Title: Wetzel, The Scout; or, The Captives of the Wilderness - Beadle's Pocket Novels No. 39
Author: Belknap, Boynton
Language: English
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CAPTIVES OF THE WILDERNESS ***



                           WETZEL, THE SCOUT;
                    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?”

“A little; not much, but so much that we could not travel fast without
danger.”

“Was Moffat injured?”

“Not in the least; and had it not been for him, it is doubtful whether
you would ever have seen me again.”

“Oh, George, you do not know how many times I did think so! Mother and
father and your folks all thought you must have been killed. Captain
Parks said you were not, and Mr. Edwards believed you would yet return
to us. I prayed that you might, and yet it did not seem that you,—I am
so glad!” and she gave one of those soulful glances that it made Kingman
blush at his own happiness.

“I thought perhaps you might think rather strange of my absence”——

“Rather _strange_,” she interrupted, with a reproving look.

Kingman drew her head over upon his shoulder, and pressed her ardently
to him. She sprang to her feet.

“I must look upon you again,” she laughed, “for it seems hardly possible
that you are really here now. Yes; I believe it is George Kingman, after
all.”

“And as I have some doubt of the truth of my eyes, permit not only to
look upon you, but to taste you,” added Kingman, rising and imprinting a
kiss upon her burning cheek.

“There, that will do! Now tell me where you have been all this time. But
does any one else know you have returned?”

“Does any one else know I have returned? A fine question to ask when I
have been in the village three or four hours.”

“That time? Impossible! What have you been doing?”

“Circulating among the neighbors. Moffat and I have been here a long
time. I went home and the folks acted crazy. I thought mother _would_ go
demented. I never knew she thought so much of me before. As luck would
have it, Captain Parks was in, and he made a great time.”

“Very glad to see you of course?”

“I suppose so; he just gave his ‘umph!’ and said he was beginning to
respect me. A little while after, Edwards, hearing, I suppose, that I
had arrived, came in. He gave me one of the heartiest grips I ever had,
and told me that before I stopped to see my parents, I should have knelt
down and thanked God for my preservation.”

“How like him! What did you answer?”

“I told him I had already done so. He said it gave him pleasure to hear
it, and he hoped I would remember the One who never forgot me. Well,
after a little talk, he smiled in that pleasing way of his, and said he
was just thinking there was some one else who would like to see me. I
asked him who he could mean, of course, not knowing who it was; but he
looked so mischievous, I know I blushed and showed that I knew well
enough who he meant. So after some more conversation, I left and came
here.”

“How long ago?”

“A good while, indeed. I came up as silently as possible, intending to
give you a surprise. When I came up to the door, I saw you standing in
it, and supposed you had seen me, so I laughed, called you by name and
approached. You did not reply, and I was frightened to see you look so.”

“To see me look how?”

“Why, so much like death. At first I started, and almost believed you
were dead—you appeared so white, and your eyes were fixed upon the
clouds away off in the sky. I spoke again, but you made no answer, and I
was afraid to approach you. I thought perhaps you were asleep, and in a
fit of somnambulism, and waited to see if you moved. By-and-by, you
remember, you did, and finally saw me standing before you. What did it
mean, Irene? Have you ever been thus before?”

“I suppose so, several times. At any rate, I have been spoken to about
it.”

“Were you really asleep.”

“I don’t know, George, I have been filled with such distressing doubts
about you, that it must have caused my singular actions. It seemed I
couldn’t help it, and I _was_ afraid I would go crazy. Perhaps I have
already,” she laughed, looking up into his face.

“I am glad and yet very sorry to hear this, Irene,” said Kingman,
pressing the affectionate girl to him and drawing her head down again
upon his shoulder. “I am glad for it shows me unmistakably that my love
is returned; and I am sorry because it shows that it may have had a sad
effect upon your system. You must get over it now.”

“I hope I shall, as the cause is removed.”

“Not removed, for it strikes me that he is nearer you this moment than
he has been for a number of days.”

“Then if the cause is not removed, the cure has been applied, I
suppose,” smiled Irene.

“Yes, once or twice; another application cannot hurt,” added Kingman,
applying his lips to the cheek of his fair companion.

“But, George, you have not told me yet the whole particulars of the
battle with the Indians, and the terrible suffering you must have
undergone. Let me hear it now, will you?”

“Just sit a little closer, then, as I do not wish to talk too loud.”

Irene offered no resistance as Kingman drew her close to him, and,
twining one arm around her, commenced the recital of his adventures. The
night had now come on, and the room was dark, save where the mellow
moonlight streamed within the half open door. Not another soul was in
the house, save the two lovers. There was a delicious feeling that came
over both, as they were together, _alone!_ where no curious eyes were
gazing upon them, and no inquisitive ears were bent to catch their
sacred words. Kingman proceeded, and, in a low tone, related all that
has been given to the reader. As he spoke of the fearful escapes he had
passed through, he could feel the heart of Irene flutter painfully, and
she would start involuntarily when he referred to the sudden
deliverances from all of them. The hours unnoticed flew by, and still
they sat and conversed.

“Did you see father and mother?” asked Irene.

“Yes, they were at home, talking with Edwards.”

“It is time they returned, is it not?”

“O, never fear! they will be along after a while.”

“But it seems to me it must be late, for see there is scarcely any
moonlight upon the floor as there was a while ago.”

“Something must be in the way—helloa! there!”

This exclamation came from Kingman as he raised his hat and saw both Mr.
and Mrs. Stuart standing in the door.

“Why, how long have you been there?” asked Irene, springing to her feet,
and bundling around for the pine knot with which to light the room.

“Not more than a couple of hours,” laughed Stuart.

“Gracious alive! what do you suppose will become of you?” indignantly
demanded his wife.

“I am sure I have no idea. Why do you ask?”

“Just think what an awful falsehood you told!”

“Pray, what was it, my dear?”

“Why, that we had been standing here over two hours, when you know we
just arrived. Only think of it!”

“I told no story, my dear. I said we had not been here over a couple of
hours, and I don’t think you will pretend to contradict it.”

“Well, it’s all the same,” snapped Mrs. Stuart, bouncing into the house.
Irene, by this time, had succeeded in lighting the pine knot, which
threw out an oily, smoky light, making every part of the room, however,
perfectly visible. Kingman arose, and after bidding all a good night,
stepped forth and made his way toward his home. The sky was clear, and
the bright moon rendered objects very distinct at a great distance. He
had nearly reached his destination when he encountered Moffat.

“Ah! how’s this, Moffat? What keeps you out so late?”

“Something different from what has kept you.”

“It is of more importance?”

“I think so, as it concerns the welfare of the settlement.”

“Why, what is it, then? Out with it.”

“There’s something suspicious-like down in this part. I have been up to
fort for an hour or two, talking to the boys. It was up at that one. I
was talking to Tom O’Daniels, when he pointed his finger down this way,
and axed me if I seen anything. I watched pretty closely, and after a
while I thought I did. He was going to fire his musket, but concluded it
wasn’t worth while, as it might scare all the people for nothing. I
started down this way, and was coming ’long quiet-like, when I heerd
you. So I just rose and come on as though I didn’t s’picion anything and
I suppose if there was anything going on I spoilt the sight of it.”

These words were spoken in a half whisper, but in such a manner as to
give the idea to any one who might see them that it was but a
commonplace conversation passing between them.

“Any idea of what it is?” asked Kingman.

“I suppose there have been Injins skulking ’bout the place every night
since the battle. The boys say they’ve seen something going on about
this time for two or three nights. They couldn’t make a mark big enough
to fire at, but the people know it, and don’t sleep so sound as they did
before. See here, Kingman, we must watch.”

“What I was thinking. Where shall we station ourselves?”

“Not a great distance apart, as we may need to help each other. You go a
little nearer the upper fort, and I will go down toward the river bank
and keep a look-out there. Move careful, for I s’pose you’ve learned by
this time that a Shawnee has sharp ears.”

“What signal between us shall call the other?”

“A whistle like the whippowil.”

The two parted. Moffat, as he proposed, made his way to the river bank,
while Kingman approached the picket at a point further above. The town,
it will be remembered, was inclosed by a strong, double row of pickets
planted firmly into the ground, and protected at each angle by a
compact, bullet-proof block-house. Kingman opened a sort of door or
entrance, which could only be opened from the inside, and passed out, so
that he was in the space between the two picket rows. Here he lay upon
the ground and listened.

He did not expect to hear anything, as he judged if there were Shawnees
in the vicinity, they had found out they were suspected, and would not
make their appearance again that night. But he had scarcely lain two
minutes when he heard that dead thumping, such as is made by several
persons walking upon the ground. Placing his ear to the earth, the
footsteps were plainly audible. The Indians, as they undoubtedly were,
approached the outside picket, at the nearest point to Kingman. Here the
low mumbling of their voices could be heard, as if in conversation, but
no words could be distinguished. A few minutes after, and Kingman heard
them at work at one of the pickets. They were fast loosening it, and,
fearful that they might make an entrance, he gave the signal for Moffat
to approach. The savages instantly paused as if listening, and then made
off, just as Moffat entered the door behind Kingman.

“What’s the matter?” queried Moffat, eagerly.

Kingman related all that had happened, and the alarm of the savages at
hearing his signal.

“What I feared,” said the hunter. “These are bad doings. I’d bet my life
that this settlement will be attacked by Indians to-morrow night.”



                              CHAPTER IX.
                           THE NIGHT ATTACK.


Kingman and Moffat remained on watch the whole night, but the Shawnees
did not again make their appearance. There was evidently some deep laid
plan upon their part, which they were prosecuting with unusual caution.
Although there had been suspicion awakened with the settlers, and their
most careful and experienced men were deputed as sentinels, yet nothing
thus far had been discovered during the day-time to awaken apprehension.
Several times before, in the history of this settlement, the first
intimation the settlers had of danger was by detecting savages lurking
in the woods during the day.

In the morning, after the event alluded to, the men were made aware of
the danger which threatened them, and a consultation was held as to what
steps should be taken. The general belief was that a large Indian force
was scattered through the woods, and were making preparations for an
attack. Under these circumstances the advice of the minister, Edwards,
was taken; viz:—to dispatch several scouts to ascertain if possible the
strength of their enemies, and the probable manner in which they would
attempt the assault, and also for each settler to fortify his own house,
in case they should get within the enclosure.

Several old Indian fighters, including Moffat, crept carefully into the
woods, and reconnoitered for over an hour. The result was what was
anticipated. There were unmistakable signs of a large Indian force. In
addition to this, Moffat examined the outside row of pickets, and found
there were several which had been nearly severed by some keen instrument
in the hands of the Indians. No other part of the enclosure had been
touched.

Late in the afternoon, a scout from Boonesborough made his appearance,
and was admitted. He reported that there was a pretty general uprising
among the savages, and Colonel Boone was daily expecting an attack.
Kenton was at one of the weaker settlements, as there were alarming
signs of war along the whole frontier, and there was no certainty who
would suffer first.

As the night slowly settled over the wilderness, the pioneers collected
in their homes to spend an hour or so with their families. The evening
meal was scantily partaken of, at the close of which all knelt and sent
up a fervent supplication for protection by the Great Being above. Then,
after a few more words, the females and children retired, and the men
rose and sallied forth to the block-houses.

Kingman, after leaving his mother, proceeded to the house of Stuart.
Stuart himself was gone, but Irene was still watching for him.

“Ah! up yet?” he laughed. “You ought to be abed.”

“I have no desire to sleep, and do not intend to, until the danger is
over.”

“Why, what help do you suppose you can offer?”

“Perhaps none, but when our friends are in such danger, little sleep, it
seems, should come to the others.”

“I trust we shall escape without much trouble,” said Kingman, hopefully.
“There may be no attack, after all is said and done.”

“Oh, I hope not! There is war all the time. It is dreadful. I pray it
may soon end.”

“Keep up a good heart, Irene. So, good by, now.”

“Good by, dear; may heaven protect you.”

He hastily embraced her, and then turned and joined the rest.

The men congregated, as said, in the different block-houses, which were
so built as to protect the four sides of the town, while several of
their scouts entered the space between the two picket rows to guard
against any artifice or stratagem. The Indians were probably aware that
the settlers had made preparations, for they deferred the attack until a
late hour.

Although the settlers’ families retired to rest, there were few indeed
who closed their eyes upon that night. Irene stood in the same spot she
had bidden adieu to Kingman, waiting and watching with a beating heart
the men as they passed to and fro, or stood motionless at their posts.

The sky was full of tumultuously flying clouds, which obscured the light
of the moon, and sometimes threw an inky darkness over the town and
forest. Then, again, it would shine out full and clear, and the dark
forms of the watchers and scouts could be seen as they passed out from
the block-houses and communicated with each other.

Then, as a straggling cloud passed over the face of the moon, its
shadows glided noiselessly and swiftly over the village, like a great
phantom, shrouding everything in its ghastly light.

Gradually the night wore on. Irene and her mother stood side by side,
and when the moonlight streamed down upon the village, they could see
that in every cabin door there were others standing the same as
themselves.

Not a word was spoken by any one, for there was something in the hour,
the occasion, and surrounding circumstances that made every heart
silent. Irene had fallen into a sort of half-unconscious, dreamy
reverie, when she was startled by hearing her mother exclaim:

“In mercy’s name, what is that?”

The cause of Mrs. Stuart’s exclamation was what appeared to be a bright
stream of fire that shot from the northern block-house and ascended high
into the sky. A moment’s glance showed it to be a burning arrow cast by
their assailants. It arose in a fiery curve, and as it turned and fell
described a beautiful arch. Ere it had reached its destination another
shot upward, and another, and another, until the air was filled with the
hissing, burning missiles. They were flying in every direction, and
falling upon the cabins and block-houses. For a moment Irene was
bewildered by the scene, and scarcely comprehended it.

“Oh, we shall be burned alive!” exclaimed Mrs. Stuart.

The daughter saw that one of the burning arrows had struck the cabin
within a few feet of her. Here it stuck, while the small twist of flame
round the head crackled and snapped in the logs. Without a moment’s
hesitation, our heroine stepped forward, and seizing the arrow, drew it
forth and threw it upon the ground.

“Heaven save us! Ain’t you burnt?” asked her mother.

“But slightly; but look, they are falling all around us.”

It was true. Everywhere, like serpents of fire, they crossed in the air,
while some fell upon the ground, and others buried their keen points in
the cabins and block-houses. Little balls of fire were visible in
different places, and the air was filling with smoke. As may be
supposed, the females were greatly alarmed, and there seemed imminent
danger of all the cabins being ablaze in a short time. Women began
running to and fro, plucking the arrows and dashing water upon their
cabins, while the fiery missiles continued raining down upon them.

“Don’t be scart,” called out Moffat, as he rushed among them. “Don’t be
scart; these arrers can’t do no harm. The cabins are too green to burn,
and the Injins are too green to see it. Jerusalem!”

This last exclamation was caused by one of the flaming missiles dropping
so close to his person as to graze his coat or hunting-shirt, and set it
on fire. He slipped out of it in a twinkling, and dodged back to the
block-house as fast as possible. His words had allayed the panic and
reassured the females, for he had spoken the truth. The cabins were of
such construction that, with one exception, there was the least possible
danger of their taking fire, and it was the same with the block-houses
and pickets. The wood in them was still green, and full of sap, and the
flame borne by the Indian arrows had no effect upon them, except to
cause a slight smoke and a great panic.

This the Indians soon learned, and ceased their efforts in this
direction. A silence of perhaps a half hour followed—the deep, almost
audible silence which precedes the bursting of the storm. The savages,
up to this point, had given utterance to no yells, and had persisted to
a man in remaining invisible, so that not a shot had been exchanged upon
either side. Those in the block-houses had done their utmost to catch a
glimpse of their assailants, but thus far had not succeeded. When the
flying arrows made their appearance, they seemed as if shot from the
branches of the trees, and the wood was so dense that a most effectual
concealment was given all.

The clearing around the settlement, it will be remembered, extended
several hundred feet, so an enemy would be compelled to expose
themselves if they made a close attack. As the Shawnees ceased their
efforts for a while, every settler loaded his gun, for he well knew that
it would be needed in a short time.

“What’s the next thing on the programme?” asked Moffat, who was standing
beside the minister within the block-house.

“It is hard telling, I guess,” replied Edwards.

“Some trickery that we ain’t thinking about, I’ll be bound. Them
Shawnees won’t give up so easy as all that.”

“Moffat—see here, Moffat!” called a man at one of the loop-holes.

“What’s the trouble there?”

“Just take a peep through the loop-hole and see whether there is
anything to be seen.”

Moffat stepped forward as requested, and took a scrutinizing glance of
the clearing in front. His suspicions were aroused, for he gazed several
minutes without speaking a word.

“Do you make anything of it?” inquired his friend.

“Shawnees, as sure as thunder!”

“Pass the word to the others there, and blaze away.”

The pioneers were soon aware that the Shawnees were attempting to
approach them. As they looked forth, they could see upon the outer edge
of the clearing, their forms flat upon the ground, and creeping as
stealthily as shadows. At the distance, and among the stumps and logs,
it was hard to discover them, and none but a hunter’s eye would have
done it. Orders were given to withhold the fire until they were much
closer, and upon the point of rising for the result.

Steadily, but imperceptibly to the inexperienced eye, the Shawnees
approached the settlement. They could not be seen to move, and the way
in which Kingman judged of their approach was by comparing the position
of one of the dark forms with that of a stationary object. In a short
time a relative change of position would be seen which became more
perceptible each moment. Edwards, who was one of the leaders, seeing
that the savages would turn all their exertions toward scaling the
pickets or effecting an entrance through them, dispatched a large number
of men from the block-house to guard the block-houses, so that the
guards of the towns was not weak at any point.

Fortune favored the settlers. When the Shawnees were but comparatively a
few yards distant, the clouds cleared from the face of the moon, and as
the moonlight streamed down once more, the gleaming, expectant, upturned
faces of the Indians could be seen. All understood that this was the
moment to fire, and simultaneously nearly a hundred rifles in the
different block-houses broke upon the air. As many infuriated yells
broke forth, and seemingly from the very ground, scores of savages
sprang to their feet and rushed toward the pickets. Here the cool and
steady conduct of the settlers availed them. It was impossible to scale
the guard, or either to burn or batter it down, except by vigorous,
prolonged labor.

The Indians set desperately at work, not heeding the murderous fire
which was poured upon them. But it soon told too fearfully, for every
shot was well aimed; and when a hunter’s rifle belched its contents a
Shawnee was sure to bite the dust. The block-houses were unrelentless in
their fire, and continued to pour their shots in upon the dark, dancing
bodies without, who still kept madly at work, howling and yelling like
so many demons.

And all this time numbers kept pouring from the woods, until there were
several hundred assaulting the settlement. The attack was made from all
sides, at the same moment and by equally formidable numbers, so that
each block-house had its due share of work. To add to the confusion, the
horses and cattle within the enclosure became panic-struck, and their
affrighted snorts and bellowing could be heard among the din of
conflict. The discharge of the rifles was so continued and regular that
it sounded like the firing of a well-drilled army—platoon at a time; and
though it could not help telling fearfully upon the Shawnees, it seemed
in reality to have no effect.

“Fire quicker, boys, and with a sure aim,” commanded Edwards, in a low
tone. “The pickets will be down, if they keep on in that way.”

“Well, here’s a try,” said a man beside him, as he placed his rifle
through a loop-hole. “I wonder what execution this bullet will do?”

As he fired it, Edwards heard a groan, and turning hastily around, saw
the man was dying. An Indian bullet had entered the orifice directly
beside the muzzle of his rifle, and flashing along the barrel, had
struck him in the face, shattering his forehead and killing him almost
instantly.

“Take him out of the way; there’s no help for him,” commanded Edwards.

Moffat and Captain Parks (who was also a leader upon this occasion,)
seized the poor fellow and quickly drew him outside the block-house.

“Umph! his shot had a different effect from what he thought,” remarked
the captain, as he deposited him on the ground and hastened within
again.

The Shawnees, with unusual bravery, maintained their efforts, fired to
desperation at the resistance encountered, and seemingly determined to
force the pickets at all risks. It was no longer necessary for the
hunters to take aim—in fact, it was impossible to miss hitting the
Indians, they were everywhere—and Captain Parks finally ordered his men
to load and fire as fast as possible, without taking time to aim.

In the height of the conflict the pickets, which had been weakened the
previous night, yielded to the tremendous pressure, and the Shawnees
commenced pouring in the breach.

And now came the struggle for life. Once within the village, and its
doom would be fixed forever. At sight of the dark forms of the Shawnees
struggling through the opening, a perfect fury took possession of the
settlers. The good minister, Edwards, understood in an instant the cause
of the increased tumult, and with a yell that might and would have done
honor to a Shawnee chief, leaped from the block-house, and flew to the
defence. His ready, powerful arm was needed, for the exultant savages
were pressing almost irresistibly forward.

But the impetuosity of the Indians was their own destruction and defeat.
They pressed and struggled so desperately among each other that their
actions were cramped and rendered of little avail. The pioneers, fired
with fury of desperation, cut and shot and battered and knifed them like
so many animals, until, in a short time, the further entrance of the
assailants was prevented by the dead bodies of their own comrades
blocking up the breach!

The crisis of the battle had now passed. There was no prevailing against
the defense of the settlers, and the Shawnees made as disorderly and
turbulent a retreat as they had an assault. Without stopping to carry
the dead or the wounded, they plunged headlong into the corner of the
wood.

The dead bodies of the savages were instantly thrust through the breach,
which was closed up and barricaded as firmly as circumstances would
allow. This done, Edwards and Captain Parks returned to their
block-house, leaving a sufficient number to still guard the pickets,
should the assault be repeated. But those skilled in Indian warfare knew
that for an hour at least they were safe, as their enemies would spend
that time in consulting upon the next step to be taken. The wives and
children of the hardy pioneers, as soon as they saw that hostilities
were suspended, hastened forward to see who had fallen in the conflict.
The deep sigh of relief which they drew, when Edwards communicated the
strange fact that, beside the man shot at the commencement of the
skirmish, not one of the number was killed, showed the deep, heartfelt
interest they felt for all.

Many of the hunters took the occasion to clean their guns and refresh
themselves, while others more cautious, continued their ever vigilant
watch. As the moon permitted, they could sometimes distinguish among the
prone bodies before them the writhing form of some poor savage in his
death agonies, and the glazed stare of the others, stark and stiff,
their features distorted and their hands closed with a rigid, deathly
clutch upon their body or upon the ground. It was a sad, soul-sickening
sight, but a sight which would pale before the horrors that were yet to
be enacted along the frontier.

As the night wore on, the Shawnees from time to time fired their random
shots from their concealment, but no general demonstration was made.
Their repulse had been a most complete and decided one. At intervals a
burning arrow whizzed over the pickets and buried itself in the cabins
beyond, as if they still had hope of accomplishing the destruction of
the settlement, and now and then a venturesome savage crawled as close
to the block-house as possible and fired his rifle at the loop-holes
alone; but such a daring attempt was pretty sure to cost him his own
life, as the flash of his gun would discover him to the watchful
hunters, who sent a volley at him.

Then many attempts were made to approach the settlement by stratagem.
The inexperienced settler would be struck at seeing a bush upon the
outer edge of the clearing, and he would wonder with himself that it
never attracted his notice before; after which he would be surprised at
seeing it much nearer than at first; and while at a loss to explain the
curious circumstance, which no extra rubbing of the eyes could do, he
would perhaps be startled by the flash and report from out the very
centre of it, and then immediately the death yell of the assailant as he
attempted to make his retreat to safer concealment. Then, again, objects
so like logs as to deceive the eye of all but the most suspicious, would
make their appearance, and seemingly rolled by invisible hands, continue
to approach slowly and surely the settlement, until their sudden change
of form showed their true character.

In many cases the Indians did conceal themselves behind the logs which
still lay upon the outer edge of the clearing, and by cautiously rolling
them forward as they lay extended upon the ground, succeeded in
approaching within a few yards of the block-house without the least
personal danger to themselves. They would then make several shots over
the top of the log and dodge down to avoid. But they accomplished
nothing at all, and ran such imminent risk themselves of being shot
during their retreat, that these and similar attempts were finally
abandoned.

All such artifices were but artifices indeed, which the prisoners had
learned long before, and which could not take them by surprise. The
Shawnees had learned much from the Mingo Logan, as their attempts of
conducting the attack were similar in several cases; but, as we have
shown, they met with such poor success that they finally ceased, and for
a long time not a shot was exchanged between the two parties. The whites
believed that their silence was a ruse to give the impression that they
had withdrawn, and thus threw them off their guard. For over an hour,
not the slightest sound or movement betrayed the presence of the
Shawnees.

Suddenly the combined yell of over a hundred throats rent the air, with
such horrid force as to make the blood of every one tingle, and as many
bullets rattled against the pickets and block-houses. But the settlers
were not thrown off their guard; they cocked their rifles and held them
pointed toward the wood. But no Indians made their appearance. This was
another stratagem, the meaning of which could hardly be divined, if it
had any meaning at all.

Finally the settlers saw with glad hearts that the day was at hand. The
east was fast becoming gray and light and there would soon be an
opportunity of resting their harassed and weary frames. Edwards and
Captain Parks would not suffer one of the men to withdraw until the sun
had risen above the wilderness, and its broad dazzling light showed the
perfect day. Then, as nothing could be seen of their vindictive enemies,
and it was pretty certain they had returned to a man, the majority of
the settlers left the block-houses and their stations for refreshment
and rest. It was found that three of the whites had been killed, and
some half dozen slightly wounded. During the day the former were buried
with appropriate and solemn ceremony. Several were so disfigured and
mangled that the white sheet which had been thrown over them was not
removed when they were placed within the ground.

It was in the afternoon that most of the settlers gathered in the corner
of the settlement which had been set apart for the resting-place of the
dead, to witness and participate in the ceremonies. The minister read,
in a subdued and feeling voice, a short hymn, which was sung in low and
mournful tones, and then all knelt upon the earth, and his clear, rich
voice ascended to heaven. As they rose to their feet, he made a few
remarks upon the solemn scene, and then the three bodies, one by one,
were lowered into separate graves. In a short time they were covered
with the sod, and their forms blotted forever from the face of the
earth.

The scene in front of the settlement was horrid and soul-sickening in
the extreme. The Shawnees during the preceding night had succeeded in
removing a number of their dead companions, but over a dozen still
remained scattered over the clearing and around the closed breach. In
front could be seen three Indians stretched upon the earth, stark and
stiff, their hands closed with a deadly clutch around their rifles, and
their fixed glazing eyes staring at the blue sky above them. The
disfigurement of their faces was rendered more ghastly by war paint
daubed upon them. The blood had mixed with this until it was impossible
to distinguish them, and, as the wound of each was in the face, some
idea may perhaps be formed of their appearance. Others lay doubled and
knotted in heaps just as when they died, and a couple were stretched
face downward upon a stump, their arms dangling over. The greatest
number were stretched before the breach. There they lay in every
imaginable position; some as if quietly sleeping and others twisted and
bent into inconceivable distortions, and scattered over the clearing
were coagulated pools of blood, dark and murky on the hard earth, and
bright and glistening on the logs where the sun could reach it.

It was near the middle of the afternoon, when most of the men were
engaged in the funeral ceremonies of the dead, and while Kingman and
Moffat were keeping watch in the northern block-house that a curious,
yet characteristic circumstance took place. Moffat had seated himself
for a time, while Kingman was still gazing intently through one of the
loop-holes. The hunter watched him a few moments and then remarked,

“It seems to me, George, that something has taken your eye out there.
What is it? Does one of the Shawnee’s top knots strike your fancy?”

“No; but I tell you, I ain’t satisfied yet by any means that the Injins
are out of the wood.”

“What’s up? Seen one? Shouldn’t wonder if there was two or three there;
but I’ll bet my life that there ain’t no more.”

“There is something moving in the bushes yonder, certain. Just take a
look. It is close to that tree where you shot your first Shawnee.”

Moffat arose and did as requested. He answered in a moment.

“There is somebody there, sure enough, but I can’t make him out.”

“Shall I not fire, and teach him better manners?”

“No. You would only scare the women, and it ain’t certain by no means
that there’s an Injin there, and I make it a point never fire at a
venture.”

“Indian it isn’t, sure enough,” replied Kingman, excitedly.

As they both looked, they saw a white man dressed in the costume of a
hunter step cautiously forth and approach one of the bodies. He stooped
and looked at it a moment, and then catching the head in his left hand,
jerked out his knife and had the scalp off in a moment. This he repeated
until there were several bleeding trophies suspended at the girdle
around his waist.

“That is cool,” remarked Kingman. “What business has he to do that?”

“Settling some old grudge, perhaps, against the varmint.”

“A cowardly way of settling it, at any rate. Why doesn’t he take the
live savages instead of the dead ones.”

“’Cause there are none to take. He ain’t one of the chaps as is
_afraid_. No, sir, he’d raise the top-knot of any Shawnee, dead or
kicking.”

“But this is not the place to commit such barbarities as that, and I’ll
stop him before any of the others see him.”

Kingman applied his mouth to the loop-holes, and shrieked.

“Helloa there! What are you at?”

The backwoodsman raised his eyes and looked up at the block-house, but
made no reply. He then stooped, and seizing another Indian committed the
same disgusting outrage upon him. His coolness and unconcern touched
Kingman, and he called out.

“Did you hear what I said?”

“None your business,” retorted the hunter, continuing his operations as
before.

“Confound him!” muttered Kingman to Moffat. “I have a great notion to
give him a taste of cold lead for his imprudence.”

“You try it, and you will never pull another trigger,” replied Moffat in
his tone of deadly meaning.

“Why, what has got into you so suddenly?”

“Do you know who that man is?”

“I known he is as much savage as any Shawnee I have ever yet seen.”

“Wal, sir, that chap is my brother, and if you’ve got any differences to
settle he’ll give you the chance, but if you undertake any trick, here’s
his brother, and there’ll be a dead man in your tracks in two minutes
and a half.”

“I beg your pardon, Abe; I had no idea who the man was. A friend of
yours is a friend of mine, no matter who or what he is. Forgive me, will
you? Your hand on it?”

With true backwoodsman frankness and good nature, Abe Moffat extended
his bony palm, and a genial smile lit up his countenance.



                               CHAPTER X.
                     COLONEL CLARK AND HIS RANGERS.


At this moment the subject of their conversation, Tom Moffat, made his
appearance at the entrance. Upon seeing that he was a white man, he was
admitted at once. He strode in with that independent, careless air so
common to his race, paying no attention to the inquisitive looks that
were cast upon him.

The first person who met him was Edwards, who had just returned from the
funeral ceremonies referred to.

“Why, what brings you here?” he asked, with a smile.

“My legs, I believe. How are you thriving, George?”

“Very well. How does it go with you?”

“Tolerable only. Had quite a scrimmage here, from the look of things.”

“Yes; this is bad business—though kind Providence has watched over us
thus far. His great name be praised for it.”

“How many killed?”

“Three only. This is a severe loss; but it’s nothing to that which we
were compelled to inflict upon these heathens who so wantonly assail us.
It seems that they should learn wisdom by their sad experience.”

“Any other of the varmint would, except them Shawnees. They kill and
hack so much they’re willing to stand it just for the fun.”

“It seems that you have been indulging in some of their savage
practices,” remarked Edwards, in a tone of quiet rebuke, as he glanced
at the scalps at the hunter’s waist.

“Yas,” he returned, looking complacently down at them, “I sometimes
indulge. There was such a smart chance of ha’r lifting that I had to
walk into the business.”

“It is strange to me that any man professing to be civilized can cammit
such revolting crimes that these North American Indians alone have the
credit for.”

“All edycation—all edycation, George. It went kindly against the grain
the first time I tried it, but I soon got my hand in; and, sir, there
ain’t nothing like it. I tell you it’s high, George, to serve a Shawnee
that way.”

“It is horrible, Thomas, and I would that you could be induced to cease
it.”

“Now, have you ever clipped a red-skin top-knot?”

“Me! Why, of course not!”

“Then you can’t tell anything about it, my good friend without
experimenting. I and any one else can see what a disgusting”——

“Beg pardon, George, I can’t you know.”

“Any one else can see what a disgusting practice it is. You have seen it
thus. It struck you as such when you first contemplated it, and you
admit that it required considerable effort before you could bring
yourself to it.”

“Wal, now, George, it lays all in edycation. You know what imps these
Shawnees are; and where they have done as them have, I can’t see the
harm of serving them in the same way—can’t see the difference to save my
life.”

“It’s no use talking with you, I see, Thomas. I am sorry that you are so
wedded to the practice; but it will make no difference in my respect for
you. We are old friends, remember, and I am glad to see you any time.
Pardon me for keeping you talking so long, when I should have asked you
to rest and refresh yourself.”

“Thank you, George, I don’t need rest. ’Cause why? I ain’t tired. And as
for refreshments, I don’t know much about them.”

“Wel, then, consider this your home as long as you are willing to remain
with us, which I trust will not be a very brief period. Do you bring any
news?”

“I have a little, which I’ll give you after a while.”

“Good or bad—I suppose I may inquire?”

“Wal, it’s good; so you needn’t worry about it.”

“In that case I shall not, for we have had enough gloomy tidings and
doings of late.”

“I believe I’ve got a brother somewhere ’bout these parts, or used to
have,” remarked the hunter, gazing searchingly about him.

“He is in the block-house, I believe, standing watch. I will call him,
or you can visit him there, as you choose.”

“What is he standing watch for? Shawnees?”

“For enemies, which are certainly thick enough around us.”

“You kin call him, then, for he’s watching for what ain’t about. I took
a tramp around the settlement afore I came in, and things is all right.”

“Have our enemies indeed retreated?” inquired a spectator.

“There isn’t a shadow of one of ’em for five miles around, except the
dead ones.”

“Thank Heaven for that, for we have had enough of this awful business to
last a lifetime. May I ask, friend, the appearance things bear along the
frontier? You are a scout, I take it, and are able to give us
information.”

“Things look dubious, I must say,” replied the backwoodsman, looking
down to the ground and shaking his head.

“Any fresh outrages of which we have not heard?”

“Not that I knows on, being I don’t know what you’ve heard; but I can
tell you the varmint, especially these thundering Shawnees, are at it
all the time. They are at Boonesborough half the time trying to come
some of their tricks over the colonel, and we boys as are ranging the
woods up and down the ’Hio sees tall times—wal we do. It’s hard fur the
settlements and wimmen folks, but fur us scouts and rangers it’s big
fun.”

“What is the probability of general war?”

“It must come sooner or later—there’s no helping it.”

“Why are you so certain, my friend?”

“’Cause I can see things as they is. If Bowman had given them a regular
lambasting when he tried it, you wouldn’t have seen the trouble you
have—no, sir!”

“I have no doubt of it. That unfortunate campaign has given the Indians
a poorer opinion of our strength and powers and a much better one of
their own.”

“Just so—exactly. If them Shawnees could get all the other to jine in
like, they would feel able to sweep us clean from the airth; and I ain’t
certain but what they’d be able to do it afore we got help from the
East. But there’s the rub, you see, some of these tribes hate each other
as much they do us; and being as they all hate us, each one is trying to
finish the job without the help of the other.”

“I see no help, either, except in a war of extermination. It would be a
dreadful thing to carry the struggle to the knife, but I see no other
alternative. They have rejected all our offers of friendship, and are
determined to exterminate us, and the safety of us and ours absolutely
requires that the war should be carried into their own country, though
for that matter they claim, I suppose, that it is already within their
own country.”

“That’s the doctrine I’ve been argyfying for a long time and I think
they’ll soon see it’s got to be done. But it ’pears to me that George is
gone a long time for that brother of mine. Hello! here they come. How
d’ye do, Abe?”

“How are you, Tom?”

The brothers met, and the others feeling the indelicacy of remaining,
withdrew and left them alone. A conversation, which it is not necessary
we shall record, passed between them.

Tom Moffat was older than his brother by six or seven years, and was one
of those scouts or rangers whose business it was to skirt along the Ohio
between the settlements, and to ascertain the doings and intentions of
the hostile tribes and to warn the whites when danger threatened them.
The services of such men were invaluable. There was hardly a movement of
the Shawnees which they did not discover and communicate, and to their
timely warning, in more than one instance, was the salvation of hundreds
owing.

The information which the scout imparted upon this occasion was that
Colonel Clark had determined, with his Kentucky Rangers, to march
against the Indians at Chillicothe, and to bring them to battle. A
summary chastisment was imperatively demanded, and our settlement
willingly volunteered to assist their gallant friends in the expedition.

Colonel Clark, a few weeks subsequent to these events, called together
his Kentucky Rangers, as they were termed, for marching against the
Indian settlements at Chillicothe. Tom Moffat, the scout, conducted his
brother, Kingman, and half a dozen others, through the wilderness to
join them, as our settlement had already gained quite a fame for its
readiness in assisting such expeditions.

This was in the summer of 1780. The Rangers collected together, and
headed by Colonel Clark, a gallant and inexperienced Indian fighter,
they reached the Indian town a day later; but the Shawnee runners had
apprized their nation of the force marching against them, and when the
villages were reached not even a squaw or pappoose was visible. This was
a surprise to the whites, as they fully expected to meet the combined
warriors and have a bloody battle; nevertheless, they determined that
the cowardly Indians should not escape them.

Their scouts were first dispatched to reconnoitre the forest, to prevent
falling into ambush. They reported that not a savage was in sight, and
it was evident they were thoroughly intimidated, and had retreated to a
safe distance. Colonel Clark then gave the order to burn the Indian
villages and destroy their corn-fields.

In a few moments the flames from the different lodges burst forth and
communicated to the others. They were made of light, combustible
material, and in an incredible short space of time the whole village was
one mass of roaring, crackling flame. The smoke ascended far over the
tree-tops and gathered and formed a dark, heavy cloud, which settled in
the horizon. These evidences of conflagration were witnessed by more
than one Shawnee from his hiding-place, and he trembled, for he knew
what a justly-excited people was revenging its wrongs. Not an Indian
made his appearance while the rangers were at work.

When the last cabin had burned to the ground, the whites entered the
corn-fields. A half hour later and not a stalk of corn was standing!
Everything was destroyed upon which it was possible to lay their hands.
Colonel Clark then gave orders to remain upon the ground until the
afternoon, hoping that the Shawnees would still give battle. But it was
useless; they had apparently lost the bravery for which they had become
so distinguished, for they carefully avoided showing themselves.

Finally the rangers set out on their return homeward, burning and
destroying everything along the way. While retreating, a few of the
infuriated Shawnees followed them and managed to pick off several of
their number from their hiding-places in the tree-tops and ledges. An
attempt was made to draw them into ambush, which came uncomfortably nigh
succeeding. So effectually was it arranged that the most cunning and
experienced scouts did not discover it until almost upon it.

During the wars on the frontier, it was the invariable custom of the
white forces in marching through the forest to keep their scouts
constantly ranging the country for the double purpose of being warned of
all ambushes and to gain a knowledge of the enemy’s movements. These
scouts were often the salvation of the whites, and a few years later,
when the great generals marched with their forces against the arrayed
tribes of the West, they were enrolled and recognized as an
indispensable part of the army. The brilliant and wonderful exploits of
such men as Captain W. Wells, M’Arthur, Davis, M’Cleland, Beason,
Williams, O’Bannion, M’Donald and others are found recorded in the
history of our country.

Several skirmishes took place during the homeward march, and the rangers
were constantly harassed by the Indian scouts following and lurking in
the rear. Several hand-to-hand struggles took place between the whites
and these scouts, and it was not until they were all within sight of
their destination that the pests disappeared and our friends were
allowed to proceed unmolested upon their way.

This chastisement of the Shawnees was most effectual and summary. Their
depredations and outrages up to this point had increased frightfully,
and scarce a day passed in which the report of a murder or a massacre
did not reach the different settlements. The power of the settlers,
through the blunder of Colonel Bowman, had been greatly underrated and
scorned, and there were many chiefs who really believed that a vigorous,
determined movement by the Shawnees alone would be sufficient to
overwhelm every settlement along the Ohio river. But the expedition just
returned had convinced them of their fatal mistake. They saw what a
comparatively small force could do against all of their numbers, and
they had sense enough to understand that nothing short of general
combination of the rival tribes of the “dark and bloody ground” could
offer any check to the approaching tide of civilization.

It was now the autumn of 1780. The great revolutionary struggle of the
colonies was nearly terminated, and many were turning their attention
toward the millions of acres of rich land beyond the Ohio. The advent of
a foreign army had impoverished the country, and many a homestead had
been razed to the earth and its wealth swept away for ever. Several new
settlements had been implanted upon the river above, and the old ones,
in spite of the disastrous circumstances by which they were surrounded,
had continued to thrive and increase. It sometimes seems, when
emigration commences to a new country like the West, at this time, that
the settlers are without will of their own, but fulfilling destiny, for
no combination of opposition, dangers and perils can check them. Rumors
constantly reached the East of the horrid barbarities perpetrated, and
of the numerous flat-boats that were decoyed into shore and their
inmates slaughtered; and yet there was hardly a week in which some boat,
freighted with its weak and defenceless load, did not launch upon the
Ohio and turn their prow fearlessly forward.

Some of these were victims to the cruelty of the renegades and savages,
but their places were filled by others as hopeful and eager as they had
been.

And amid all these formidable circumstances there were meek and good men
who hesitated not to brave all for the pleasure of their good Master.
The Moravian missionaries had penetrated the wilderness, and the seed
sown by them was already bearing good fruit. Numbers of Indians were
converted to Christ, and withstood all the temptations of the chase and
battle-field. They remained together and engaged in agriculture, and
withdrew entirely from their rude and warlike brethren. It was a
beautiful and instructive sight—the one small spot radiant with the
smile of Heaven amid the mighty wilderness, made doubly dark and gloomy
by the hand of man.

The faithful energetic followers of Wesley were already numbered among
the pioneers. They were brave, resolute men, who could shoulder the
rifle and lead to battle, swing the glittering ax in the forest, or
point the way to heaven. Theirs was the religion for the time. Freed
from the restraints and conventionalities of civilized life, it was from
the heart. Its representatives were men whose words were plain to the
uneducated backwoodsman, and who never set forth truth beyond their
comprehension.

For a time after the expedition of Colonel Clark comparative peace
reigned along the frontier. A number of flat-boats descended the river,
and reported that they had not been disturbed during the passage. This
made the settlers hopeful, and many  began to believe war over. Numbers
engaged in felling the trees around their settlements, and extending
their boundaries; strong commodious cabins made their appearance; and
some, more venturesome than their tired neighbors, erected their
dwellings in the edge of the wood, beyond the immediate protection of
the block-house, and here they removed with their families. Emigration
received an impetus which otherwise would have required years.

But matters could not remain thus. The warlike disposition of the
powerful Shawnees could brook restraint for a long time.

In the summer of 1781, reports reached the settlements that a boat had
been stopped near the mouth of the Sciota and all its inmates—nearly a
score—had been massacred. The notorious Pete Johnson and Simon Girty
figured in this outrage. They made several attempts to decoy them to
shore, but the whites had been warned, and would have escaped had they
possessed any knowledge of the channel of the river; but unfortunately
they ran ashore during the night, and before they could escape, the
savages, headed by Girty, poured a volley into them, which killed or
rendered helpless all on deck, and then rushed upon the boat.

The women were outraged and tomahawked, Pete Johnson leading in the
latter barbarity; and, as if to incite the settlers along the river, the
flat-boat was carefully preserved from injury, and with several of the
mangled corpses upon it set afloat.

It glided some twenty or thirty miles when it struck the shore and
grounded.

One of the rangers, passing down the river, discovered it, and
suspecting foul play, waded out and climbed into it.

As he passed over the gunwale he was nearly overcome with the horrid
stench of the putrefying bodies. Nothing daunted, he plunged resolutely
into the cabin, where the full horrors burst upon his vision. Stretched
out at full length lay some eight or nine women and men, bloated and
bloody, piled upon each other, and glued together in their own blackened
blood.

He waded to the shore, broke off several dried branches, and piled them
at the cabin door. It was now nearly dark, and he set fire to them and
pushed the boat into the stream. At last the hull, burnt to a charred
cinder, dipped beneath the water and disappeared from view.



                              CHAPTER XI.
                      THE CAPTAIN AND THE INDIAN.


The report of the outrage on the flat-boat, we say, reached our
settlement, but it was discredited by many, among whom, of course, was
Captain Parks. And even when the ranger himself related to the
astonished people what he had witnessed and done, the irascible captain
told him he had imagined it all. He held such faith in the chastisement
given by Colonel Clark, that there was but one argument which could make
him believe the savages had really commenced their outrages again. That
argument, in its most convincing form, he was to receive.

As is generally the case, the long pre-emption from attack gave to the
pioneers an undue sense of security, and many of them more than once
culpably exposed themselves to danger. No warning or remonstrances could
induce some from plunging into the forest and erecting their cabins more
than a rifle-shot from the block-houses. The restless, eager enterprise,
so peculiar to the American people, manifested itself in every
proceeding.

In those days nearly every species of game abounded in the wood: the
bear, buffalo, deer, panther, elk, coon, wolf, and the numberless
smaller animals. These, with the myriads of delicious fish, showed the
goodly inheritance of the pioneer.

One morning, in the late summer, Captain Parks shouldered his rifle and
plunged into the wood, determined to spend the day in the hunt. The
minister, Edwards, ventured to caution him, but he only received an
impatient “Umph!” for his good intentions. He would neither permit any
one to accompany him, and evinced considerable temper when it was
ventured upon the ground of safety. He turned his footsteps toward the
Licking river, and his object was to bring down several deers. In a
short time he reached a celebrated deer lick, and bringing his dog to
him, concealed himself in the bushes.

Lying thus, with his gaze turned up the lick, he saw nothing behind him
until his dog uttered a low growl of alarm. Turning around, instead of
an animal, he saw nothing less than a Shawnee Indian following his
trail!

But at this unlucky moment the dog gave a bark and sprang to his feet.
The Indian, at the first alarm, sprung backward, and stood on the
defensive, and the captain seeing that he was discovered, arose and
approached him, while each held his rifle ready to fire at the first
demonstration of the other. But neither fired, as they both recognized
each other.

The savage had often been in the settlement, and was generally known to
the whites as a drunken, worthless sot. Some suspected him of treachery,
although he had never been detected in any overt act, and professed
friendship to them. But he had the appearance of a low, cunning fellow,
and was carefully shunned by the most cautious. He had been christened
Bill by the settlers, and it had been remarked that for the last few
months he had not been noticed in the vicinity of the settlement.

“Why, how see you, Bill?” asked the captain, extending his hand.

“Me good. How captain?”

“All right. Hunting, I see?”

“Yeh; me huntin’ for dam deer.”

“Wal, did you get on their track?”

“Purty nigh track o’ sunken’.”

“Track of what?” demanded the captain, in a towering passion.

“Me don’t know; tink him dam Mingo,” eagerly replied the savage.

“Umph! our tracks looks a good deal alike.”

“Yeh! much like,” repeated the Indian.

“If I’s sure you were following me, Bill, I’d shoot you in a minute.”

The small restless eye of the Shawnee fairly snapped with electric
blackness for an instant as he gazed at the captain; but the latter
returned his look with his own glittering orbs and awed him at once.

“I hardly think you would try such a thing, because I always treated you
gentlemanlike; kicking you out the house when you gave me any of you
jaw, and licking you like blazes when you insulted the woman. And you
chaps got such a whipping from our boys that I hardly believe you will
try any of your tricks very soon again.”

“Shawnees do nothing; much ’fraid.”

“S’pose so. Come, Bill, be honest. Did the Shawnees stop a flat-boat up
the river and butcher all hands?”

“No; big lie; nebber do such thing.”

“Well, I don’t believe they did. Where’s Simon Girty and that devil,
Pete Johnson? Raising the devil among your people?”

“Girty am so (imitating the action of scalping) and Johnson gone back
with own folks.”

“You don’t say?” asked the captain, swallowing the falsehood.

“Yeh; me help to do it to Girty.”

“Umph! that’s one good thing you have done in your life. How came them
to scalp Simon Girty.”

“Him want to kill all whites: he do too much.”

“I haven’t seen you around the settlement since you went off so drunk.
Thought maybe you were gone.”

“Bill go live with squaw and take care of ’em.”

“Oh, married, I see. Well, that’s all right, I s’pose—but I started out
on a deer hunt, and I am of the opinion that it’s few deer we shall see
if we stand here talking.”

“Very good; Bill shoot deer, too.”

Captain Parks returned to his hiding place, and the Indian followed, and
passed beyond and concealed himself behind him. The Shawnee held his
rifle toward the captain, and continually raised his head as though he
expected the approach of some animal; but the captain soon became
convinced that these glances were bestowed upon himself. They remained
in this position for an hour. At the expiration of that time the captain
arose and expressed his determination of going home. The savage arose
also, and they started together.

When within a few miles of home, they reached a large brook, in which
were thrown several stones, to assist in crossing over. Without
hesitation, our friend stepped on these and commenced passing. As he
reached the opposite shore, he turned suddenly around to see the savage.
This movement saved his life, for at that instant the savage raised his
rifle and fired. The bullet shattered the powder-horn at the captain’s
waist, and before he could recover, the Indian uttered a yell of
defiance and disappeared in the forest.

“After him, dog, and tear him to pieces!” he exclaimed, furiously.

The dog plunged into the forest with a howl, and took his trail with the
quickness of lightning. Suddenly the yelp of the dog ceased, and before
he had taken a dozen steps, the moaning, bleeding form of his dog
appeared. He dropped with a whine at the captain’s feet. The poor brute
was dead, and Captain Parks was convinced that the Shawnees were pretty
well rid of their friendly feeling toward the settlers.



                              CHAPTER XII.


It is one of those pleasant summer days, a few months after the
occurrence of the events recorded in our last chapter, that we take a
glance at the settlement which figures so conspicuously in our
narrative, and which latterly had enjoyed comparative quiet.

Captain Parks, on his return from the adventure related in our last
chapter, had given his opinion that the whole Shawnee tribe, and Bill
especially, were a set of unmitigated scoundrels, and that it would
never do to repose the least confidence in them.

Late in the evening of the beautiful summer’s day of which we speak,
Kingman and Irene passed through the block-house and arm-in-arm made
their way slowly toward the river.

The girlish beauty of Irene had ripened into all the fascinating charms
of womanhood. There was a deeper blueness in her mild, affectionate eye,
though it could still sparkle with its wonted fire, and a meeker, more
subdued expression of the countenance.

“What a magnificent night,” remarked Kingman.

“Too beautiful to sleep,” returned Irene.

“For what, then, is it made?”

“For meditation and devotion.”

“And love!” added Kingman, pressing the girl impulsively to him. “It is
now three years since I first asked you to be my bonny wife, Irene. You
did not refuse me, but thought you were too young, and I waited another
year before I asked you. You made the same answer the second time, and I
have now waited two long years without making the slightest reference to
it. We are both older, and I trust I am wiser now. Irene, will you be my
wife?”

“I guess I am too old now.”

Kingman looked down into the face resting upon his shoulder, for he did
not know the meaning of the words—but it was not dark enough to conceal
the roguish twinkle of her eyes.

“Don’t you think I am getting too old?” she asked, reaching up and
brushing the hair from his forehead.

“Well, you are rather old, that’s a fact—older than I ever knew you to
be before—‘but better late than never,’ you know.”

“Then it matters little how late it is—so suppose we wait a few years
longer yet.”

“An unsupposable case, my dear.”

“But not an impossible one.”

“I hope so. My gracious! I have waited three years already.”

“But we will be wiser and older then.”

“We will be older, I suppose, but little wiser.”

“And wiser, too, I am sure. We can try it and see, at all events.”

“Irene, will you not promise me now?” asked Kingman, in an earnest tone.

“Perhaps so. Ask and see.”

“Well, then, will you be my wife?”

“Yes.”

“Within a year?”

“Yes.”

“Within six months?”

“Yes.”

“Within three months?”

“No, sir.”

“When will you, Irene?”

“Next spring.”

“In February?”

“February is not in the spring; no, sir, not then.”

“Do name the time; I suppose it will be the last day of the season.”

“No, George. I will become your wife on the first of May—in the month of
roses and flowers.”

Kingman drew the trembling girl closer to him, and pressed a pure kiss
on her burning cheek. They sat and conversed far into the night, their
voices just loud enough to reach only the ears for which they were
intended.

“Should we not return?” at length asked Irene.

“I see no need of hurrying. Why do you ask?”

“It is somewhat late; and, besides,” she added, in a lower tone, “I
believe I have heard something wrong.”

“Not frightened, Irene, are you?”

“Yes: for I fear we are in danger.”

“In danger from whom, I should like to know.”

“From Indians and wild animals.”

“From Indians! do you suppose there could be found a savage, Irene, who
would harm a hair of your head?”

Kingman had hardly ceased speaking when he heard a rustling, and started
to his feet. He reached forward to his rifle, which he had leaned
against a tree not three feet away. It was gone!

“By heavens! we are in danger. Keep quiet, dearest,” he whispered.

The next instant they heard the deep, suppressed laughter of some one.
Both were confounded. Wonder for a moment held them silent, then, as
Kingman looked up he saw a form standing in the entrance.

“Frighten you any?” asked the well-known voice of Abe Moffat.

“Rather,” laughed Kingman. “Have you got my rifle?”

“I picked one up that was leaning against a tree here.”

“How did you get it without my knowing it?”

“Just reached over and hauled it up without saying a word. You needn’t
blush so, Irene; I didn’t hear George ask you to be his bonny wife; I
didn’t hear you promise him you would; but, George, if you value your
little angel, you’d better get out of this as soon as convenient.”

“What mean you?” asked both, eagerly.

“O nothing! only the devil is to pay among the Shawnees again.”

“How did you know we were here?”

“I seen you go, and I can tell you, as I just now told you, you must do
this courting at home, or in some safer place than this.”

Kingman concluded that the advice of the ranger was good, and arose at
once.

Whether the storm of war would not have reached our settlement or not it
is difficult to tell. But the smouldering fire among the frontier was
fanned into a raging flame by the perpetration of one of the greatest
outrages that ever disgraced the American history. In March, 1782,
Colonel Daniel Williamson and his command inhumanly massacred over a
hundred of the peaceful Moravian Indians. These had long been such warm
friends to the whites that they had incurred the displeasure of their
own people thereby, and their murder was therefore entirely unprovoked
and without the shadow of excuse.

Colonel Williamson sowed the wind and others reaped the whirlwind.



                             CHAPTER XIII.
                         REAPING THE WHIRLWIND.


A few days subsequent to the massacre of the Moravian Indians, Abe
Moffat made his appearance at the village, and reported their slaughter.
For days nothing else was referred to, and the minister, Edwards, was so
heartbroken that he started at once and alone through the wilderness to
satisfy himself of the full extent of horrors.

The distance to the scene of the massacre was great, and it was a week’s
journey to go and return; but an impetus, such as seldom influence the
motives of any one, impelled him forward. He arrived upon the ground
late at night. With a silent and cautious tread the divine emerged from
the forest and walked through the stricken village.

There was a faint moon overhead that threw a ghastly light upon the
scene, and the ripple of the muddy Tuscarora, as it flowed darkly by,
was the only sound that disturbed the solemn stillness. All at once, and
unconsciously to himself, he came upon the edge of the pit containing
the slaughtered bodies. At sight of the putrid Indians, piled
promiscuously together, and rendered doubly woful by the moonlight
streaming down upon them, a sudden faintness overcame him, and ere he
could withdraw, he fainted and swooned away.

He recovered in a few moments, and without trusting himself to look
again, turned and disappeared in the forest.

Late at night he started a fire against the dark trunk of a huge oak,
and lay down to rest.

The divine generally slept heavily; but the terrible sight which he had
so lately witnessed still haunted him in his dreams. He was feverish,
and often uttered words that showed upon what his mind was constantly
running. After a while he commenced dreaming. He saw the whole butchery
again, as his terribly excited imagination conceived it, and finally it
seemed that one of the Indians suddenly sprang up and brandished a
tomahawk over his head. He possessed no power of moving, and finally
awoke, covered with cold and perspiration. As he started up he found a
portion of his dream a reality. In the dim moonlight the glowing
eyeballs and gleaming visage of an Indian were visible close to his
face.

“Why, Wingenund, is that you? What is the matter that you look so?”

This Wingenund was a Shawnee chief who was known and respected by many
of the whites for the sterling qualities he possessed. He was brave,
honorable, and—what was almost a paradox in a Shawnee—was merciful. He
had taken little part, in the frontier wars, although, in the battles
with other Indian tribes, he was the bravest among the brave. He was a
middle-aged man, of much intelligence, and often visited the different
settlements. He spoke the English language very fluently, and avoided
that extravagant manner of expression so common among the North American
Indians. Hence, the astonishment of Edwards was natural at seeing him in
such a suspicious attitude.

“What is the matter, Wingenund? You would not take my life, would you?”

“I did not know you, good man, and came near doing it. But Wingenund
will never harm you.”

“Nor any other white man, I hope.”

“Wingenund has dug up the hatchet, and it shall never be buried again
until it has drank the blood of the cowardly white men.”

“What does this mean, good friend? I thought you were our friend.”

“I _was_, good man, but am no longer.”

“Not the friend of our settlement?”

“I am the friend of no man in whom a drop of pale-faced blood runs,
except of Simon Girty and his men.”

“Are you not a friend to me, good Wingenund?”

“If we meet in battle, there is nothing but enmity between us.”

“I am sorry for that, but I trust we shall never meet thus. But,
Wingenund, let me ask the meaning of this change, although I fear I know
the reason already.”

“Have you been yonder?” asked the savage, pointing his hand back of him.

“I have only just returned,” replied the divine.

“You have seen the Moravian Indians?”

“I have seen them, Wingenund.”

“And yet you ask why I have dug up the hatchet!”

“But, remember, Wingenund, that none of us undertake to justify the
cause of Williamson, and why should you seek to take vengeance upon the
innocent?”

The chieftain’s brow grew darker still as he replied:

“It cannot do, good man; the tribes who have fought each other will
unite together to make war upon you. I have passed through the villages
and stirred them up. I told them what Williamson and his men had done,
and that was enough. You must beware now.”

“Wingenund, I know you are a brave man, and do not believe you would
harm anyone whom you believed to be a friend. Listen, then, to what I
say. We heard, some months ago, that Colonel Williamson, with one
hundred men, was preparing to march against the Shawnees. The Shawnees
had broken in upon their settlements at night, had burned their houses
and scalped their women and children. They did this without provocation
upon the part of the whites, and we knew they would do it again. To
prevent this, these men were sent to chastise the offenders. They were
not sent to murder defenceless people, as they did. One of our men
joined them. He accompanied them to the Moravian towns, not dreaming of
their intentions. When he saw the awful work they were about to
commence, he told Colonel Williamson to his face that he was a base
coward and villain to undertake it. He appealed to the men to join him
in their resistance, running the risk of being shot himself while he did
so. Nearly a score besought their commander to spare the lives of the
Indians, and boldly stepped forward and demanded that it should be done.
But the others refused. They were determined that all in their power
should die, and those who first spoke against it, finally joined the
others. But he from our settlement did not. He did what he could to
prevent it, but could not. But he took no part in it. He was their
friend, and felt as all but these men did. When this man arrived, and
reported that he had seen these things, I could not believe him at
first. I hastened here alone to satisfy myself of what I saw. I have
told you how we feel, and, Wingenund, will you raise the hatchet against
us?”

The chief trembled at this question, and Edwards saw that he was deeply
affected. He remained silent a moment, and then answered:

“The good man has spoken truth. The other Shawnees and Indians may slay
your people, but Wingenund never will.”

“That rejoices my heart, my good friend.”

“But I warn you,” he added, impetuously, as he recoiled a step—“I warn
you, good man, of what is coming, that you may be prepared. The red men
have gathered like the stars in heaven, and they have sharpened their
knives and sung the war-song around the camp-fires. Wo to him who
crosses into the country! He shall never return. Our scouts are scouring
the woods, and none shall escape their eyes. Be warned, good man,
Wingenund has spoken.”

Before Edwards could intercept the chieftain or make a reply, he wheeled
around and darted away into the darkness.

The minister replenished his fire, and although he knew that the
warnings of his savage friend should be heeded, he did not hesitate to
lie down again in slumber. This time he was not disturbed, and when he
awoke the sun was shining high in the sky, and the songsters of the wood
were chattering gaily overhead. Slinging his rifle over his shoulder, he
turned his face toward home.

The savages had comparatively little success along the frontier. The
different settlements were so thoroughly armed and prepared, and the
rangers so watchful and vigilant, that it was impossible to come upon
them unprepared. Stragglers and hunters underwent the most danger, as
they were followed and attacked by superior numbers in the woods, and
rarely escaped their implacable foes. The great Tecumseh at this time
was but a mere boy, yet the valiant deeds of his companions fired his
soul, and he gave evidence even at this early day, of that wonderful
prowess and courage which has since rendered his name immortal.

The Indians, growing bolder and more exasperated at their ill-success,
finally crossed the frontier and attacked the settlers in Western
Pennsylvania and Virginia. Several houses were burned, and their inmates
either put to the torture or carried away into captivity. This was a
bold proceeding, and demanded punishment immediately. A call was made
for volunteers, and the incensed settlers collected together at once.
Nearly five hundred men enrolled themselves for the campaign, and to
show the feeling which actuated the settlers, we have only to mention
that the monster, Williamson, was elected leader; and he made no secret
of his intention to murder the remaining Moravian Indians. This created
so much indignation among the men and subordinate officers that Col.
Crawford, a brave and humane man, was appointed to the command, with
power to control the actions of the entire force.

On account of the unexpected change in the aspect of affairs along the
frontier, Irene had informed Kingman that she considered it best to
defer their marriage day until there was peace, or at least, a nearer
approach to it than at present. In the midst of war, when their own
people were engaged in it, it seemed hardly proper their marriage should
take place. Kingman saw the justice of what she said, and agreed that an
indefinite postponement was demanded.

On the 22nd of May, a glorious spring morning, Colonel Crawford marched
with his force into the Indian country. The first point visited was the
Moravian towns, which they found deserted and forsaken. Here Abe Moffat,
who had joined the company as spy, notified Crawford that their motions
were watched by numerous Indian spies, and that every preparation was
made to give them battle. The greatest care was necessary to avoid being
drawn into ambush, and Crawford ordered the men to march slowly, keeping
a good distance behind the rangers and scouts. There were nearly a dozen
of these constantly outlying the army, who communicated at all times
with it. As there was a score of Indian spies, most consummate tact and
cunning was called into play for the two forces to avoid each other. As
it was, personal encounters took place between the scouts, and the
soldiers often heard the report of their arms or the yells of conflict.
The Indian spies concealed themselves in the thick tops of the trees,
and as this was practiced by numbers of the white rangers, it more than
once happened that an Indian or American spy found themselves both
inhabitants of the same tree. In such a case a short contest, always
fatal to one and often to both, took place.

In this manner the American party marched forward, until at Upper
Sandusky they found themselves compelled to give battle to an
overwhelming force of Indians. The rangers warned Crawford that it would
be a desperate and bloody struggle, as the savages were exasperated to
the high pitch of fury by the slaughter of the Moravian Indians, and
they had learned that Colonel Williamson was with him.

Crawford formed his men in order of battle as quickly as possible,
addressing them, and awaking an enthusiasm which gave him great
confidence. The battle commenced immediately, Crawford’s force
preserving admirable order, and withstanding nobly the charge of the
savages. But at the next charge Crawford saw, with inexpressible
disgust, the cowardly Williamson (who feared the Indians were
endeavoring to secure him) turned in with the utmost confusion and make
a break for the woods. Crawford, in a voice of thunder, sprang forward
and endeavored to check the retreat; but it was impossible. A panic had
taken possession of them, and the exulting Indians gave them no chance
or opportunity to reform.

Simon Girty took part in this memorable conflict, and during the retreat
dashed into the woods and took prisoner—Abe Moffat! This he would never
have accomplished had Abe not labored under the greatest disadvantages.
He had broken the lock of his rifle so as to be unable to fire it, and
was singled out by Girty, who being mounted ran him down before he had
the slightest chance of concealing himself. Giving him in charge of
several Indians, Girty again took to the woods and captured two more
whites. Upon arranging them, it was found that there were over forty.
Among these was Colonel Crawford himself. A council was immediately
held, and the whole were painted black, and condemned to the stake!

We shall dwell upon the fate of but two of these—Colonel Crawford and
Abe Moffat.

At the village resided the Indian chief, Wingenund. This chief had been
known to Crawford sometime before, and had been on terms of true
friendship with him, and kindly entertained by him at his own house; and
such act of kindness, all red men remember with gratitude. Wingenund
does not appear to have been present when the preparations were made for
burning of the prisoners, but resided not far from the village and had
retired to his cabin that he might not see the sentence of his nation
executed upon one calling him his friend; but Crawford requested that he
might be sent for, cheering his almost rayless mind with the faint hope
that he would interfere and save him. Accordingly Wingenund soon
appeared in the presence of the bound and naked white men.

He was asked by Crawford whether he knew him, when the Indian said he
believed he did, and then asked:

“Are you not Colonel Crawford?”

“I am,” replied the colonel.

The chief displayed much agitation and embarrassment.

“Do you not recollect the friendship that always existed between us?”
said Crawford.

“Yes,” said the chief, “I remember that you have been kind to me and we
have often drank together.”

“I hope the same friendship continues,” said Crawford.

“It would, of course, were you where you ought to be.”

“And why not here?” urged the colonel. “I hope you would not desert a
friend in time of need. Now is the time for you to exert yourself in my
behalf, as I should do for you were you in my place.”

“I cannot. The King of England himself, were he to come to this spot,
with all his wealth and influence, could not interfere. The blood of the
innocent Moravians, more than half of them women and children, cruelly
and wantonly murdered, calls too loudly for revenge!”

“My fate, then, is fixed,” said the wretched man, “I must prepare to
meet death in its worst form.”

Wingenund, shedding tears, and deeply affected, then withdrew.

The colonel, observing terrible preparations going forward, called to
Girty, who sat on horseback, and asked if the Indians were going to burn
him. Girty replied in the affirmative. The colonel heard the
intelligence with firmness, merely remarking that he would bear it with
fortitude. At this juncture a Delaware chief arose and addressed the
crowd in a tone of great energy, pointing frequently to the colonel. As
soon as he had ended, a loud whoop burst from the assembled throng, and
they all rushed at once upon the unfortunate Crawford.

A terrible scene of torture was now commenced. The warriors shot charges
of powder into his naked body, commencing at the calves of his legs, and
continuing to his neck. The boys snatched the burning hickory poles, and
applied them to his flesh.

The squaws would take up a quantity of coals and hot ashes, and throw
them upon his body, so that in a few moments he had nothing but fire to
walk upon!

While this awful scene was being enacted, Girty rode up to the spot
where Dr. Knight stood. After contemplating the sufferings of the
colonel for a few moments, Girty told the doctor that he had a foretaste
of what was in reserve for him. He swore that he need not expect to
escape death, but should suffer it in all the extremity of torture.

The terrible scene had now lasted more than two hours, and Crawford had
become much exhausted. At length he sunk in a fainting fit upon his
face, and lay motionless. Instantly an Indian sprung upon his back,
knelt lightly on one knee, made a circular incision with his knife upon
the crown of his head, and clapping the knife between his teeth, tore
the scalp off with both hands.

Scarcely had this been done when a withered hag approached with a board
full of burning embers, and poured them upon the crown of his head, now
laid bare to the bone. The colonel groaned deeply, arose, and again
walked slowly around the stake. But why continue a description so
horrible?

Nature at length could endure no more, and at a late hour in the night
he was released by death from the hands of his tormentors.

When Colonel Crawford was stripped and painted black for the stake, his
shoes were also taken off and cast away.

Moffat stood by when this was done, and the action seemed to have given
him a thought, for he kicked off his own moccasins, and walking forward
to where the shoes lay, he managed to work his feet into them.

Of course his actions were observed by the Indians, but they supposed
that nothing was intended by it further than to secure a protection for
his feet.

When Crawford, in his torture, was compelled to walk barefooted over the
living coals, Girty turned upon his horse and spoke to Moffat:

“Ah, that’s what you put on them shoes of his’n for, is it? Never
mind—when we come to toast you, they won’t do you no good.”

One or two more of the prisoners were burned upon the spot, when it was
determined to march the others to the Shawnee towns, where hundreds of
others might feast themselves with the sight. For this purpose the
prisoners were separated, and under the guardianship of either one or
two Indians, marched off singly into the wood.

Dr. Knight, the companion of Crawford, as said before, was given in
charge of one warrior, from whom he managed to escape in the wood during
the march. The others, who had any appearance of stubbornness, or who
seemed likely to give trouble, were given over to well-armed savages to
watch their motions.

Such was the case with Moffat.

The Shawnee towns were a long distance away, and, as the prisoners were
compelled to keep separate by their masters, the march required
considerable time.

Moffat was the very last one who started. He rejoiced at this, as it
left the coast clear behind him, and Girty had accompanied those in
front.

The ranger could see, from the looks the two savages gave him, that they
were anxious to ascertain his feelings. If his eye sparkled, or he
retained his usual vivacity, their suspicions would be aroused; and he
accordingly feigned the deepest despondency and despair.

During the day, Moffat’s hands had been simply tied behind him, and he
marched in front of the two savages. At night, he well knew he should be
more securely bound, and it was his determination to elude his enemies,
if possible, before that time.

In the afternoon he feigned sickness, beseeching the savages to halt and
rest at short intervals. Although hungry, he refused all food, and on
one or two occasions actually dropped to the ground, as if with
faintness.

The suspicions of the Indians were naturally roused at first, but the
sickness of their captive was so well assumed and carried out, that they
were finally deceived. They halted several times, and allowed him a few
moment’s rest. As Moffat lay upon the ground, at such times, he groaned
and rolled and writhed as though in great pain; but, in reality, he was
working at the thong which held his wrists. By doubling his foot beneath
him, catching it and twisting the thong over the shoe, he succeeded in
getting it in such a position as to allow him to chafe and rub it
against the nails in the shoe. Now, it is no easy matter for a person to
bring his foot and hand together behind him and keep them in that
position for any length of time; and if one is disposed to doubt it,
they can easily satisfy themselves by a trial. But with the lithe,
muscular ranger it was quite an easy matter. His great hope was to chafe
the ligature until it could be broken by a desperate tug. In this he was
more successful; for, as he lay upon the ground, rolling and writhing as
usual, he felt the cord part behind him, and his hands were free. In a
moment he arose, of course keeping them behind him, and the string in
its position as much as it was possible for him to do so.

From the manner of the savages, it was evident they suspected nothing.

Abe, however, rather overdid the matter at last. He became so faint, and
sank to the ground so often, that the savages began to get out of
patience. They ordered him to his feet several times, and once, when he
did not rise soon enough, he was brought up all standing by a rousing
kick. This did not suit him very well; but under the circumstances he
concluded to pocket the insult, for the good reason that there was no
other course for him to pursue.

At last darkness commenced settling over the forest. The savages were
anxious to reach some point ahead, and as their frequent halts for their
prisoner had delayed them, they now hurried forward and traveled later
than they otherwise would. One savage, as stated, walked in front of
Moffat, and the other behind.

As they were walking in a part of the forest darker and denser than
usual, Moffat suddenly wheeled upon his feet, and before the hindmost
savage could suspect his intention, struck him a stunning blow that
felled him like a death-stroke. As he darted away the rifle of the other
Indian was discharged and he started in pursuit. But he was out of
sight, and in the forest—that is all a Western ranger asks. The whole
night was before him, and he would have every opportunity that he
wished.

He had run but a few rods when he settled down to a walk, for he felt
that his escape was effected. The settlement was reached in due time,
where he was gladly received by his friends. His escape may be
considered one of the most remarkable that he had yet met with.



                              CHAPTER XIV.


When Abe Moffat reached the settlement, he heard startling news indeed.
Irene Stuart, while wandering a short distance from the stockade the
afternoon before, had been heard to utter a piercing shriek, and when
the minister, Edwards, who was the nearest, ran toward the spot, he saw
her in the hands of a brawny, painted savage, who, carrying her as he
would have carried an infant, dashed into the woods, and immediately
disappeared.

This bold abduction, as a matter of course, created the greatest
excitement. Several started at once in pursuit; but it being near dusk,
they were unable to follow the trail, and they shortly returned without
having gained a glimpse of the captor or captive. It happened that at
this time Lewis Wetzel, the renowned ranger, was at the settlement, and
he and the leading men at once met together for consultation. Kingman,
naturally enough, was anxious to begin the pursuit instantly.

“No use,” said Wetzel; “we can’t help getting off the track, and then we
shall lose all the time it’ll take us to come back and start agin.”

“But will they pause to camp to-night—for there must be other Indians in
the vicinity—and will we come up to them right away in the morning?”
asked the excited lover.

“I hardly think we shall. They will hurry, of course, all they can, for
they know well enough they will be pursued, and we’ll have to travel
pretty fast if we get sight of them before they are safe home again.”

“The plan, then, is decided,” said Edwards. “Wetzel and Kingman, here,
will start at daylight, in pursuit, while, from the necessity of the
case, we are compelled to remain at home. May God be with them!”

This moment there was a movement at the door, and as they parted, Abe
Moffat entered. Several grasped his hand, and he asked:

“What’s the row? No trouble, I hope, this time?”

“Trouble enough,” replied Kingman, and he gave, in a few words, the
particulars of what is already known to the reader.

“And I have bad news, too, for you,” said Abe. “Colonel Crawford’s force
was defeated more completely than was Sanford’s. Over one hundred have
been killed, and more than thirty burnt at the stake! I seen Colonel
Crawford burnt myself! I was painted black for the stake, but the Lord
helped me to get away, and I’m down here, ready for any service.”

The effect of this intelligence can scarcely be imagined.

“I’m good for a two week’s tramp, and I ask it as a special favor,
Wetzel, that you let me take your place.”

“I’ve a great notion to foller that girl, and I don’t see how Abe can do
much, as he must be about used up now.”

“Why not both of you go?” queried Stuart.

Both Wetzel and Abe shook their heads.

“It won’t do,” replied the former. “There mustn’t be over two in
pursuit. Just as sure as there are, they won’t do nothing. No sir—it
won’t do.”

“Two is just the number that is needed,” added Abe.

“You can go, Abe,” said Wetzel, after a moment’s reflection. “It hurts
my feelings to back out, but I don’t believe you would ask to go unless
there was some good idee in your head. If you can draw a sight on that
Pete Johnson, just make it your special duty to wipe him out from the
face of the universe!”

It was agreed by Moffat that he would rise at the earliest sign of morn,
awake Kingman, and the two pass noiselessly out into the forest without
disturbing the others. Each was provided with a rifle, some thirty
charges of powder, and a piece of jerked venison sufficient to last them
several days.

At a late hour the men departed from Edward’s house to their homes.

As the night settled over the village, it was still and motionless, as
though all were wrapped in the profoundest slumber. Not a soul was
moving save the few sentinels, conversing together and exchanging their
places at long intervals.

Hour after hour wore slowly away, and for the twelfth time Kingman
returned, fretful and impatient, to his corner, as the light of day had
not yet illumined the east. He sat a moment, when he heard Moffat move.

“Hallo! anybody about?” called out the latter.

“Yes, yes, I’m here! Do wake up, for your sleep seems eternal.”

“Fudge! Now don’t be in a hurry,” replied Moffat, kicking his blanket
off from him. “Just take a peep at the door to see if there’s any
light.”

“No, there is not a streak of day. I looked only this minute.”

“Look again. I’ll bet my rifle against your life you will see it this
time.”

Kingman stepped to the door, and again looked forth. Sure enough, just
over the eastern edge of the wilderness a gray, misty light was visible,
and there was no mistaking its cause.

“Day is at hand, indeed!” exclaimed he, joyously. “Let us be off at
once.”

“Not too fast, for there must be considerable more light before we
start.”

The two men made noiseless but careful preparations for their journey. A
burning pine knot afforded them a bright, though oily and smoky light.
Their hunting shirts were buckled tightly beneath their girdles, from
each of which protruded the handles of a couple of knives; their
moccasins secured, and their rifles examined most minutely; and as
Moffat looked around and saw that nothing else was wanting he blew out
the light and the two men stepped forth into the open air. No one was
yet visible stirring in the settlement, and they made their way
cautiously toward the northern and largest block-house. It was yet so
early and dark that there was no necessity of starting for a half hour
yet. As they reached the block-house Kingman was surprised to find a
considerable number of their friends already there. Among them he
noticed Captain Parks, Wetzel, Stuart, Prentice, and several others.

“Rather ’arly, ain’t you?” remarked Wetzel.

“Yes; we will wait here a while before we start. Lew, do you suppose it
is the Shawnees who have carried her off, or some other tribe?”

“I guess it’s the Shawnees. They’re generally in all kinds of deviltry,
and that Pete Johnson, I believe, figures among them.”

“He is as often in the other tribes, so that you can hardly tell
anything by that. She’s in desperate hands, I can tell you,” added
Moffat, in a lower tone.

“I know that, and you have a hard job before you, Abe.”

“Umph!” remarked the captain; “If you can only rid the country of that
Pete Johnson, you will be immortalized. Do it, and I’ll never kick you
again—I won’t, upon my honor.”

“Then I think I will do it,” laughed the ranger.

“Isn’t it time to be moving?” asked Kingman, anxiously.

“Yes; it’s getting light, and we might as well start.”

“George,” said Stuart, as he took our hero’s hand, and the tears
streamed down his face, “be careful, and do your utmost, for you know
what there is at stake. She is yours forever if you can save her. God
grant it.”

All now bade our friends farewell, and they made their way cautiously
out of the block-house. By this time the sun was just appearing above
the edge of the forest, and they hurried forward upon their dangerous
duty.

The trail was immediately taken, and pursued with the most unwearying
assiduity. Kingman, whose border experience had toughened his sinews and
strengthened his muscle, was unwilling to pause for more than a moment’s
rest. The great fear that his beloved was in the power of the renegade
Johnson, was too tormenting to allow a moment’s rest.

In a few hours they reached the spot where the fugitives had encamped. A
brief examination revealed the gratifying fact that they were all
comparatively a slight distance ahead, although there was no question
but that they were proceeding quite rapidly.

With this was made a startling and dreaded discovery—a white man was one
of the captors. Such being the case it could be no other than Johnson
the renegade.

“Merciful heavens!” exclaimed Kingman, in agony. “We must soon overtake
them or it will be too late.”

“You’re too excited,” said Moffat, to whom the same question could be
applied. “You’re too excited. Take things coolly.”

“But how can I? How much longer is that man to desolate the frontier?”

“I have an idea that he has run about the length of his rope. I somehow
or other feel as though we were going to wipe him out.”

“God grant it!” fervently exclaimed Kingman. “He has earned his death
over and over again for the last dozen years.”

An hour or two later Moffat announced that they were rapidly gaining
upon the captors, and if they continued progressing as they were
evidently doing at that time, the probabilities were that they would be
overtaken by nightfall, or sooner.

It was only when the hunter insisted upon it that our hero would consent
to stop and take a few mouthfuls of food.

There was a cool deliberation in the movements of Moffat that was
strangely in contrast with the nervous restlessness of the lover. In
fact they were just the men to engage in the enterprise. In the
afternoon the trail showed signs of an increased gait upon those who
were being pursued. This discovery gave Kingman increased anxiety.
Finally the gathering darkness compelled them to give up the pursuit.

“Just what I expected!” exclaimed Kingman, in despair. “We may now as
well yield up, and go home.”

The ranger touched him on the shoulder, and pointed ahead.

“What does that mean?”

The glimmer of a camp-fire was discernible through the trees. That it
was the camp-fire of those whom they were searching for, there could not
be a moment’s doubt.

“All now depends upon keeping cool,” said the ranger. “We will steal up
until we get a good view. You may take the Indian and I will take the
renegade.”

Side by side the two crawled cautiously forward. The Indian was
preparing supper, while Pete Johnson was lying upon the ground, smoking
a pipe. Irene sat on a fallen tree, her wrists bound together, and her
head bowed as though she was giving away to her great woe.

Abe Moffat looked at Kingman, and whispered so that he was just able to
hear him.

“Take your man, and be sure that you don’t miss, or he may not miss me.”

“All right; I will take the savage. Never fear for me.”

Simultaneously the rifles came to their shoulders, and pointed like the
finger of fate toward the doomed ones. Simultaneously their sharp crack
broke upon the stillness, and at the same instant the two victims fell
forward upon their faces, dead.

Irene Stuart was still gazing in wonder for the explanation of this,
when her lover came rushing toward her, and the next moment she was
enfolded in his arms.

Abe Moffat scratched his head until they were through, and then
suggested that they take the back trail. This they did until they were
far removed from the dead bodies, when, as all three were thoroughly
exhausted, they halted for the night.

Bright and early, after a refreshing breakfast, the homeward journey was
resumed, and just as night set in they came in sight of the settlement.
As they looked toward it Kingman said:

“As we are now safely back again, and our marriage has been postponed
several times, don’t you think it is about time it was consummated?”

“You need wait no longer, dearest,” said she, leaning on his arm; “you
have been very good to submit to my whims thus far.”

                             * * * * * * *

It was a genuine old-fashioned wedding, such as our grandmothers tell
about. Fiddling, and dancing, and mirth, and cider, and apples, and
jollification were the distinguishing features. All went as merry as a
goodly number of marriage bells, and it was not until the “wee small
hours ayant the twal” that the parties separated and went to their
homes.

The death of Johnson the renegade, was a relief to all the settlements.
His influence, beyond all question, had incited most of the massacres,
and now that he was gone, there was some hope felt that peace might be
reasonably looked for.

But peace did not come until 1794, about a dozen years later, when the
incomparable Anthony Wayne—“Mad Anthony”—gathered his invincibles
together, and scattered the combined forces of the aggressive tribes as
the autumn leaves are scattered before the tornado. A long, lasting
peace then came, unbroken until the mighty Tecumseh arose, and led his
warriors to battle. But his history belongs not to us. Our work is done,
and we now bid our kind readers an affectionate adieu.



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                          Transcriber’s Notes


—Silently corrected a few typos.

—Retained publication information from the printed edition: this eBook
  is public-domain in the country of publication.

—In the text versions only, text in italics is delimited by
  _underscores_.

—Created a Table of Contents based on the chapter headings; generated
  {headings} for two uncaptioned chapters.





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