SIGN OF THE PROPHET

THE SIGN OF
THE PROPHET

A TALE OF TECUMSEH
AND TIPPECANOE

BY
James Ball Naylor
Author of “RALPH MARLOWE”

AKRON, OHIO
THE SAALFIELD PUBLISHING COMPANY
NEW YORK 1901 CHICAGO

Copyright, 1901,
BY
THE SAALFIELD PUBLISHING COMPANY

MADE BY
THE WERNER COMPANY
BOOK MANUFACTURERS
AKRON, OHIO

TO
SAMUEL G. McCLURE

of The Ohio State Journal, who encouraged my early literary endeavors, this book is gratefully dedicated.

Very Truly,

JAMES BALL NAYLOR

THE SIGN OF THE PROPHET

CHAPTER I.

It was a hot, sultry morning in the latter part of August, 1811.

A dugout canoe containing two occupants was swiftly speeding down the Scioto, at a point near which the city of Columbus now stands.

The clear green water wimpled musically at the bow of the vessel, and a frothy wake bubbled and eddied at the stern. The surface of the stream lay cool and dark in the shadow of the overhanging trees; but where the red rays of the rising sun shot through the dense foliage and fell upon the pulseless bosom of the sluggish tide, they gave it the metallic luster of burnished copper. Great trees ranged themselves as stalwart sentinels along the shores, a part of the grand army that stretched away to the far distance on either hand. Their leaves were dark-green and glossy. Yellow and purple wild flowers lifted their fair faces to the morning sun and nodded a welcome. Feathered songsters fluttered among the gray boughs and chirped and warbled merrily. A venturesome fish popped several feet out of the water—just ahead of the swiftly flying dugout—and flashed its silver scales in a tantalizing manner.

The occupants of the canoe gave little heed to the beauties of the scene. Seated in the bottom of their quivering, rocking craft, they rapidly and rhythmically dipped their light paddles. At each stroke the frail vessel lifted itself and sprang forward, like a thing of life. The forest receded from the western bank of the river, and low-lying fields of tall, rank corn took its place. Walled in by the growing maize, lay the straggling village of Franklinton—a cluster of rude log-huts. Cleared spaces appeared in the woods upon the eastern shore; and several cabins stood out against the background of encircling trees—the germ, the nucleus of the Capital City of to-day.

The two paddlers looked neither to the right, nor to the left, but laboriously bent to their work. Suddenly a man parted the bushes upon the western shore and, stepping down to the water’s edge, called lustily:

“Hello! That you, Ross Douglas?”

“Yes,” answered the man in the stern of the dugout. “What do you want?”

Both paddlers ceased their efforts and allowed the craft to drift with the lazy current.

“W’y, y’r dog come to my cabin this mornin’—all wet an’ draggled as though he’d swum the river,” returned the voice from the shore. “He ’peared to be tuckered out an’ hungry—an’ went whinin’ ’round as if he was huntin’ fer you. I fed him, an’ then tied him up in the cabin. Do you want him?”

The paddler in the bow of the canoe turned his head and looked at his companion, at the same time uttering a grunt of surprise and incredulity.

“You may keep him until I come back,” called the man who had answered to the name of Ross Douglas, lifting his paddle and preparing to resume his journey.

“Hold on there, Ross!”—shouted the individual on shore. “What do you mean—where’re you goin’?”

“Going to join General Harrison’s army at Vincennes.”

And the suspended paddles dipped, and the dugout leaped forward.

“Stop, I say!” bellowed the man who had hailed the voyagers, running along the shelving sands and gesticulating wildly. “Ross Douglas, you ain’t a goin’ to run off like that an’ leave an ol’ friend, without shakin’ his paw an’ biddin’ him good-by—I’m danged if you are! Stop, ’r I’ll send a bullet spinnin’ out there—I will, by Sally Matildy!”

“But I’m in a hurry,” Douglas laughed good-humoredly.

“It don’t make no differ’nce,” persisted the other. “Come in here.”

“Turn the prow toward shore, Bright Wing,” Douglas said in a low tone to his companion.

“Ugh!” grunted the latter—and obeyed.

A few moments later the canoe beached itself and the two paddlers sprang ashore. The one who had occupied the bow of the craft was an Indian—young, lithe, and strong. His forehead was high and narrow; his nose, slightly aquiline. His eyes were small, black, and piercing; his brawny chest and muscular arms were bare. His straight, blue-black hair—braided and ornamented with beads and perforated shells and coins—reached his waist. Breeches, leggings, and moccasins of tanned buckskin constituted his dress. In his belt were tomahawk and scalping-knife; and he carried a heavy rifle. He belonged to the Wyandot tribe, and was an adopted son of the noble chief, Leatherlips.

The Indian’s companion was an American—tall, active, and sinewy. His complexion was swarthy; his steel-gray eyes were bold and keen. But the stern cast they gave to his countenance was relieved by a pair of smiling lips, indicating gentleness and great good-nature. A mass of soft brown hair clustered in short ringlets about his temples and rippled down upon his broad shoulders. The well-fitting suit of buckskin that he wore revealed the rounded contour of his shapely limbs; and the broad-brimmed soft hat that surmounted his silky curls set off his dark beauty to the best advantage. His weapons were of the finest workmanship, and gave evidence of the loving care their owner bestowed upon them. Apparently he was about twenty-eight years old.

The man who had hailed the two voyagers—and whom they now stood facing—was a typical backwoodsman of middle age. His face was oppressively ugly—prominent nose, wide mouth, and pale-blue, watery eyes. His hair was scant and straw-colored; his body and limbs, were long, lank, and ungainly. His garb was in keeping with his character—hunting shirt and breeches of coarse linsey-woolsey, heavy cowhide boots, and peaked fur-cap. He was a grotesque, incongruous bundle of bones and sinews—a whimsical, eccentric hunter and trapper. But a more valiant, loyal, and loving heart, than Joe Farley had, never beat in man’s bosom.

Now he stood leaning upon his long rifle, a quizzical smile illuminating his rugged features.

“What do you want, Joe?” Douglas demanded briskly.

“Want to know where you’re bound fer,” came the drawling reply.

“I told you—to Vincennes, to join Harrison’s army,” Ross answered, a shade of annoyance in his tone.

“You don’t mean it?”

“But I do.”

“Is the Injin goin’, too?”

“Ugh! Me go, too,” said the redman, drawing himself up proudly.

“Seems to me it’s goin’ to be a strange sort o’ war,” Farley chuckled dryly. “Injins an’ white men on one side—an’ white men an’ Injins on t’other. ’Cause that’s what it’s comin’ to. The danged Britishers has got the’r fingers in the pie ag’in—an’ ther’ ain’t no tellin’ where the thing ’ll stop. So, Bright Wing, you’re goin’ out to fight ag’in your own people, are you?”

“Not my people,” grunted the Indian, his black eyes flashing. “Me Wyandot—me fight Shawnees.”

“It don’t make no differ’nce—they’ve got red skins,” Joe remarked.

“Ugh! You much big fool!”

And the impulsive young warrior’s hand involuntarily sought the handle of his tomahawk.

Farley’s face flushed, and he cried sharply:

“Keep y’r hand off y’r hatchet, redskin. That’s a game two can play at.”

Quickly Douglas stepped between the two and, turning upon Farley, said sternly:

“Joe, you may not be a fool, but you’re acting the part of one, at any rate. You know as well as I that the Wyandots are the friends of the Americans, that the Shawnees are the allies of the British. Of course, there are traitors in both tribes; but what I have stated is true in the main. Bright Wing is my comrade—your friend. If you’re a man, you’ll beg his pardon.”

“An’ that’s jest what I’m goin’ to do,” Farley shamefacedly muttered. “’Pears that I’ll never git to understandin’ Injins. They’re so danged touchy.”—This in an aggrieved tone.—“But I had no business to be tormentin’ Bright Wing—he’s a redskin with a white man’s heart in his breast. Injin, here’s my hand. I didn’t mean to hurt y’r feelin’s.”

“All right—me know,” murmured Bright Wing in guttural accents.

Then he moved aside and seated himself upon the prow of the canoe.

“Now, Joe, we must be off,” Ross began hurriedly.

“You mean what you’ve said—you’re goin’ to jine the army?” Farley interrupted.

Douglas nodded.

“Goin’ to leave y’r land an’ everything an’ go off to fight Injins—an’ Britishers, maybe?”

“The land will keep,” Ross laughed. “Little good it does me, at any rate. I have never cut a stick of timber upon it.”

“That’s what I mean,” replied the other earnestly. “You ort to stay an’ clear it up an’ make a home of it. Quit y’r huntin’ an’ traipsin’ ’round with such fellers as me an’ Bright Wing, an’ settle down. It don’t make much differ’nce what I do. But you’ve got book learnin’ an’ good sense. You’re wastin’ y’r time.”

“I’m well pleased with the life I lead, Joe.”

“That’s jest the trouble—you’re too well pleased with it.”

“I promise you I’ll reform when I return.”

“An’ you’re goin’ away an’ leave that little sweetheart o’ your’n?”

“You mean Amy Larkin?”

“Of course.”

“Yes, I must leave her. But I shall be back soon—in a few months, perhaps. Then I’ll marry her and settle down—become a model husbandman.”

“You’re puttin’ off till to-morrer what you ort to do to-day.”

“What do you mean, Joe?”

“You know ol’ man Larkin don’t like you none too well—jest on account o’ y’r shiftless ways, as he calls it?”

“I am aware that he doesn’t look upon me as a promising son-in-law—yes.”

“An’ he does think a heap o’ George Hilliard?”

“Y-e-s.”

“Well, you won’t be gone a month till George Hilliard ’ll be standin’ in y’r shoes.”

“I have no fears on that score.”

“All right!—but you’ll see. Gals is gals—they’re all false an’ fickle. A bird in the hand’s worth two in the bush, Ross. You’d better stay here an’ be gittin’ a cage ready fer y’r bird. Ol’ Sam Larkin’s got a heap o’ good land—an’ a heap more money. He’s rich. An’ Amy’s a purty nice gal—an’ the only child. You don’t want to let all that slip through y’r fingers, my boy.”

“You’re talking nonsense, Joe. Amy loves me—she don’t care a fig for George Hilliard. I’ll marry her on my return, with or without her father’s consent. Hilliard is a Canadian—an English sympathizer. Mr. Larkin will not forget that. Besides, if we have another war with Great Britain—as appears likely—this neighborhood will become too warm for the forehanded George. I care nothing for Amy’s prospective fortune, but I love her. And I’m going to marry her, no matter who may oppose.”

The young man’s chest heaved, and defiance to the whole world shone in his gray eyes.

“It’s a good thing to have plenty o’ grit an’ confidence,” Farley chuckled; “but ther’s a chance o’ havin’ too much o’ even a good thing—I swan ther’ is! An’ lawzee! Hain’t I had the ’xperience? Many’s the purty, rosy-cheeked gals I could ’ave got in my younger days. W’y, they used to tag after me an’ pester me ’most to death. I’ve had more’n a dozen of ’em dead in love with me at one time—fairly scratchin’ each other’s eyes out, quar’lin’ ’bout which one ’ld git me. All of ’em love-sick over my beauty—my purty form an’ features. But I jest stuck my nose up in the air an’ passed ’em by. An’ see me to-day! I’m an everlastin’ warnin’—a livin’ monument to disap’inted love an’ dangnation foolishness. Ther’ ain’t a piece o’ linsey-woolsey in the whole settlement that’ll even look—Snakes an’ garters! What’s that?”

Both white men started. The Indian stolidly maintained his position upon the prow of the canoe; but his ready finger rested upon the trigger of his gun. A heavy body came crashing through the weeds and bushes upon the bank. Then the vines and branches parted; and, with a hoarse yelp of joy, a large dog sprang into the open and crouched at Douglas’s feet. He was a magnificent black-and-tan animal, lithe and strong as a panther—an immense bloodhound. He was wet and muddy; and as he lay at his master’s feet, he rolled his red-rimmed eyes and panted and whined. A piece of thong was about his neck, to which was fastened a short sharpened stake.

“Well, if that don’t beat my reckonin’!” bawled Farley, opening his wide mouth and hawhawing heartily. “How in the name o’ Julius Cæsar did that dog ever git loose? That stake was druv in the hard floor o’ my shack, deep enough to hold a bull—it was, by the Queen o’ Sheba! An’ he’s pulled it up. But how in the plague did he git out o’ the cabin? Must ’ave crawled up the chimbly—by cracky! ’Cause I latched the door as I come out—I’m certain of it. Dang-it-all-to-dingnation! But it does beat all!”

The dog now attempted to raise his head and lick his master’s hand. Failing in this, he slowly arose to his feet, tremulously wagged his tail, and beseechingly fastened his eyes upon Ross’s face. Then he whined.

“Down, Duke!” Douglas commanded sternly.

The dog obeyed; but rolled his great eyes upward toward the being he loved and worshiped, as though begging pardon for his misconduct.

“Joe, I want you to take him back to your cabin and keep him until I return. I tried to run away from him this morning, but he has trailed me—although I traveled by water. I left him at the Wyandot village above here. Take him away, Joe; I can’t bear to leave while he’s looking at me like that.”

And there was a quaver in Ross Douglas’s voice.

“Duke him much good dog—him heap big brave,” volunteered Bright Wing, nodding vigorously.

“Quick, Joe—take him away,” Ross said huskily.

“I ain’t a-goin’ to do it,” replied Farley, with a stubborn shake of the head.

“Why?” Ross inquired in surprise.

“’Cause the dog loves you an’ ort to go with you—that’s why. He’ll jest natur’ly pine away an’ die if you leave him behind you.”

“But I can’t take him with me,” Douglas argued; “he would be in the way—he would get himself and me into trouble.”

“Ther’s another reason why I won’t take him back to my cabin,” Joe remarked, his pale eyes twinkling.

“What is it?”

“Jest this: If you’re goin’ to war, I’m goin’ with you. I hain’t got a chick n’r child to leave—an’ I’m goin’.”

“You?”

“Yes.”

“With Bright Wing and me?”

“Fer sure.”

“I thought you were opposed to my going?”

“I was—an’ I am yit. But if you go, I go, too.”

“Perhaps we don’t desire your company.”

A smile fluttered about the corners of Ross’s mouth.

“It don’t make no differ’nce,” was the dogged reply; “I’m goin’ anyhow. So move y’r things ’round in the dugout an’ make room fer us. I’m all ready. Ding-it-all-to-dangnation! I can’t stay here an’ see you go—an’ I won’t.”

“Shall we take him, Bright Wing?” Douglas mischievously inquired.

“Ugh!” exploded the Indian. “Joe him got heap long gun—him shoot much straight. Him go. Three braves kill sight more bad Shawnees than two. Joe go.”

“Very well,” Ross said slowly, with assumed reluctance in his tone, “you shall go, Joe. Is there anything you want to bring from your hut?”

“Nothin’.”—With a decided shake of the head.

“In you go, then—and let’s be off.”

A few minutes later there were “three men in the boat—not counting the dog,”—and they were moving rapidly down the stream, in the shade of the overhanging trees. When some two or three miles below the village of Franklinton, Douglas addressed a few words in the Wyandot tongue, to the Indian, who again occupied the bow of the canoe. Bright Wing nodded and immediately turned the prow toward a little cove upon the eastern shore. A moment later the boat grated upon the sandy beach, and Ross sprang ashore.

“Keep Duke with you,” he cried as he ran lightly up the bank. “I’ll not be gone long.”

“Say! wher’ you goin’ now?” Farley called after him. But the young man did not deign to reply.

“I was a fool to ask the question,” Joe muttered to himself. “Might ’ave knowed he was goin’ to bid his sweetheart good-by. I jest fergot fer a minute we was opposite to ol’ Sam Larkin’s place. Down, Duke, an’ behave y’rself. Y’r master don’t need you in this affair. Oh, jeminy—no! Two’s company an’ three’s a congregation, when it comes to love-makin’. Hain’t I been through it, hey? Gol-fer-ginger! What a heart-breaker I was! S’pect I’ll never git fergiveness fer the way I’ve used the women. Dang-it-all-to-dingnation! W’en a man begins to git old, his youthful sins an’ follies all comes back to him. Mine ha’nts me o’ nights till I can’t sleep. An’ I can’t eat, neither. First thing I know I’ll worry an’ fret over the cruel way I’ve used the women folks, till my beauty’ll begin to fade—an’ like as not peter out entirely. An’ I wouldn’t ’ave that happen fer nothin’. Gol-fer-socks no! Say, Injin, ’ave you got any tobacker?”

Without a word Bright Wing opened the pouch at his side and gave the lugubrious Farley a handful of tobacco. The latter filled his short-stemmed pipe, lighted it, and puffed away in silence for some time.

The bloodhound lay watching the place where his master had disappeared. Presently he half arose, shook his pendulous ears and growled ominously. Then, ere he could be restrained, he leaped from the canoe and dashed up the bank, into the woods. With an exclamation of surprise and anger, Joe stumbled ashore and set out in pursuit of the dog, closely followed by Bright Wing.

On leaving his friends, Ross Douglas entered the forest and hurried along a dim path, until he reached the edge of a clearing a few hundred yards from the river. In the center of this cleared space, and upon a slight elevation of ground, stood a double log-cabin with a hall or passage between the two rooms. The house stood facing the river; and the doors and windows were open. Back of the building was a field of corn surrounded by a fence of brush and poles, and in front of it lay a small patch of potatoes and garden vegetables.

Ross shaded his eyes with his hand and looked from his cool retreat, across the sun-baked clearing, toward the cabin. Presently a face appeared at one of the small windows. Douglas stepped forward and beckoned. Then he hastily sprang back among the trees. The face quickly disappeared from the window; and a few seconds later a young woman emerged from the door and tripped nimbly down the path leading to the fringe of woodland along the river-shore. She was neatly clad. Her frock was of linsey-woolsey; her shoes were of calfskin. A wide-brimmed straw hat set jauntily upon her brown hair added to the piquancy of her fair oval face. Her cheeks were rosy; her teeth, white, and even.

Entering the wood she called softly:

“Ross, where are you?”

“Here, Amy,” he answered in a low joyful tone, stepping from his place of concealment and hurrying toward her.

With a glad cry she sprang into his outstretched arms, and hid her blushing face upon his shoulder. For a full minute he strained her to his breast, and neither spoke. When at last she raised her face it was wet with tears; and a catch was in her voice as she said:

“And you are going, Ross?”

“I must go, darling,” he replied softly.

“Why must you go and leave me here alone?” she cried. “Why must you run into danger, Ross? Stay here with me—please do! You may never come back.”

“There—there, little one!” he whispered soothingly. “Of course, I shall come back. Then we’ll be married; and I’ll settle down on my piece of land and never leave you again.”

“But you may—may get—killed,” she sobbed.

“I must take my chances along with others, Amy,” he answered firmly. “I feel that it’s my duty to go.”

“I—I can’t understand——” she began.

“It’s like this,” he interrupted as he seated her upon a mossy log and placed his arm around her waist. “Seventeen years ago—when you were a baby—General Wayne made a treaty with the Indian tribes at Greenville. That treaty has protected the border-settlements until now. The savages have kept to themselves and left the white settlers unmolested. And the vanguard of civilization has moved rapidly and steadily toward the setting sun. But now all is changed. The British are again encouraging the Indians to take up arms against the Americans. Tecumseh and his brother, the Prophet, are doing all in their power to form an Indian confederacy that will be able to drive the Americans from the Ohio and Mississippi valleys. Tecumseh is brave and ambitious; the Prophet, cruel and cunning. Already they have aroused the redmen to a pitch of frenzy that threatens the safety of every border-settlement—including this. General Harrison is forming an army at Vincennes, to march against the allied tribes. I know the woods—am acquainted with the Indian mode of warfare. I can render service to my country—my people. I must go, Amy.”

She had dried her tears. Now she kissed him and said coaxingly:

“Please—please don’t go! Stay here and—and—marry me—now.”

“You little siren—you little traitor!” he laughed, playfully patting her cheek. “With your enchantment you would win me from the path of duty. You tempt me sorely—but it may not be. Duty calls——”

“Oh, duty—duty!” she cried, impatiently stamping her small foot and pouting her red lips. “Do you care more for duty than you do for me?”

“That’s not fair, Amy,” he said gravely. “You know that I love you dearly—better than I love anyone else in the wide world. You should be a brave little woman and help me to do the right. Besides, if I should play the poltroon and stay here, you yourself would despise me for a miserable coward—a mean wretch unworthy of a good woman’s love and respect.”

He stopped to note the effect of his words. She hung her head and blushed deeply. But whether with shame or anger he could not tell. He waited for her to speak; but she said nothing. He continued:

“At any rate, your father wouldn’t consent to our marriage, and you wouldn’t be willing to wed me without his permission.”

The young woman lifted her head. Her face brightened, paying her hand caressingly upon his knee, she murmured faintly:

“Father wouldn’t oppose our marriage, Ross, if you would quit your roving ways, give up your Indian friends and rough associates, and settle down to work. He thinks you shiftless—that you wouldn’t provide well for me—would never accumulate anything.”

Douglas’s handsome face flushed hotly as he asked:

“Is that all the reason your father had for ordering me from his door and forbidding me to speak to you?”

She was silent for a moment. Then she replied hesitatingly:

“Y-e-s—the main reason.”

“And the others?”

His voice was hard and cold. She dropped her lids, but did not answer.

“Amy, tell me,” he cried almost fiercely, catching her wrist in his firm grasp.

“He says you—you don’t—know who your father was,” she faltered.

He sprang to his feet, his face aflame.

“It’s a base lie!” he began. Then he set his teeth and paused a moment to regain control of himself. Presently he resumed in quiet, even tones:

“Amy, it’s a mistake. I know who my father was—or is, if he be alive. I’m no illegitimate child. My mother’s husband was John Douglas, an intelligent but dissipated and unprincipled man, who abused her—and finally deserted her, shortly after I was born. Her health rapidly failed; and she died when I was but a child, leaving me to the care of her brother, a roving and adventurous fur-trader. This uncle wandered from tribe to tribe, bartering arms, blankets, and trinkets, for peltries. On one of these trading trips he took me with him—when I was eight years old—and left me with the Wyandots, while he proceeded on his journey. For four years I remained with the savages. They were kind to me. I learned their ways; I played with the youth of the tribe. I absorbed their ideas, manners, and customs—I fell in love with the wild, free life of the redmen. Then my uncle again put in an appearance, and, taking me with him, returned to the East.

“There he placed me in school; and again disappeared. Eight years passed; and in all that time I saw nothing of my relative—my guardian. At last came word that he was dead—and that I was penniless. I left school. My soul hungered for love and sympathy. I was fatherless—motherless. Of acquaintances, I had many; of warm, helpful friends, I had none. I thought of my old friends, the Wyandots. I made my way westward, rejoined them—and was received with open arms. But a change had come over me. I had the instinct and tastes of a hunter—but I was no longer a young savage. For a time I lived with the Wyandots; but I spent my time in hunting and in trading among the red hunters of Ohio and the lakes. I made money. I learned three or four Indian tongues—I acquainted myself with all the arts and wiles of the different tribes. But at last the white blood in my veins asserted itself. I began to long for the companionship of my own people. So I established myself here at Franklinton and took up land. But I have continued to trade among the Indians—I have retained the friendship of the Wyandots. I have made more money in one month than your father and George Hilliard have made in twelve. A year ago I met and loved you. It’s needless to say more—you know the rest.”

She had been watching his face intently and drinking in every word he said. Now she clasped her hands and murmured pleadingly:

“Oh, Ross! If only you will tell father what you have told me, all will be well. He’ll give his consent to our marriage—I know he will.”

“As soon as I return, I’ll do so, Amy.”

“No—no!” she pouted prettily. “Now is the time. Come to the house with me at once.”

“I cannot, dear. Be patient a little while. As you say—all will be well.”

Quickly arising to her feet and catching him by the arm, she cried playfully:

“You shall not go. See—I’ll hold you.”

He bent and kissed her. Then slipping his arm around her yielding waist he remarked:

“Amy, there is another reason why I should go to fight against the allied tribes. Leatherlips, the foster-father of Bright Wing, was one of my steadfast friends. As you know, he was brutally murdered a year ago last June, at the instigation of the Shawnee Prophet. His death should be avenged.”

A startled look crept into her eyes, and involuntarily she shrunk from him as she whispered tremulously:

“Ross—Ross! Surely you don’t mean to do murder! You’re not an Indian. I’m almost afraid of you.”

With a merry laugh he caught her to him and answered:

“What a timid little body you are, Amy. Of course I don’t mean to do murder. But I do mean that the Prophet shall be shorn of his power to do further mischief, to commit further acts of violence—and that I should help to do it. And”—in a low, fierce tone—“if ever I meet him in open battle one of us will die. Bid me good-by now. I must be going—my comrades are waiting for me.”

But she burst into tears and clung to him, sobbing:

“Don’t go—don’t go, Ross! For some reason I feel—that you will not come back—to me, that I shall—shall be forced to—to marry George Hilliard.”

“There—there, child!” he interrupted soothingly. “Now dry your eyes and kiss me farewell. Indeed I am tarrying too long.”

She drew herself erect and, dashing aside the tears that blinded her, said icily:

“In spite of all I have said and done, you’re going, are you?”

“I’ve told you over and over that I must go, Amy,” he replied sadly.

“Then go!” she cried angrily. “It shows how much you think of me—to leave me here in a hell upon earth—without a mother to sympathize with me or advise me. I will marry George Hilliard at once—and have done with it.”

“Amy! Amy!” he whispered reprovingly. “You don’t mean that; you’re angry. Wait——”

The sentence was left unfinished. It was cut short with a suddenness that almost took away Douglas’s breath. By an unseen and unexpected power, the lovers were caught and violently flung apart. Two armed men stood between them. One was a tall, raw-boned man whose hatchet face was outlined by a mane of iron-gray hair. The other was younger—short, thick-set, and red-faced.

The older man’s countenance was livid with rage. His lips worked—but no words came forth. At last he managed to articulate:

“Git off my land instantly, Ross Douglas—you infernal sneak an’ scoundrel! Tryin’ to steal my daughter, was you? There’s no man about you! Didn’t I order you from the place an’ forbid you speakin’ to her? Go, I say! Go before I shoot you—you sneakin’ dog!”

A dangerous light blazed in the settler’s eyes. He gripped his gun and shook it menacingly at Douglas. The latter was unarmed—except the hunting-knife in his belt—having left his rifle in the canoe. However, he composedly folded his arms and casting a pitying glance at Amy, who had dropped to the ground and was weeping bitterly, said quietly:

“Mr. Larkin, I don’t merit the harsh words and rude treatment you have accorded me. I have done nothing dishonorable—nothing beneath the dignity of a gentleman. I love your daughter; she loves me. When you ordered me from your house and forbid me to hold further intercourse with Amy, I told you that I wouldn’t obey your mandate—that I would meet her clandestinely. I have done so. Just now I came to bid her good-by. I’m on my way to join Harrison’s army at Vincennes. When I return I’ll call upon you and ask you for her hand in marriage. If at that time you refuse my request, I’ll carry her off before your eyes.”

“You impudent hound!” snorted the irate Larkin. “I have a notion to shoot you where you stand.”

“Have a care, Mr. Larkin,” Douglas replied coolly. “I don’t care to have a physical encounter with my future father-in-law. But if you offer me violence, your gray hairs will not save you, I warn you. I have no fear of you or your weapon. But I’m trespassing, and will leave your place and your presence.”

Ross’s cool assurance awed Larkin to silence. A moment he looked at the young man in utter amazement. Then he turned and bent over his daughter and, lifting her to her feet, cried roughly:

“Come, my young lady, an’ go to the house with me. I’ll see to it that you don’t meet that scalawag ag’in.”

“Good-by, Amy,” Ross called as he turned to leave the spot.

“Good-by, Ross,” she sobbed faintly. “I didn’t mean what I said. I’ll—I’ll—be true——”

But her father clapped his hand over her mouth and shouted over his shoulder:

“George Hilliard, why don’t you break every bone in that insolent scoundrel’s body?”

Up to this time the thick-set man had maintained a discreet silence. Now he felt called upon to defend himself against the imputation of cowardice, implied in Larkin’s question. So he replied valiantly:

“That’s just what I’m going to do if he don’t make himself scarce around here in about ten seconds.”

These words fell upon Ross Douglas’s ears and roused him to instant fury. He had borne much—he could bear no more. Whirling in his tracks, he dealt Hilliard a blow that felled him to the earth.

For a few seconds the prostrate man glared confusedly around him. Then with cat-like quickness he sprang to his feet and threw his gun to his shoulder. He was insane with rage. The light of murder twinkled in his small pig-like eyes. His finger was upon the trigger of his weapon. But he encountered Ross’s look of steadfast courage—and hesitated.

“Shoot him!” Larkin bellowed. “Shoot him in self-defense!”

Hilliard bent his head and squinted along the gleaming barrel of his rifle. Douglas whipped out his knife and sprang toward his adversary. But quick as were his movements, he would have been too late had not a trusty friend been at hand.

With a low, fierce growl Duke bounded from the underbrush, where he had been crouching, and landed full upon Hilliard’s chest. The gun cracked, but the bullet sped harmlessly over Ross’s head. Amy ran screaming toward the cabin. Her father, with a muttered oath, strode toward the scene of conflict. Duke sought to fasten his fangs in Hilliard’s throat. Gun, man, and dog went to the ground together.

“Loose him, Duke! Loose him!” Douglas commanded.

The hound obeyed, and crept whining to his master’s feet. Blood was streaming from Hilliard’s shoulder, where the dog had set his teeth.

“Curse you! I’ll finish you!” Larkin shrieked frantically, flinging his piece to his shoulder and taking deliberate aim at Ross.

“Go slow there, ol’ man, ’r you’ll never know what hurt you,” said a drawling voice. “Drop that gun an’ behave y’rself, ’r I’ll put a chunk o’ cold lead into you—I will, by Hanner Ann!”

And two shimmering gun-barrels protruded from the green foliage.

Larkin obeyed, and leaned against a sapling, panting. With some difficulty Hilliard got upon his feet. His flabby face was pale; his hairy hands were trembling.

Farley and Bright Wing stepped into the glade.

“Mr. Larkin,” Douglas remarked calmly, “I’m very sorry this occurred. You’d better take your comrade to the house and dress his wounds. I’m off.”

Followed by his two friends and his dog, the young man silently made his way back to the canoe. A few minutes later they were rapidly paddling down the stream.

The day was excessively hot. The three men maintained a moody silence, as with steady, sweeping strokes they shot the dugout forward. The sweat trickled in rivulets down Farley’s furrowed face. Presently he muttered in an undertone:

“S’pect I’d ’ave done better, if I’d shot that cuss of a Hilliard—yes, an’ ol’ Sam Larkin, too. They deserved to die anyway—the dirty cowards! An’ they’ll make no end o’ bother fer Ross—’r I’m badly mistaken. An’ they’ll torment that little gal to death, purty near. I can see it all. Ther’s trouble ahead fer somebody—an’ likely it’s fer Ross Douglas. Well, it all comes o’ fallin’ in love with a few pounds o’ the female gender. An’ hain’t I had the ’xperience? Lordy! I should say so!”

CHAPTER II.

A wagon-and-pack-train was slowly winding its way through the trackless wilds of the valley of the Wabash. Like some monstrous serpent, it dragged its sinuous body along the margin of the boundless prairie that stretched away to the north and west, and wormed itself in and out among the clumps of scrubby trees that marked the course of the stream. Ahead of it rode a compact body of mounted men; and on both sides and behind, marched a straggling mass of soldiers.

The wheels of the heavily laden vehicles half buried themselves in the soft loam of the valley. “Squeak! Creak!” were the tortured cries of the wooden axles. Whips cracked and drivers swore; horses neighed and oxen bellowed. William Henry Harrison, governor of Indiana Territory, was on his way to the Prophet’s Town, to make peace or war with its inhabitants.

It was the fifth of November, 1811; and the sunless day was drawing to a close. The wind, biting and keen, swept across the prairie from the northwest, bringing with it driving clouds of mist-like rain and stinging snow-pellets. The officers and mounted men buttoned their coats closely about them and, dropping their chins upon their breasts, rode forward in silence. The weary soldiers laboriously trudged onward—and grumbled. The veiled sun sank lower and lower in the west. The wind, increasing in force, grew colder. Dark shadows stole out of the scrub and threw themselves across the prairie. Night was settling down.

All through the summer and fall, the heterogeneous band of Indians at the Prophet’s Town upon the Upper Wabash had increased in numbers. Bold and savage warriors from various tribes—prompted by the words and example of the eloquent and sagacious Tecumseh, and inspired by the fanatical zeal of the cunning and bloodthirsty Prophet—had taken up the hatchet and expressed a readiness to make war upon the Americans. Aided and abetted by the British—who still manifested a rancorous hostility toward the United States—they had made petty incursions into the defenseless settlements, bent on pillage and murder.

For several years the wily leader of the warlike Shawnees, Tecumseh, had been visiting the tribes of the north, west, and south, urging them to form a confederacy that would be powerful enough to eject the Americans from the Mississippi and Ohio valleys. He was a brave, resolute, and ambitious man; and had faith in the feasibility and success of his project.

Harrison, as governor of Indiana Territory, had become aware of Tecumseh’s scheme and had realized the great danger that threatened the growing but unprotected settlements, and had taken prompt measures. Empowered by his commission, he had held a council with Tecumseh and a number of his followers, at Vincennes, in 1810. But the haughty Shawnee had retired from the governor’s presence, angry and defiant. Then Harrison had apprised the government at Philadelphia of the state of affairs and had asked for aid. The Fourth regiment of regulars, under Colonel Boyd, had been sent to him. And with these troops and several companies of Kentucky and Indiana militia—nine hundred men in all—he had left Vincennes, on the twenty-eighth of September, and taken up his march for the Prophet’s Town, resolved to make a lasting peace or strike a telling blow, while Tecumseh was absent on a mission to the southern tribes.

About seventy miles up the Wabash he had built Fort Harrison. Then, on the twenty-ninth of October, he had left the place garrisoned, and had resumed his journey toward the Prophet’s Town.

He was now moving along the northwestern bank of the Wabash, a short distance from the village he sought.

The long line of vehicles and troops came to a sudden stop. Tired horses lowered their heads to the cutting blast and shivered. Weary oxen leaned heavily against the wagon-tongues. Footsore soldiers threw themselves upon the damp ground and feelingly rubbed their aching limbs. Drivers stamped their feet and slapped their palms together to restore the circulation to their benumbed members. Far down toward the rear of the line, a militiaman was singing:

“I left my home in ol’ Kaintuck,

An’ my wife an’ babes behind me;

An’ if the Injins gits my scalp,

My folks ’ll never find me.”

“An’ by the everlastin’ Kinnikinnick, I don’t b’lieve his fam’ly ’ld grieve much ’bout him, if he’s in the habit o’ singin’ that tune ’round home!” growled a tall angular ox-driver, resting his arm upon the yoke and whipping the water from his fur-cap, with the butt of his gad. “Did anybody on earth ever hear such a dang caterwaulin’? Whew, but I’m cold an’ hungry!

“Drivin’ oxen ain’t to my likin’—not, by a dang sight! But here I am doin’ menial servitude fer my country, when I never disgraced myself by doin’ anything o’ the kind fer Joe Farley. ’Pears that I’ve become the plaything o’ fate—it does, by Melindy! Come out here to fight Injins an’ help save the gover’ment; an’ they’ve set me to whackin’ bulls. By my gran’mother’s goggles, I ain’t a-goin’ to stand it! I’ll desert an’ go over to the redskins, bag an’ baggage! ’Tain’t fair—’tain’t. Jest ’cause a driver gits sick an’ has to be left at Fort Harrison, they take an’ put me in his place. I ort to be out scoutin’ with Ross Douglas an’ Bright Wing. An’ I would ’ave been—dang it!—but my limber tongue got the best o’ me an’ let out that I’d druv oxen, w’en a boy.

“Well, ther’s one consolation, anyhow. We’re purty near to the end o’ our journey; an’ then I’ll git to tote a rifle ag’in an’ feel like a man. Whoa, there, you brindle-hided brute! What in the dangnation ’re you tryin’ to do? Think you can crawl through that bow? Whoa, I say! Bless my peepers, if I ever did see such a c’ntrary critter, anyhow! Whoa, now!”

And Farley applied the gad to the ribs of the lank ox, as though he were energetically beating a bass drum.

At the head of the long column, a little knot of mounted officers were holding a consultation in low tones. The central figure of the group was a tall, spare man of middle age. He sat his horse—a wiry chestnut sorrel of trim form and slender limbs—with the ease and grace of a practiced and fearless horseman. His nose was large; his smooth-shaven features were irregular. But his face was redeemed from plainness by a pair of dark, penetrating eyes and a mouth indicative of courage and resolution. Intelligence and benevolence beamed from his rugged countenance. He wore the uniform of the United States army; and his arms consisted of a brace of pistols and a sword.

Shaking the rain-drops from his military cocked hat, he replaced it atop his dark wavy hair and remarked:

“I’m loath to camp here—especially as none of the scouts have returned to inform us of the designs and movements of the enemy. We are nearing the hostile village, I’m certain. It can’t be many miles away. Here we have the open plain on three sides of us. We should be unprotected from a surprise; and as you well know, Colonel Boyd, a surprise is what we have to fear—a surprise in the early morning when the troops are soundly sleeping. I would prefer a more sheltered place. And it gives me some concern, that none of the scouts have yet returned. I can’t understand it.”

“May I offer a suggestion, governor?” asked the man addressed as Colonel Boyd, gracefully saluting his superior officer.

“Certainly.” And Governor Harrison bowed low over the pommel of his saddle.

“Then, this is what I would suggest: That we form a semi-circular barricade of our wagons, and encamp under their cover. Also, that we double the usual number of our sentries. I like the site no better than you do, but men and teams are exhausted—and we can go no farther. We must make the best of it.”

“Very well,” Harrison answered decidedly. “I don’t like the plan. But perhaps extra vigilance will save us from a night-attack; that is, if the Indians be in the vicinity—which we do not know. Give the command, colonel. The men are impatient.”

This order the governor addressed to Colonel Owen, one of his aides. The officer whirled his horse and dashed away. At that moment two men, followed by a large dog, emerged from the fringe of woodland, and with rapid strides approached the group of officers.

“Whom have we here?” muttered Harrison, straining his eyes through the semi-gloom. “Ah! scouts. Now we shall know something positive of the savages.”

As the two shadowy figures drew near, the governor spurred forward to meet them. The other officers followed his example; and soon the two scouts were surrounded by a ring of jingling spurs and rattling scabbards. One of the newcomers stopped suddenly and looked hurriedly about him, as though seeking a chance to escape. The other advanced boldly until he stood at the commander’s side. Then he lifted his hat and announced with quiet dignity:

“Governor, I have the honor to inform you that my companion and myself have performed our mission, and are ready to report.”

“Who are you?” inquired the commander, bending forward and peering into the speaker’s face.

“Ross Douglas—a scout in your service.”

“Yes, to be sure,” Harrison answered. “I should have known you from your manner. But the darkness bothered me. And your companion?”

“Bright Wing, the Wyandot.”

“I am ready to receive your report.”

“Here?”

“Yes—and at once.”

“We went up the valley as you directed. We continued our course until we came in sight of the Prophet’s Town——”

“You are sure that you made no mistake—that you saw the Prophet’s Town?” Harrison interrupted.

“We made no mistake,” Douglas replied a little stiffly.

Without heeding the young scout’s tone or manner, the governor continued:

“And how far are we from it?”

“About ten miles.”

“Did you encounter any savages?”

“A few—when we were within a short distance of the place.”

“You saw no large body of Indians—nothing like a war-party?”

“None.”

“How did those you saw deport themselves?”

“They fled.”

“In the direction of their village?”

“They did.”

“In what language did you address them?”

“We tried several different Indian tongues.”

“Judging from what you know of Indian character, and what you have seen to-day, Douglas, do you think the savages desire peace or war?”

“War,” Ross answered promptly and emphatically.

“The reasons for your opinion, if you please,” the commander said quietly.

“Had they desired peace,” was the quick reply, “a deputation of their chiefs—headed by the Prophet himself—would have met you ere this. They have been aware of your coming. They mean to give you battle.”

Several of the officers nodded their heads in acquiescence of the opinion expressed, but the governor murmured in a low, musing tone:

“You may be right, Douglas; but I can hardly believe that you are.”

Then huskily, a shade of alarm in his voice:

“You don’t think they will attack us here—under cover of the darkness?”

“I do not.”

“Very well. I believe that’s all. Call at my tent early in the morning. I want you and the Wyandot to act as interpreters, as we approach the town. But why doesn’t he come forward—why does he stand off by himself?”

“He is an Indian,” Ross answered simply.

Smiling at the reply he had received, the governor turned and rode away in the gathering darkness, accompanied by his staff.

“Bright Wing,” Douglas called.

“Ugh! Me here,” the Wyandot answered, gliding to his friend’s side.

“Where is Duke?” Ross asked, glancing around.

“Duke him gone hunt meat—him big heap hungry dog,” was the guttural reply.

“Well, I’m big heap hungry myself,” Douglas laughed as he shifted his gun from one shoulder to the other. “Come; let’s find Joe and have some supper.”

By this time the wagons had been arranged in a semicircle inclosing several acres of prairie. Soldiers were busy erecting tents and lighting camp-fires. Teamsters were watering their jaded beasts at the river and feeding them in the inclosure. The two scouts threaded their way among the mass of men and animals, until they reached the farther end of the area.

There Farley had picketed his two yoke of oxen, and, assisted by a number of militiamen, was unloading his vehicle. Their camp-fire blazed and crackled cheerily; and about it a half-dozen soldiers were preparing to cook their evening meal. As Douglas and Bright Wing drew near they heard Joe saying whimsically:

“Go ’way, Duke, an’ behave y’rself. Have some manners, an’ wait till y’r victuals is cooked. Drat it all, I never did see such a hungry dog! I’ve give him ’bout two pound o’ raw meat, an’ he’s lickin’ his chops fer more. By cracky! If he gits much hungrier, he’ll eat me an’ the oxen. Git out o’ the road, you rascal, ’r I’ll fall over you. Wher’ve you been all day—an’ wher’s y’r master? No use to roll y’r eyes an’ whine—I ain’t a-goin’ to feed you no more. I wish you could talk—I do, by Samanthy! It makes me feel sort o’ creepy an’ uneasy—you a-comin’ in here, an’ no sign o’ y’r master ’r the Injin.

“Ding-it-all-to-dangnation! Why can’t a dog talk? They’ve got sense an’ they’ve got souls, an’ they ort to have the power o’ speech. Do git out from under my feet, ’r you an’ me’ll have a fallin’ out d’rectly. Hello! Here comes y’r pardners.”

“Good evening, Joe,” Douglas cried. “What’s the prospect for a hot supper?”

“Fair to middlin’,” Farley answered, a comical expression overspreading his ugly features. “One o’ the fellers is mixin’ up a corn pone, an’ we’ve got plenty o’ meat an’ coffee. But you come jest in the nick o’ time—you did, by ginger!”

“Why so?”