can see that you are; let’s pull into shore and start a fire.”

So saying, Moffat turned the head of the canoe, which had been floating down the current all this time, toward shore, and in a few moments its prow struck the land, and they sprang out. It was now near midnight, and it was high time that Kingman was in other hands. His exposure in the water had hastened his chilling fever, and the strain which his system had undergone now suffered reaction, and his condition was fast becoming critical. In a few moments Moffat had a bright fire burning down in a ravine or hollow, where it could not be easily seen until within a few yards of it. He saw Kingman’s condition, and immediately stripped him and gave him a most vigorous rubbing, until he was all aglow with the circulation. He examined his wound, and found that it was not at all dangerous, but needed dressing. This he hastily did, and then wrapping him in his own blanket, he laid him near the fire and maintained watch himself until morning.

Nothing occurred seriously to alarm our two friends through the night. Once or twice Moffat heard the distant bay of the wolf and the piercing scream of the panther, and several times, as he looked up, he could see the fiery eyeballs of some wild beast glaring through the bushes above him. Then apparently after wondering at the meaning of the unusual scene, they withdrew, and their retreating steps could be heard, while the continued footfalls of other beasts were audible until daylight. But the fire was a life-guard. No denizen of the forest dare cross the blazing ring, no matter how slight it was; and when the faint streaks of morning illumined the east, the last hopeful loiterer took his departure and disappeared in the wood.

Kingman slept sweetly and heavily—so heavily, in fact, that it was broad day when he opened his eyes and gazed wondering about him.

“How do you feel, George?” asked Moffat.

“Oh!—is that you, Abe? I didn’t know you.”

“How many more times are you going to ask whether I am what I am? But that ain’t answering my question—how do you feel?”

“Like a new man, as I am,” replied Kingman, springing triumphantly to his feet.

Not a trace of last night’s fever remained. The restless, bloodshot eyes were now calm and sparkling; the red, throbbing face was cool and glowing; and the shivering, exhausted frame was now firm and graceful. Moffat had taken him just at the proper moment, and the fever had been broken and the equilibrium of the system restored.

“Wal, you do feel right, eh? Glad to hear it. Hungry?”

“I’m slightly of that opinion. I feel, just at this moment as though I could eat a Shawnee, tomahawk rifle and all.”

CHAPTER V.
THRILLING ADVENTURES.

Moffat took his departure in quest of game, and soon returned with a wild duck, which he had managed to approach unobserved, and kill with a well-aimed stone, there being too much danger in firing his gun. The bird was speedily cooked and eaten, with the keenest of appetites upon the part of both.

“Now,” said the ranger, “as we ain’t exactly sartin of our neighbors, we’ll seperate fur awhile. I’ll go to the left and you to the right, and we’ll jine again, by that point of bank, which you remember is about a quarter of a mile down the river.”

There was some risk in this, although, with proper prudence, there was no need of either running into danger. Accordingly they separated, and each taking the route designated by the scout, and moving with the stealthy tread of panthers seeking their prey.

They had been separated about fifteen minutes, and each was advancing silently, cautiously and stealthily, when our hero suddenly discovered an Indian in his war paint approaching. As quick as thought the young man “sprang to cover,” by darting behind a large oak tree. The tree behind which he was sheltered was, as said, a very large one of the oak species. The protection of the Shawnee was much smaller, and barely served to cover his body; but it was enough, and all he desired.

Kingman stood a moment, as if to decide his course, and then he walked with a stealthy tread about ten feet from the tree, and dropped upon the ground. In doing this, the tree had been kept in a range with the Indian, so as to still screen his body, and his purpose was unsuspected. He now sank flat upon his face, and commenced working himself slowly backward, his eye fixed upon the tree he had just left, and his whole caution exerted not to deviate from the range.

Had the savage once caught a glimpse of his movements, it would have been all up with Kingman. As it was, the Shawnee was half expecting some stratagem or treachery, and never once removed his gaze from the spot where he supposed his victim to be; but so consummately had our hero arranged this that as yet not the remotest suspicion had crossed the mind of the savage. He was, however, doomed to pass a more fearful ordeal than he yet dreamed.

The wood being open, and the ground devoid of the thick, tangled undergrowth so common in some other parts, Kingman was compelled to use the most extreme caution that no mismovement was made upon his part. As he proceeded, the friendly angle he made with the tree grew less, and the ground that was safe for him consequently more narrow each moment. More than once he found himself deviating from the line, and almost exposing himself. His progress was very slow and wearisome. The distance necessary to be passed before he could rise to his feet was considerably over a hundred yards, and not half that distance was yet crossed. When near the center, and moving slowly and painfully along, Kingman was startled by his feet coming in contact with some hard substance. Turning his gaze, he saw a rotten and decayed log lay directly across his path.

This was a new difficulty to be got over, or gone around. But there was no time for hesitation, and waiting but a second, he lifted his feet and commenced pushing himself over. His body passed over safely, and, feeling considerably relieved, he recommenced his novel retreat. But he had scarcely taken a step, when he heard a sound beside him that made his blood tingle with horror. It was the warning of the rattlesnake! Glancing furtively around, Kingman saw the reptile within six feet of him. His scaly, glittering body lay coiled like a rope, and from the centre his head, terrible in its beauty, rose some eighteen inches, and was drawn back, ready for the fatal strike. The tail on the outside of the horrid ring was gently swaying, giving forth that deadly rattle, and the whole body seemed alive and excited. Hardly a more terrible spectacle can be conceived than that of the coiled and bristling rattlesnake. The one in question was about five feet in length, and was gathered in a circle of a foot in diameter. The head was drawn back in a glistening arch, like the neck of a swan. As he lay, a patch of the sunlight broke through the treetops and rested upon him, making his whole body to glisten with a thousand brilliant variegated colors. His eye shone with a malignant glitter, like the ray of the star through the dark cloud, and his tongue flashed with lightning-like rapidity round his flat, swaying head. So rapid and incessant were the movements of this, that to Kingman it resembled a tiny stream of bright red blood crossing the neck and head in every direction. Several times the cavernous jaws were distended, and the white fangs, loaded with venom, could be seen curving inward, and as pointed as a needle.

Kingman saw all this in less time than it takes us to describe it. His first movement, upon seeing the reptile so nigh him, was an involuntary recoil, which had well discovered him to his human enemy. He felt the double danger that now menaced him. The rattlesnake had warned him once, and in a minute would strike. He could spring to his feet, and, with a little dexterity, avoid him; but, in the place of the sluggish reptile, the swift bullet of the Shawnee could not be avoided. No; Kingman made up his mind that an encounter with the reptile was preferable to one with the vindictive Shawnee.

Favored by the log over which, as will be remembered, he had just passed, and by still being in perfect range with the Indian, Kingman rose upon one knee and grasped his stick with both hands. It was a dangerous movement, and he durst not turn to see whether the savage had noticed it. But it must be done, and he could not remove his gaze from the snake, whose head now rose and drew back several inches, and whose eye glittered with tenfold brightness at his own threatened danger. He now rattled for the last time, and drew his neck back like a bent bow, when the stick of Kingman flashed through the air so rapidly as to be invisible, and struck the reptile just at the junction of the head and neck. Any other snake would have dodged the blow, quick as it was; but this species, besides being sluggish, is easily killed with a slight wound. As it was, the force with which Kingman struck was so great, and the blow so well aimed, that, incredible as it may seem, the head was stricken clean from the body. Kingman heard it snap, and, as the trunk spurted its hot blood on him, saw something spin like a ball through the air, and fall several yards away. A glance showed him the head writhing among the leaves, and the mouth gaping to its utmost extent.

The instant the head of the rattlesnake was severed from his trunk, the body doubled in a knot, and then whirled with lightning-like gyrations in his horrible agony. Fortunately for Kingman it took another direction, and still writhing and twisting, it shot off among the trees.

The greatest immediate danger was now rid of, and Kingman betook himself again to escaping from the Indian. When he fully realized the imminent peril from which he had been delivered, a sort of desperate reaction came over him, and he grew reckless and careless. He turned and made the rest of his retreat on his feet, stooping very low and moving quite rapidly. He was, however, unobserved, and reached another small ravine, for which he had so earnestly wished. Down this he bounded, and ran for the river.

“It is the opinion of this gentleman that he has gotten into about enough trouble from leaving broad trails for the Shawnees, and he proposes another plan.”

With this, our hero stepped into the water and again commenced swimming. He did not strike for the channel, for this would have been certain destruction, but continued close along shore. Heavy branches of trees and huge bushes overhung the water for fifteen or twenty feet from the shore and afforded an almost impenetrable protection for him. Beneath these he gently swam, and was half carried by the current, catching at the leaves and twigs within his reach.

When Kingman and Moffat separated, as mentioned in our last chapter, the latter concluded that before making his retreat sure, it was best to determine more definitely the whereabouts and intentions of the Shawnees. With this purpose he proceeded farther down the ravine and crossed it in the same place, and a few minutes after Kingman’s pursuer did; so that three individuals moved over nearly the same spot, and at nearly the same time, without one suspecting the presence of the other, except in the case of our hero. Kingman reached the opposite side of the ravine, and he reascended it for several hundred yards for the purpose of ascertaining the precise position of the Indian above. This necessarily required some time, and was only partially successful. He approached nigh enough to hear the “ugh!” of a savage in conversation with another, when he deemed it best to make good his retreat.

The fact that the Shawnees were still watching above he considered as evidence that his stratagem to insure the escape of Kingman had been perfectly successful; for, if they suspected anything, they would not still be lying in ambush as they were. With these thoughts, he now made his way toward the river for the last time, trusting to come upon Kingman and the boat. He reached the river at a point behind the Shawnees, pursuing our hero, so that the two latter were below him on the river. It was singular that the three should be in such proximity and still ignorant of the other’s proceedings. The appearance of Moffat upon the ground would have made a material difference in the programme of affairs; but such was not destined to be the case.

Moffat took a careful survey of the river bank, but of course saw nothing either of Kingman or the boat. Not doubting, however, but the latter had made off with it, and was waiting at some point lower down for him, he proceeded onward. Scarcely a hundred feet lower he saw the boat lying under and fastened by one of the overhanging bushes. He was considerably surprised at this, and feared that it augured ill for Kingman. He waded out and examined it. There were no signs of a struggle having taken place, and the oars lay precisely as they did when he left the boat himself. Still, only partially satisfied, he stepped into it, shoved it out clear from the bushes, and commenced rowing down stream. The noise made doing this reached the ears of the Shawnee above, but did not succeed in drawing him from his watch; for, as the reader has probably noticed, he had fixed his heart upon obtaining Kingman’s scalp, and was determined that nothing else should draw him from it.

Moffat had rowed several hundred yards as silently as possible, when he was startled by hearing a movement in the bushes. He dropped his oars instantly, seized his rifle, and sank into the bottom of the boat. Fixing his gaze upon the shore, he imagined he could see a dark body half in the bushes and half in the water, struggling as though it wounded. Not daring to fire, he rowed within a short distance, and called out just loud enough to reach it:

“Is that you, Kingman?”

“I am of that opinion. What’s the news?”

“I have just found a poor dog, half drowned, in the water.”

“Why don’t you pick him up, then?”

“Afraid he might swim away, if I should try.”

“Try, and see whether he will.”

Moffat rowed up to him, and took him in.

“Now pull for the other shore,” said Kingman, “for I have had enough of this for the present.”

In going across, nothing occurred to alarm them, and our two friends related to each other their experience since they parted. Moffat gave it as his opinion that Kingman had had quite an adventure—something that would do to tell when they got home.

“But where do you suppose that Shawnee of yours is?” asked Moffat.

“I suppose he is watching behind that tree yet,” laughed Kingman. “You haven’t told me yet how you came by this canoe.”

“Oh, there is little to tell of that. When our company dropped their doors with which they were carrying the Injin fort, and I found every man was for himself, and all for no, I thought I’d try a journey on my own hook. So I dug for the woods until I supposed I was clear of the crowd, when I made tracks for the river. Just before I got there, I come ’cross two little Injin boys—little devils out shooting our men and learning to scalp on their own hook; and, would you believe it, the confounded imps had a couple top-knots they had haggled off of some poor fellow’s head. They found them half dead, I suppose, and then shot and finished them. They didn’t happen to have loaded their guns yet, and the way I walked into their meat-houses was a caution to bears. That split in that rifle stock came from splitting both their heads. I laid ’em out stark and stiff, so that there’s no likelihood of their lifting the hair of any more of our boys for a considerable time. Wal, as their guns wan’t of any use to me, I let ’em alone, and just took their ammunition, and went on down the river. After going a half mile or so, I stumbled onto this canoe pulled in snug under the bank. As the owner wasn’t about to ask permission, I borrowed it until I could return it.

“Wal, I spent that day pulling down the river, keeping close under the shore, and watching all-fired close for Injin sign. I didn’t see anything worth noticing through the day, and at night I run into shore, turned the canoe over me, and curled up for a snooze. The air was so warm and there was so many musketoes, and I felt so kind of all-overish, that I crawled out agin, and squatted on top of the boat. I heard a gun go off, and that started my nerves. I sat watching the river a good long while. The moon was shining so bright that I could see anything as plain as day. Purty soon a tree come floating down, and I thought I seed an Injin’s head in it. Thinking as how it might be the one that owned the canoe, who was looking for it, I launched it, and when out, I intended to apologize. The moon shone so bright, that, before I got to him, I seed it was a white man. The rest you know.”

By this time our friends had reached the opposite shore. Here, after a short and earnest consultation, they determined to keep the river as long as possible. Accordingly they again shoved into the stream, and continued upon their way.

CHAPTER VI.
AT THE SETTLEMENT.

The disastrous termination of the battle of Chillicothe was a severe blow to the settlements along the frontier, and none, perhaps, felt it more than our own village. Defeat was not dreamed of with such ardent troops, and under the leadership of Colonel Sandford, and the experienced Indian-fighter, Wetzel. Instead of giving a check to the savage depredations, this really added an impetus. The Shawnees and several tribes united, and under the harangues of their chiefs and leaders, finally believed that the whites could be still driven from their grounds forever. The great Tecumseh had not arisen yet to seek to stay the inevitable tide of extermination with his masterly genius, but the warriors were as numerous and their intentions as deep-rooted.

Could some such man as Tecumseh have arisen at this time, the Indian wars on the frontier would have been much more bloody and formidable than they were. Many of the tribes were at variance with each other, and some of the severest battles ever fought upon the “dark and bloody ground” were between the rival tribes. Though all were opposed to the whites, they could not unite against them. Their leaders were too short-sighted, and in spite of their utmost efforts, the tide of emigration still rolled westward.

Long and anxiously was the return of the volunteers looked for. The sentinels at the block-houses continually watched every point of the forest and river, and the deep interest felt in the result of this expedition was shown by all. Finally a few days afterward, a couple of stragglers, worn and haggard, emerged from the wood, and entered the settlement. They were immediately surrounded by numbers, eager and anxious, to whom they related the sad particulars of defeat. Several they had seen fall upon the battle-field, but who were shot or wounded they were unable to tell. The retreat had been so disorderly and confused that the two in question had taken to the woods together, and made all possible haste for home.

In the afternoon, Captain Parks, Prentice, and all of the volunteers, except Pompey, and the killed and our two friends, returned. From them the full particulars of the battle were received. Those who escaped the massacre had made a rapid retreat for Pennsylvania, so that the settlements were again left to their own protection.

“But where are Kingman, Smith, and Moffat? I don’t see them among your number,” asked the minister, Edwards, of Captain Parks.

“Smith I saw killed. I don’t know where Moffat and that madcap, Kingman, are. I saw them both fighting like devils, and suppose if they ain’t scalped, they’re scouting around the country somewhere. Umph! the all-firedest battle I ever saw fought.”

“Very unfortunate—very unfortunate.”

“That Wetzel is a trump, and understands what he is about, but the men hadn’t a chance.”

“The boldness of the Indians will no doubt be increased by their triumph.”

“I don’t know as their boldness will require much increase, but the way they walked into the retreating soldiers did credit to their cruelty.”

“This is a sad thing if Kingman is lost. He was a fine noble-hearted, promising young man, and his loss will be deeply felt by all. But, beside his parents, there is one to whom the blow will be terrible.”

“Who is that?”

“Irene Stuart. You know her. She came with you.”

“Yes; but why should she feel it?”

“There is something more than friendship”—

“Umph! I understand. He’s gone in there. Yes; I understand. But, I don’t believe he’s gone under, because his being absent at the same time with Moffat shows pretty certain that they are together, and they do say that that long, spindle-shanked fellow that I once kicked clear of the ground is one of the best Indian fighters in the parts. He can run like a deer, and is as cunning and wide-awake as that Mingo, Logan. No; I think they’re in some scrape but he’ll bring both out all right.”

“I do earnestly pray that he will. Irene asked me to inquire when she heard some of the men had arrived, and I must now go to her. You think, then, there is nothing wrong done, if I encourage her to hope?”

“Of course not. I won’t believe he’s dead if he don’t come back for a month, unless Moffat comes in and says he saw him go under.”

“If you have nothing to detain you, suppose you go on to the house. The families are very anxious to get the particulars, and I suppose your wife is looking with much concern for your reappearance.”

“Umph! not much, I guess; but I’ll go down with you, for I happen to be most confoundedly hungry.”

CHAPTER VII.
WAITING AND WATCHING.

The result of the battle had one salutary effect upon the settlement: it gave every one a true sense of the danger in which they all stood. Thus far they had relied too much upon the good-heartedness of the Indians. They now saw their mistake, and remedied it before it was too late. Most of the men set to work, and in a short time a double row of firm pickets enclosed the settlement. Although buried deeply and firmly into the earth, of course they were not impregnable; but they were a protection which few settlements on the frontier were willing to do without. They enclosed the settlement in the shape of a square, with a block-house, well manned, at each corner.

A scout, whose principal duty was to skirt along the Ohio and watch the movements of the hostile tribes, came in a short time after the battle and reported that a flat-boat, with some thirty persons on board, bound for this settlement, had been enticed into shore by a white man, not more than a dozen miles up the river, and every one tomahawked!

The scout believed that the renegade was no other than the notorious Pete Johnson, who figured in our account of the battle of Chillicothe. Girty was at the bottom of the affair and had given strict and positive orders that no white man, woman, or child who fell into their hands should be spared!

This scout’s present duty was to visit the settlements along the frontier and warn them to make preparations for the worst. The Indians were evidently concentrating to strike some decisive blow against civilization, and woe to the villages whose sentinels slumbered and who were found unprepared.

There could no longer be any doubt of the intentions of the tribes through the whole territory.

“A war, and a long and bloody one, I fear, is unavoidable,” remarked Edwards, in conversation with the scout.

“It must come to that, sooner or later,” replied the latter, “and I don’t see the need of putting the thing off. Them Injins have got to lose about half their number, and get most eternally lammed before they’ll holler ‘enough.’ I go in for giving them particular fits when we undertake to do it.”

“There have been rumors that Colonel Clark is to march against them with his Kentucky Rangers. Do you know whether such is the case?”

“I think he will—since this battle he will be compelled to. I hope the colonel will do it, for he ain’t the man to order his men to retreat when they get the upper hand of the red cowards.”

“Provided they do get the upper hand,” smiled the minister.

“Oh, no danger about that. The colonel understands Indian fighting, and he’ll show some of it, too, when he undertakes it.”

“Something better than their last colonel, I hope. Umph!—couldn’t be any worse,” remarked Captain Parks, who had just come.

“Wal, mistakes will sometimes happen,” said the scout in extenuation; “and I s’pose that Colonel Sandford’s was one of them; but that don’t shift the blame, for all that. He made the blunder, and would, like as not, do it again, and consequently he ain’t fit to go into Injin ground.”

“The Wetzel brothers render great service to the settlement, I understand,” observed the minister.

“They are regular teams. If they’ll let Lew Wetzel manage matters, there’ll be no mistake made; he knows all about Injin ways.”

“The Shawnees, I believe, are causing the most trouble?”

“Them imps are at the bottom of the whole trouble we’ve had. They have always been mean and ugly enough to do anything, and since Simon Girty has got among them, they’re nothing but a set of devils let loose upon airth. It’s the fact,” added the scout, as he noticed a look of displeasure upon the minister’s face. “It’s the fact, I say; them Shawnees are the biggest set of villains that ever walked on two legs or four either, for that matter.”

“I suppose that this renegade has a great influence over them?”

“A great influence? Well, there?” repeated the scout, gesticulating very emphatically, “There ain’t a Injin chief west of Pennsylvania that can do more with his tribe than he can, and there ain’t a single chief among the Shawnees who dare persist in opposing him. No, sir.”

“Girty I knew when a boy,” said the minister, “and I have prayed many a time for him since. Although a dark and guilty man, he is a brave one, and was led to forswear his race on account of the brutal treatment he received from them. I have often wondered whether it were possible to win him back again.”

“Win him back again?” repeated the scout, recoiling a step or two, in perfect amazement. “No, sir; never. A greater monster never breathed, and as long as he lives his whole aim will be to revenge himself upon us; and what is worse, he isn’t alone. There’s that Pete Johnson, as big a devil, and a bigger coward, and a half dozen others, among the Injins, who are ever setting them on.”

“Umph! they’ll get paid for it yet.”

“But I see the day is well along,” remarked the scout, “and I must be on my way to the other settlements.”

The ranger, after a few minutes further conversation, left our friends, and departed. The words recorded took place the next day after the battle described in a preceding chapter, and up to this time nothing had been heard of Moffat and Kingman. During the interval Pompey had come in, who of course knew nothing. Their prolonged absence occasioned the most painful apprehension. All but Captain Parks were extremely doubtful of their return and Kingman’s parents were compelled to believe that their promising “George” was lost forever to them. The sad uncertainty of their fate cast a gloom over all the settlement.

But there was one upon whom the blow fell, as the minister remarked, with double weight. The gentle, blue-eyed Irene Stuart and the daring George Kingman had long been plighted—plighted in hearts, but not in words. All had seen and understood the claim which he had upon her, and although there was many an admiring eye cast upon the lithe and graceful form, yet none pretended to dispute his right. All gave way, and pronounced the handsome twain “a fine match.”

Irene watched with a straining eye for the form of her beloved to appear among the returned. None other than she who has experienced it can understand the painful doubt, the distressing uncertainty of a heart in such a situation: and when the fatal knowledge, like a blow of death, strikes all at once, then it is that the soul feels its great agony. As the good minister communicated gently, and with an air of hopefulness, the tidings that Moffat and Kingman had not returned, she felt her heart sink within her. The minster noticed her sudden paleness and faintness, and hastened to remark.

“Oh, my child! you must not take it thus. There is good reason to believe that your friend is living, and will yet return.”

“Did any one see them fall?” she asked, in a voice so calm that it was frightful.

“Not at all. Gavoon, who was killed, was seen when shot, as were most of the others; but no one noticed our friend.”

“Then there is hope!”

“To be sure—to be sure. Moffat is very skillful, they say, in savage ways, and has been delivered from so many dreadful dangers that it can hardly be supposed with reason that he has not escaped from this.”

“But why do they remain so long away?”

“Many reasons might detain them of which we know nothing, child. I have by no means given up hope, and I think it is not wrong for me to encourage you in hoping for the best.”

“I will try,” she remarked, faintly, as she arose and went to her room, where she might indulge her sorrow in secret.

The good minister had arisen to depart, when Mrs. Stuart hurried into the apartment.

“Ah! how do you do, sister?” he exclaimed, extending his hand.

“Pretty well in body, but wretched in spirit. O dear! few know the horrors and sufferings we nervous women go through for the men’s sake.”

“What is the trouble now?” he asked, with an air of solicitude.

“What is the trouble, do you ask? Why, isn’t these awful times now, with these savage Indians murdering and hacking people. I expect, just as like as not, they’ll murder us all in our homes. There’s no telling what they won’t do in this heathen country. Lord of massy! I should think they had done enough now.”

“Ah! my good sister, you must be more hopeful. The Lord will deliver us from our peril. Remember there are strong and willing hearts around you.”

“Yes, that’s a slight consolation; but then them Injins will do almost anything. Only think how they run off with George Kingman.”

“But that is not certain yet, by any means. Many others, including myself, have not given up our hopes of him yet.”

“Oh, he’s gone, you may be sure of that. I’ve been up to see Mrs. Kingman. She felt a little propped up, I believe, by what the people had said; but I told her there was no use in hoping, for he’d got into the hands of them heathens, and they hacked him all to pieces.”

“And what did she say to that, my good sister?”

“Oh, she burst out a cryin’ like, and wrung her hands saying as how she feared so all the time. It’s always so; we women do suffer nearly everything for the unfeeling men. Yes, oh, yes!”

A sort of hysterical sob and whimper followed this, but in a moment she revived again.

“I have one consolation, at any rate—we won’t see any of them nasty Indians in heaven, when we get there.”

“Don’t say that, sister, for I hope and expect to meet a great many there.”

CHAPTER VIII.
HOME AGAIN.

The prolonged absence of Kingman and Moffat, to say the least, was certainly singular. Several days had now elapsed since the battle, and if they were in the woods, or had escaped the vengeance of the Shawnees, there could be no reason offered why they had not made their appearance. The most sanguine began to doubt—all despaired save the captain, who, when questioned, replied with more than his usual protervity.

“He’ll come if you only wait. Umph! I don’t see anything to worry about.”

The fifth day wore slowly away without any tidings of the missing ones, and darkness was again gathering over the quiet village. There was an air of subdued repose up on everything. The quiet tree-tops were not swayed by the slightest zephyr, and the broad Ohio glistened like a sheen of silver as it flowed without a ripple beneath the horizontal rays of the setting sun. The dark forms of the sentinels could be seen at the block-houses, and here and there a quiet settler wended his way through the ungainly streets. The few cattle and horses were gathered home, and all were ready for the slow approaching night to close around them.

Irene Stuart stood at the open door of her cabin, as she had every evening since the battle, gazing vacantly out upon the Ohio. The last rays of the sun were shooting brilliantly over the tree-tops and illuminating them with a golden glow; the hum and noise of work around her had ceased, and the mournful stillness harmonized well with her sad and mournful thoughts. It was easy to tell where they were. It was easy to tell where they had been every night when she had stood thus, lost in communion with them. It is sometimes hard beneath the most convincing proof to believe that one is dead. When gazing upon the form of some cherished one, dressed ready for the grave, a strange doubt will sometimes come over us, that there is still life within him. The most improbable theories will present themselves and have a hearing. Perhaps we imagine that he is only feigning death, and will yet arise and speak before fastened within the coffin; or we may experience a faint, tormenting part of that awful thought of burying one alive, and our tortured imagination conceives of the unutterable horror of his waking within the tomb. Then, again, a hope that there yet is power in medicine subtle enough to win the soul back, sustains us to the brink of the grave. A thousand conflicting theories—perhaps in Divine Providence—prevent us from fully realizing the truth as it is.

Hopes, fears, doubts, constant and intensified, had had continual play with Irene. Sometimes when cold, common sense had its sway, it carried with its overwhelming evidence the conviction that George Kingman was lost forever to her. Then instantly a thousand contingencies would present themselves, and her heart would throb tumultuously with the hope thus awakened. These conflicting feelings had told upon her, even in the short time since they had held alternate region. There was a vacant wandering expression of the eye, a languid listlessness of manner, and an absent unconsciousness to what was passing immediately around her, that show unmistakably the deep hold these thoughts had upon her. Sometimes she would stand as motionless as death itself, with that expression of the eye as though gazing at the clouds in the horizon miles away. And often when questioned upon some different subject, her reply would relate to the all-absorbing topic of her mind, she would move like an automaton among the living, scarcely heeding a word or movement of those around.

Her parents pronounced her conduct queer, and trusted she would soon get over it. The good minister frequently visited the house. At such times Irene would be herself again, and would cheer up and converse about whatever was proposed, gradually verging to the one great topic, however, until, at the departure of her friend, she was completely lost again. The worthy man understood fully her case, and used every means he could devise to win her from the fearful control of her feelings.

Irene was standing in an attitude of earnest meditation, as was said, at the door of her cabin. Her parents were absent, so that there was nothing to prevent her relapsing into one of her unconscious spells. This was the reason why she did not notice an unwonted noise in the village—this was the reason why she did not hear a confusion of voices a short distance away, and the reason why, when a form flitted past her vision, it made no impression upon it; or more properly, the impression was made upon the retina, and the optic nerves sped the intelligence up to the brain; but the brain had took much other business on hand, and took no notice of it whatever.

A confused, waving field was Irene Stuart’s vision at that time. There was that peculiar, indescribable confusion of forms and colors which one sometimes experiences during a mental aberration. All unimaginable figures doubled and disappeared within one another with noiseless celerity; objects never dreamt of before took form and motion, and her vision finally became a gorgeous mixture of light and darkness, of shadow and sunlight, and of forms and colors.

But amid all these, an object gradually took shape. At first it had the appearance of a long, dark, undulating column, directly in the centre of her field of vision. It swayed gently from side to side, as though agitated by a passing breeze, but the base still maintained its place without motion. Slowly, almost enough to be imperceptible, it diminished in size, and the airy figures around grew dimmer and more obscure every moment. Once or twice it seemed as though some sound proceeded from the shaft, but Irene heeded it not, although her gaze still remained from a languid unwillingness to remove it, riveted upon the dark object. Suddenly it diminished in size to that of a man, and the first thought that had anything of vigor in it was, that it bore some resemblance to a human form. By a seemingly desperate effort, she roused herself and looked intently at it. It was a human form.

“Why, Irene, how long before you are going to speak to me?”

“Oh, George! is it you? I was thinking so deeply!”

“Thinking? thinking of what?” asked Kingman, approaching and taking one of her hands, and looking searchingly into her rich blue eyes.

“Why, thinking of you,” she replied, impulsively.

“Thank Heaven!” he added, in a low tone, as he embraced her fervently, and half carried her within the cabin. For a moment Irene was totally overcome; the great strain which her system had undergone now suffered a reaction, and she was as weak and helpless as a child. There seemed an utter abandonment about her which made her a dead weight in Kingman’s arms: not a dead weight, either, but a live one, and for that matter our hero felt perfectly willing that it might be thus for any length of time. He brushed the dark curls from her forehead, and kissing it ardently, drew her head down upon his shoulder, where for a few moments the sobs came without restraint. But she shortly recovered herself, and he allowed her to withdraw herself from his arms and seat herself beside him.

“What made you remain so long away?” she asked, with a deep, yearning look which Kingman felt.

“I could not help it.”

“Could not help it? Why not? Were you hurt?”