Beadle's New York Dime Library (no. 86) (1880 01 28)
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| 0 A COPYRIGHTED IN 1880,8Y BEADLE & ADAMS. ENTERED AT THE Post OFFICE AT NEW Yors, N. Y., aS SECOND CLASS MATTER, 98 WILLIAM STREET, N. Y., January 28, 1880. $2.50 a Year. V 0] V I Published Every Geadle ¢ Adams, Publishers, Ten Cents a Copy. ‘ ‘ Two Weeks, TH BG HONTER; °F; Fhe qecon. ef the BY THE AUTHOR OF “THE SILENT HUNTER.” THE TALL HUNTER LEVELED HIS GUN, WHEN SUDDENLY. JUST AS HE WAS ABOUT TO PULL THE TRIGGER, THE BEING CAME WITHIN THE CIRCLE OF LIGHT, AND HE SAW THAT IT WAS AN INDIAN—AND A GIRL,
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~~. 2 The Big THE BIG HUNTER; THE QUEEN OF THE WOODS. BY THE AUTHOR OF “THE SILENT HUNTER.” CHAPTER IL THE WOODED PRAIRIE. Ir is night upon the prairies; , night over a plain which, since the universe came forth from the hands of its Creator, had never been visited by civilized man. Ages ago a tribe, of which we now know nothing, dwelt, it is believed within the limits of the Ohio an the blue hills of the Cumberland; but they have passed away, and nothing remains to tell the story of their existence, but here and there a mound, and here and there & fragment or so of a peculiar pot- ay unknown to the red-skin. We are within the region called Kan-tuck-kee, or the Dark and Bloody Ground : for ages the hunt- ing-plains and battle-fields of Shaw- neés, Chickasaws, and other In- dians, though never their dwelling- place. Strange! for fairer country never blessed the eyes of. the hopeful emigrant. Lofty mountains, beau- tifal valleys, clear streams, rich land ha by a bright blue sky, enveluped in verdant. forests full of game—what more could be desired? There were to be found the necessities and luxuries of life—the buffalo, the wild turkey droves of deer, sweet waters, and the coffee tree (like a black oak,) and the pawpaw tree with its cu- cumber-like fruit, and the black hase tree; to say er of an endless variety of beautiful flowers. Ani yet this paradise—waterad by many rivers—had not a dwell- ing, save one, within all its pre- cincts; though the eyes of the adventurous white man are upon it, and the glorious but terrible days of Boone, and Harrod, and ogee, are coming on with swift and rapid strides. It is night. The sun has gone down upon the distant Ohio in lurid splendor, the stars haye not yet peeped forth from the dark ea- nopy of clouds, the moon will not rise for hours; but still enough light is left in the air to distin- guish objects at no great distance. What is yon dark line in mo- tion? What moving shadows are those? One would think it a stream of phantom warriors from the happy hunting-grounds—so silently, so ghostlike, do they ad- vance, except that now and then they tread on some dry t , and give forth acrackling soun They are no phantom warriors ! They are Indians on the war-trail] They cross an dpen clearing of a very peculiar character. It is perfectly circular, and surrounded on all sides by pine trees. It has little or no vegetation, except a short grass mixed with Shawnee salad; but being near a salt lick, it is much frequented by deer. The Indians eross the clears. kd one of those beaten paths whic are made by the buffalo in their visits to their favorite pasture- grounds, and thus leave no trail. It is a noble group of men, Naked, all but the waist-cloth, their bodies are painted with every device that can inspire terror in the minds of their enemies; but their weapons are bows and arrows and tomahawks. They have no fire-arms, though perfectly aware of their use. . They are twelve in number; and from the extreme caution which they use, are evidently returning from a scouting party. They are probably now on their way to re- port progress, previous to carrying e devastating torch of war into some unsuspecting village of red- skins. : Soon the clearing is crossed. The first man, then the second, disappears under the leafy arches of the forest until even the faint- / est sound fails to Indicate their apa aidan gain the clearing is empty; and not a sound can be heard but the sough of the waving trees, or the ery of the sand-hill crane. An hour sed; and then two men emerged from the forest, lead- ing a horse. ese were whites, who, evi- dently, were on a new track, from the curious way they peered about over the clearing, which seemed to get darker and darker. The loom, indeed, was so great that hey could scarcely see one an- other. “This. will do fust rate,’ said the shorter of the two men; ‘‘and my idear is to begin onset. We’ve been rather short of game these last few days, and this child con- venes to feeding.”’ “*God never made another coun- try half so beautiful as this,’’ re- plied the other, in a solemn tone, as if communing with himself; “and here will I take up my abode. But you say true, Stewart. Light up and mount; 1 dare say we may get a bit of meat to- night.’ tewart, while the other—a tall, spare man—leaned on his rifle, was engaged in a rather singular occu- pation. He took from the horse’s back a kind of flat iron dish, in which he placed a number of pine knots aid cones, which he then proceeded to illumine by means of a flint and steel. The materials, being dry, soon rose to a flame; and with ‘this utensil in his hand the hunter mounted the horse, and walked slowly out into the black a ée tall man, qacking his rifie, followed slowly; keeping his eye fixed on the ground in front of the fire, where every moment he eepanied, to see the eyes of a deer. Wild animals on the prairie, in- stead of being alarmed at the sight of such an advancing flame, come pha sai up to it, from sheer curi- osity. But on this occasion—whether from scarcity or shyness of = —they were disappointed for a considerable time and began to fear that nothing would turn up ; when a low hist from the tall hunter caused the horseman to check his steed and stand stock still. Just in front of the fire-pan could be seen two small shining eyes gazing fixedly at the strange so OR he tall hunter leveled his gun, when suddenly, just as he was about to pull the trigger, his ex- périenced and keen sense of wood- craft told him that the eyes were on too high a level. At the same instant, the be before them came within the circle of light, and they saw that it was an Indi —and a girl. Stewart dropped the pan of burning coals to the ground, and set off at a gallop, as if a whole tribe of Shawnees had been behind him shouting their hideous war- cry. The other stood still, gazing fixedly at the still stationary form; which, as the grass flared up in a blaze, he saw was that of both a young and beautiful girl. He saw her, however, only for a moment; and when the fire went out, and the moonshone out upon the plain, he was alone. Daniel Bocne—though he hed as yet most of his great adventures with Inaians to go through—war too perfect a master of woodcraft not to look at once after his per- sonal safety. Not doubting that the Indians would be after him in a moment, he made rapid tracks for the forest, bresrg, a hasty lance every now and then as he fia so over his shoulder. Over hill, over dale, through brook and brier wherever man’s foot can Hunter, tread, they will go; and neither hunger nor thirst, nor time, is taken in account when they have an object in view. Now, Daniel Boone had never been in this region before. Stewart had, and his desertion with the horse placed the brave hunter ina most painfully awkward por ‘ion. He had neither moon nor stars to cute him—not even the wind; so hat did he attempt to go any dis- tance during the night, he might simply walk into the ndian camp. aving, as far as he could judge, advanced about a mile in the diree- tion taken by his companion, Daniel found himself on the edge of a ravine, so choked with trees as to be all but impassable, It was a strange place for a man to venture into, being likely to be infested with bears and snakes; but the hunter hesitated not. Stooping down, he began crawling on his hands and knees, under the bushes, down a steep descent, un- til at last he fotnd himself in a kind of hole, so dark that he could not even see his own hand. Here the undaunted man re- solved to remain until dawn of day, when he would put in practice some of the devices by which even Indians, however cunning and wary, may be thrown off the scent. CHAPTER II. ‘ A RUN FOR LIFE THE ae of birds, and a gradual descent of light into his den, which was really a hole overgrown by bushes, awoke Boone to a sense ot his pos*’.ion. He might well start, as the gray dawn showed him a number of bones scattcred about, indicative of the fact that he was in the lair of a panther. But the lion-hearted hunter cared little for that. It was his human enemies he feared. Crawling upward, he collected a few berries as he went; and with these, satisfied the cravings of hunger. He was soon on the plain again, a kind of open prairie, inter- spersed with trees and bushes, To cross this prairie and leave no trail that an Indian would discover, was impossible; and yet cross ft he must. Casting his long rifle into the hollow of his arm, and look- ing carefully about, lest he might fall into an ambuscade, he began paieanen forward, using, as much as possible, the gait v= em Indian. hose who know Daniel Boone, by the teary taken of him when he became ahero, and which represent him as mere skin and bone, would searcely have believed it could be the same person. Tall —he was over six feet—admirably built, but spare, with a noble fore- head, and a clear gray eye, he was the model of a border-man. His skin, tanned by exposure, was, however, spread over sufficient flesh to make him handsome; while a dogskin cap, set jauntily on his head, a shooting jacket of untanned deer-hide, that had onl at intervals of half-an-hour been o his back for menths, leather breeches and leg; ings, ve him the appearance of what he really was—a mighty hunter. His eye, however, spoke more than any thing else the true char- acter of the man. It was clear, bright, and keen. Nota tree, not a bush, escaped his notice, Nota sign of the forest was lost upon him. Every now and then, too, he took a careful glance in his rear. Bright and glorious was the sun, the — was spangled w‘th dew, the birds began to sing in glorious harmony ; and the adven rer who had an eye for the beau- tiful in nature, felt his great_heart dilate within him. No man ever more sincerely worshiped the native beauties of forest and field than Daniel Boone. His passion was. hunting, but it was as much because he loved the mn glade, the soft prairie, and Tee Boat river, as from the ex- citement ef killing. His delight was to go apart—to live away from his fellow-men—to follow the bear to fts den—the panther to its lair —the deer to its form; and live wholly on the product of the chase. Years he did this at a time, even giving up the society of wife and children for the sake of his intense loye for a wandering life amid the plains and forests of the middle ground. He halts! A muddy patch is be- fore him. He is suffering from in- tense thirst, which the rum-flask ~ will not quench. He stoops, re~ moves some of the fallen leaves,, and in an instant is drinking from a bubbling spring that spreads. across the plain, and makes a kind: of pants But why does he re- main still upon his knees, listening and peering under the low boughs. of the trees ? Not asound breaks the stillness of the forest, save where some squirrels are gamboling in a tree overhead, and wondering at the nature of the intruder, who is there below them on the ground. But the ear of a man close to the earth is supernaturally keen; and Daniel Boone had heard footsteps, the sound of many, too, as they came on with a dull tramp upon the soft grass. The hunter knew: they were upon Lis trail. What was to be done? To fight was out of the question. He migat kill one or two; but in case of capture, this were better avoided, as it would insure his own torture and death. Flight was his only hope, and flight combined with such Indian arts as might defeat his enemies. But the tran he had .eft was not so marked as to account for the rapid way in which the Indians were coming up. Boone was quite at fault, when suddenly catching sight of the party, the myste was explained. A dog—one o those cunning, foxy, wiry animals, which infest Indian villages—was. running along about twenty yards ahead of them; while, on a small white pony, guiding the canine animal, was the vision of the night . before. ii It was an Indian girl, about six- © teen years of age, with a fanciful dress of tanned leather, beads and feathers. She was unarmed, but behind her came the naked, painted savages, clutching their toma- hawks, and with their bows strung ready for action. me was a great runner; he had tried his speed with many a red-skin, and never had been defeated. But he wads now faint from want of food, and if something were not done to check the Indians, they would surely come up with him. Quick as thought, he leveled his long and unerring rifle, and next instant the dog rolled at the feet of its mistress. At the same mo- ment every Indian disappeared, as if by magic; and Boone, regardless of the scene which ensued—the girl leaping off her horse to catch up her pet—darted away. At all events, now the Indians would have to watch for his trail. To hide it at present was indeed useless; so sli his gun on his back, he took is heels away through the forest, over the open spaces, up hills and down slopes, at a pace which was ee A terrific war-whoop let him know that the red-skins were again op his track, and coming up apace. But he neyer turned. His rest ‘less eye was ever on the look-out for the opportunity to play the Indians some trick, which might throw them off the scent. C) soon occurred. Before him was & swift and narrow stream, which he coud not have forded. But it was bordered by tall, stout trees, from which depended to the very ground heavy grape vines, of which he well knew the strength. Clutching one, and assuring him- self that it would bear his weight, he drew back for a run, and then, making a fearful rush, swung him- self off the ground, and in some such way as a pendulum acts was swept across to the other side, landing on the rocky bank, above where any marks on the clay —_ have betrayed him. Many a C)
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—— and >ft after that day did Daniel Boone try the same experiment, and invariably with success. Here, however, he had no time for reflection. Searcely had he darted up a stony hillside, and east himself behind a bush, when the infuriated Indians appeared on the other side, completely at fault. The trail ended at some little dis- tance from the stream, while no- where was there a trace of any place where the fugitive could have crossed. It was, indeed, a puzzling affair. But the Shawnees were not to be set at fault in this way. In an- other moment, after a rapid and hasty conference, they scattered themselves along the banks, some up, some down-stream, until only one warrior remained. This man was a youthful brave, perhaps about two-and-twenty. e was perfectly made, his naked body showing an amount of muscle somewhat unusual in an Indian. His forehead was lofty, his black eyes gleamed with a terrible fire, while his mouth exhibited firm- ness, decision, and even vindictive- ness. His hair was black, while his face was painted so as almost to disguise his features. He alone had a gun—one of those fusils soki to the red-skins by the traders. This he held in hishand, while, with his Keen and restless eyes, he examined every bush, blade of grass, and stone. All the time he jealously watched the op- eg bank. Going a little way k from the stream, he ex- amined, with extreme caution, the last sign of a trail. Suddenly he gave alow cry, as if he had been itten bya snake, at the sare time loosening his tomahawk. His + eye had seen where the thic pe-vine had been nearly torn from the tree, and for an instant he believed that the hated long-knife was concealed in its branches. Then, quick as light- ning, he fell on his face. He had seen the gleam of the terrible rifle- barrel as it slowly rose over the rocks. In another instant Telonga —such was name—was con- cealed behind a tree. CHAPTER III. HAND-TO-HAND. For an instant these warriors, one white and the other red, re- mained quite still; but there rose in the air the cawing of a crow, which was speedily answered from a distance. But Boone was not to be deceived. A scornful smile swept across his countenance as, crawling a yard or two down the slope behind him, he once more rose to his feet, and began to run for dear life. “‘Red-skin dogs! do you think to trick a white man thus? You may run me down, but never take me by cunning!” The sun was now hot in the ex- treme, and the fugitive began to feel sorely distressed. The coun- try he was now sing Over was arid and dry, and his moccasins began to give out. What could be ‘done, then, should his enemies come up, but fight? He clutched his rifle nervously, he felt for his long knife, he glanced downward to see that his shot-pouch and wder-horn were safe, and then urned back. Some of the Indians were in aight ; at all events, two of them, who were coming up quickly. To nis utter astonis ent, they were armed with fusils. ey, then. must be some fresh ones who had ree the pursuit. What, then, he todo? They must soon run him down. Still he will not give in, but makes another spurt, darts into a thicket, and leaps behind the thick branch of a tree. The two Indians were about a hundred feet apart, and coming up m different directions. 8 t an idea in Boone’s head. He k measure with his keen eye of — the distance, and when they were about a hundred feet off, sudden! showed himself to the one to right, and leveled his gun. At the sight of the much dread- ed American rifle, the savage stop- ed still, and hurriedly fired. aken thus by surprise, his aim was unsteady, and he hit the tree. Quick as lightning, Boone wheeled to the other side, and pron, calm and steady glance over his long rifle, fired. The Shawnee leaped into the air, and fell. pros- trate on his face to all appearance dead. The other stood irresolute, as if unable to decide on a course of action. For a moment he appear- ed about to load his gun, but the long-knife was too much for him. With a terrible length of stride, which indicated his native —per- sonal strength, Boone was upon him, and next instant red-skin and white man were in hand-to-hand conflict. _The Indian carried a heavy tomahawk, which he wield- ed with extreme dexterity, while Boone had only a long knife; so that it was with great difficulty he was enabled to parry the rapid strokes of the Indian. In ordinary cireumstances the white man would have retreated to where his gun lay, and have used it in away in which the west- ern 1.5 is almost equally to be dreaded as in its natural use. He would have clubbed it and brained the Indian. But there was no time to be lost. The hunter knew that the others were coming up; that desolation, death, or, at least, captivity were in his rear; so receiving a sudden blow of the red-skin in his hand, he pulled tte Indian with a sudden jerk toward him, and psssed his nife with a fearful blow through his heart. The Indian slowly un- loosed his hands, but stood upright for a moment, as if turned into a statue. He then looked fixedly at the white man. It was a long time ere he forgot that war-ior’s look. It was a mingling of defi- ance and admiration, without one atom of fear. The hunter felt a shudder pass through his own frame as the other fell back, with a half smile upon his lip ead | Boone drew forth the knife which had gone to the other’s heart with a deep sigh. It was the first time he had knowingly shed human blood. Remembering that the others could not be far distant, he search- ed the pouches of the Indians for parched maize and jerked meat, the only food taken on the war- trail, and having done this, broke the fusil off at the stock, and then fled. He had not gone a hundred yards, he had scarcely buried him- self in the dense gloom of a thick wood, when he heard a loud and terrible ery, torn from the Indians by the sight of their unfortunate companions. Now he knew that the battle was indeed for life, without a hope of mercy if taken. Boone was at this moment near Green River Plains, which he wished to cross at a point which might enable him to reach a spot where, at all events, he 8 make one last stand against fierce and relentless foes. ; But his great object was to blind his foes as to the direction he had taken. For a time this was not only difficult but manifestly im- ible. There was nothing, erefore, but to run for it, keep- ing his eyes before him, and select- ing, with marvelous ingenuity, such places on which to leap as left the very least indication of the vressure of a foot. ly this way the forest was cross- ed and another ype reached, this time of considerable exten with here and there a bottom o timber and then a swamp or rice lake. Toward one of these Boone now made his way at the top of his speed. It was about a quarter of a mile in circumference, and could he but cross this, he would, at all events, put them off the scent for a while. Selecting a spot where the bank was higher than in other plac the fugitive made one bound, an leaped many yards out into the swamp. Down, down he sun his feet being at once in thick an The Big Hunter. slimy mud. Sut hesitation was death, amd, with a hasty flounder, the intrepid man moved on nearly up to his arm-pits, until he reach- ed a waving field of rice, where the foundation was more solid, and he halted to breathe and restore himself by food and drink. While swallowing his jerked beef and maize, he cast uneas lances back upon the water-trail. here he had forced himself along, the mud had risen to the surface, while bubbles came up every instant from the depths be- low, telltales that no ingenuity of his could overcome. It was, how- ever, gradually settling down, a soft wind was blowing the swampy lake into ripples, and should the Indians tarry but ten minutes more the chances are he may be saved. But there they came, twenty painted warriors bounding across the plain in defiance of all rule; for have they not their comrade to avenge, and is not the pale-face alone? Soon they reached the swamp, an “ran round it in circles, with frantic gestures. But nowhere can they make out which way he has gone. It is now afternoon. The chase has been weary and long. The In- dians are evidently mad with rage. But soon their more stoical nature returns to them. At a cry from their chief, whose character and history will be more fully develop- ed as we advance, they collected round him. A brief conference took place, after which the trail of the white man was once more carefully examined. It did not take long to decide their course of action. é Without the slightest warning a flight of arrows was discharged at every clump of rice stalks which by any possibility could have con- cealed the hunter. As chance, or perhaps good luck, would have it, one struck the dogskin cap of the cool and collected pioneer of civil- ization and discovery, and there remain fixed. But he moved not a muscle. Even a shake of the head would have betrayed him. But there was the feathery part in the air, quiet and firm, as if im- bedded in a floating log, and the — turned away, as if satis- ed. But Boone was not to be caught this way. When the very last man disappeared over the bank he mov- ed not amuscle. He knew that twenty pair of eyes were still peer- ing over the waters of the swamp, and that any attempt to move would be fatal. So there he re- mained, nearly up to his neck in water, his gun resting on a few floating boughs, and himself stiff and motionless until the sun went down over the western hills, and darkness was on the face of all na- ture. To remain any longer in this at- titude was out of the question, so he moved slowly along through the rice until he found the wakes shoaling. This was awkward, as, if the Indians were still upon the look-out, the appearance of his tall form outlined against the evening sky, would be sure to bring not on- ly a dozen shots, but also send the warriors to cut off his retreat. What was to be done ? He was surrounded by rice, while he himself was in pf water, which continued very nearly to the shore. A number o ima Yo and trunks of trees were 1 about the debris of the woods which, in several places, sur- rounded the lake. Looking keenly about, the wily white man cast a small piece of. wood into the wa- ter, which, after the ripples which followed its immersion settled down, at once floated toward the shore between two straight lines of rice stalks. , then, was the outlet. No sooner was this discovery made, than Boone drew from out of the rice enovgh wood to make a small raft big enough to support a small upright stump on which he placed his cap with the arrow still stick- ing in it. It was so arranged as tobe clearly visible above the rice, _ and this once settled, Boone push- | up to 3 ed it forward In such a way that it admirablyrepresented a man creep- ing toward the shore. he keen ear of the hunter eaught the faint accents of a low murmur along the shore, and then he saw the whole body of savar”. creeping low to cut off his retreat. Not an instant was to be lost. Taking a long breath, he entered the deep water, and half wading, half swimming, at length reached the shore just as aloud yell pro- claimed that the Indians had dis- covered this cunning and success- ful device to circumvent them. CHAPTER IV. THE BLOCK - HOUSE. Earty next morning —trans- tee, ourselves to some little istance from the rice swamp—we find ourselves upon another plain, which, without having many claims to beauty, has other advantages in connection with it. It is richly fertile, though now overgrown with weeds, reeds, rank grass, with here and there a pecan-bush, a coffee-tree, ora dwarf mulberry; but which, ere many years shall have passed, will have a splendid city in its eastern confines and waving corn-tieide all around. Now there 1s but oné sou.ltary sign of human life, and that is a block-house. It is asingle square log-hous built of huge unhewn trunks, an raised four feet from the ground by means of piles driven deeply into the earth. It has a hu puncheon door, swinging on sub- stantial wooden hinges, and shut- ting with a wooden latch, It has a second story like a half-roofed terrace. It has no windows, as a few chinks admit sufficient light. About twenty yards from the building grazes a horse, while on the steps of the log-hut—these steps being simply a sloping lad- der, with wide cross-beams—sits aman. He is dressed in frontier garb, and his attitude is deeply contemplative. He is smoking a pipe, aud leaning on a rifle, © anybody who has seen that dress he is at once recognizable. It is true prairie. There is an old leathern hunting-shirt, much the worse for wear and dirt, there are leggings and moccasins equally atched, wrinkled and worn, There sa dirty, negro-looking hat—but there is a first-rate shooting-iron or rifle, which has done some ser- vice in its day. Every now and then the smoker, without raising his head, sends forth huge puffs of smoke, as if he were thinking profoundly. Per- haps he is thinking of his panic- stricken desertion of Daniel Boon for those are the clothes, and tha’ is the splendid rifle, of the wan- derin trapper and trader who fled from the hawnee girl. Weary, faint, exhausted, but by his clever trick, and by wadin subsequently against the curren of a mountain stream, having thrown the Indians off the scent, onder comes Boone. He is glid- ng, we might almost say totter- ing, through asmall thicket of cot- ton trees. None of his caution has departed. Never during the two years that he had lived almost alone on Boonesyille prairie, had he ap- proached the log-hut, which he and five others—who afterward t tired and returned to North lina from whence they all came—had erected, without the most extreme caution. Though the situation was in such a curve near a stream as to be out of the way both of hunters and warriors, still, at any time, a oy, red-skin might discover his resi ence, and lay in an ambush to obtain the su posed riches within, as well as rifle, that would be a prize to an Indian. His keen eye would fix itself up- onevery point of the plain, he would examine the still log-hut. doe een ena He would peer into the long grass which A ar! in some places close é block-house, and never
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b approached except In a circuitous manner. On the present occasion he was urgsually cautious. There were Indians about, and in their prowl- ings they might at last have dis- overed his residence. As soon as he .. ne to the verge of the cotton- wood, which was one hundred yards from the block, he took a survey of the whole scene. He saw the house still and calm, he saw the horse grazing to the right, he saw the well-known eap, pipe, and rifle of Stewart. But why this strange stillness ? It seemed to him that there was something unnatural in the air. A sense of coming evil oppressed him, and he forbore to give the welcome shout with which at last he generally approached his own dwelling. He even slunk behind some trees, and approached crawl- ing. No sooner was he on his knees than his marvelous organ of sight, which was mainly the cause of hismany wonderful shots, enabled him to see, despite the im- pediments which lay between, four naked savages seated at the foot of a hillock, where they were screened from view at the block, smoking quietly, with their bows and arrows at, thei~ feet. They were in ambuscade. But why had they spared Stew- art? unless, indeed, they wished to entrap both. This was a plaus- ible and probably correct surmise, so Boone continued crawling on with that calm serenity of man- ner, which bespeaks the practiced hunter of the prairies. The In- dians are now two hundred feet te his left, while he is fifty feet from the block. It will be safe to run for it now. Both he and Stewart will gain the inside of the block, and by meang of the loop-holes on the seconde floor, defend it as long as powder and food last. But why does Daniel Boone glare so horridly in the direction of the block ? why does he cock his rifle! why does he take careful aim at the heart of that white hunter} why does he shoot, and then rush with a wild cry to the log-hut, spurn the dying wretch with his foot, snatch up his rifle and pow- der-horn, and dash inside the hut, closing fast and barricading the door behind ? They are the clothes of poor John Stewart, who only fled ina temporary panic, but they are worn by a cunning Indian warrior. Yonder vultures soaring in the air proclaim where lies the body of the trapper. Boone caught up a demijolin of rum, Which still remained from the stores designed for the town which he and his pioneers intended erect- ing there, and swallowed a good draught. Het was now alone. His companion, against whom he had momentarily felt so much an- ger, was murdered, and what could he expect, surrounded as he was by raging red-skins who thirsted for his blood ? But he was resolved to die game. He had powder and ball, some maize, some salt, and dried meat, and he had water. ‘The ingenuity of the Lunter, had above all been shown in this particular. He had planted his hut in the center, not exactly of a swamp, but where for a hundred feet around the land was wet and soggy, from the out- ourings of aspring over which he ad erected his residence. The block rested on six stout iles, one of which was hollow, and urnished with arude pumping ap- paratus which he had himself exe- cuted with much labor and ingenu- ity. Thus prepared, he knew that many indeed must bite the dust are they could hope to defeat him. For some time nothing could be heard but the ene of the dyin Indian, mingled with the song o birds, that caroled in the heavens as if man, that is made in the im- age of his Maker, were not arrayed against man in bloody and mortal conflict. Then Boone peered forth from a erack in the hut, and saw one In- dian crawling along the ground, in the direction of the body. The | “ The Big Hunter. ~ hunter knew that he came. to car- ry off his companion, and thus save his scalp, and as this was a sacred duty he made no attempt to prevent him. he Shawnee suddenly caught up the now dead Indian, and, with a frightened glance at the block- house, started off as fast as his legs could carry him. In five minutes more not.a sign of the enemy was anywhere to be seen. This was, of course, Indian policy, as was also the absolute freedom from at- tack which he enjoyed that day. Daniel Boone had two rifles, an old musket, and a brace of horse- pistols, which might proye useful ina close attack. Placing these to his hand, and putting his trust in Heave:, he laid himself down at nightfall, and enjoyed the first sound sleep which had been vouch- safed to him for some days. He awoke a little before daylight, and was at once aware that some one was at work at his door. Something like a chisel was be- ing slowly, and with extreme cau- tion, worked just under the latch. Holding his breath, he rose, peer- ed through the narrow apertures between “he logs—which were wider inside than out, where they were scarcely visible—and fired both pistols ; then up to the roof he ran, and fired both guns aftei the fugitives, some ten in number who, once more repulsed, attacked him no more that day. Indeed from that hour their tac- tics changed. They had discover- ed what a terrible master of the rifle dwelt in that lonely block- house, and they felt no inclination to confront its terrors any more. Théy resolved, ‘then, to starve him out. That hut could not contain much food, certainly little water; so thet they had but to blockade him, and the victory was their own. Once repulsed in an attack, this is in general the tactics of the In- dian. For seventeen days, from the ris- ing to the setting of the sun, and from the, hour when darkness falls upon the scene until again the tree- tops are tipped with gold, did they watch like song wolves for their prey—in vain. He seemed never to sleep. The pqueres attempt to attack was repelled, and several warriors bit the dust. The young men began to get weary, and to ask themselves if this was, indeed, a man who lived without water. Even to their acute andable chief this was a mys- tery. He must, however, discover by what means the long-knife sup- plied himself, and for this purpose three youths were posted at day- break in the tall grass close to the hut, to watch. They were nearly naked, and clutched their bows and arrows, while on their hands and knees they watched the hut. Meanwhile his provisions giving out, the water, as the beat increas- ed, coming up dirty and in small quantities, the heroic trapper be- an to feel his sinewy frame affee- ed, his nrind to be discouraged, and his very soul to long for a scam- per on the prairies, or a hunt in the woods. Many times he regret- ted that he had not, tried to reach the horse and thus escape. But repinings are useless, What is to be done? All day sheltered by his slanting roof, he peers out upon the plain, in the vain hope thaf the savage red-skins will wea- ry «4 their siege. But no—the longer it lasts the more inveterate they become. He must act. Shall he trast to hisheels? No; thatis impossible. He will be remorseless, he will pick off every red-skin within range. But he will now go down and breakfast; he has merely come up to take his usual survey. But wey does he halt ? why does he at- tach an old cravat to the top of his rifle, and wave it in the air? why does he rouse the echoes of the forest with his joyous cries ? Hurrah ! brave hunter—y@u shall not perish this time, succor is at hand, ® ~-_-~-—_—-_— CHAPTER V RESCUE. Tur Indians had bounded to their feet and fled as soon as they heard his shouts. Two of their number, however, fell before they reached the forest: half-a-dozen eracks of the old American rifle roclaiming the nature of the force which was at hand. In ten minutes more, Daniel Boone was shaking hands with his elder brother, Harrod, Logan, and two other white men well-known to him, while another was being in- troduced to him. This was a youth of about twen- ty. He was tall, exceedingly hand- some, with massive and regular features, brown hair and eyes, and skin which, once fair, or, rather, pale, was bronzed by exposure to the air. He, like all his com- nions, was mounted on a broad- chested and strong-limbed horse. He was introduced to Daniel oone as Edward, or, as the hun- ters called him, Ned Har ‘s. He was out on his first hunt, and if his jaunty apparel, his new jerkin, showy high boots and smart ca with eagle-feather in the front; i his handsome rifle from England, and other appointments, had once excited a smile on the part of the rude pioneers of the American prairie, his calm demeanor, his splendid style of shooting, and the coolness with which he had deliv- ered his first fire, had long since won their admiration and respect. Those who, like the sportsmen of the present day, reach the ut- termost limits of western civiliza: tion by means of railways, and hunting for a week, return with strange stories of perils in the wilds, can form no conception of what those heroes suffered, who, leaving the settlements, wandered through pathless forests, crossed raging rivers, and hiding from the Indians for days e.nd weeks in some solitary cache, endured the extreme tortures of both hunger and thirst. But their energy was indomita- ble. Never weary, never conquer- ed, they advanced still on toward the setting sun, laying first the foundations of home and then of empire. Kdward—or, as we shall call him, Ned Harris—was one of these. Educated with a view to a profes- sion, he had suddenly left the sea- board cities, and plunged into the border villages, where he had de- voted himself to such sports as ee him practice with the rifle. aving, by means of a keen eye and a steady hand, acquired con- siderable excellence, he had volun- teered to join the second party of explorers to Kentucky, who went to search for a new home, and also with a faint hope of finding Boone, who had been absent two years and seven months. Breakfast was brought out, the horses were hoppled, and then, while knives ware used with ener- gy only knowr to the hunter, they all listened to the story of the solitary man who, alone in his ng defended himself for seventeen days against some twen- ty painted savages. Ww heard his narrative with ad- miration, for though told with ex. ceeding modesty, it was impossible for the narrator to hide the part he had played. & His story once told, a council was held. Daniel Boone at once announced his intention of livin and dying in the newly-discovere land, All acquiesced except Harris, who made no remark. But before they ventured on bringing up their wives and little ones, it was neces- sary to explore the country, select habitations, and as much as pos- sible clear it of Indians. These men—and their descendants are little better—set no more value on the life of an Indian than on that of a dog. It was resolved, after some de- bate, at all events to follow up the track of the retreating Shawnees and discover whether they ha really left and crossed the river to their homes, or whether they had simply gone off for reinforcements, with which to return and extermi- nate the pale-faces who had dared to invade the hereditary hunting- grounds of the great Indian peo- le. . Butsafely to outlie in the woods, with an Indian force in their front, and the forest alive, perhaps, with red-skins, required an amount of eaution, skill, and courage almost superhuman. Still these men were not to be turned from their pur- pose. And this is the way they set about it. Near to the spot where the two forks of Kentuck river met, and about a mile from the block-house, was @ kind of delta, formed bya sluggish bayou, which ran from fork to fork. Here the horses were driven, with little fear of their straying, as the pasturage was good. At all events, there was no help for them. They could not think of following the back trail of the Indians ex- cept on foot, as the forests would ve full of scouts, and the trail of horses it was impossible to con- ceal, This having been effected in as verfect and satisfactorv a manner as possible, the men proceeded to draw lots as to those who should go together. It was resolved that small parties were safest. There, of course, would be one man alone, but none shrunk from danger of any kind. ome pieces of wood were cut in lengths, two being similar, and those who drew them were to together. The lots were tc, drawn, and then it turned out, while Harrod was to go alone, Daniel Boone and Ned Harris wera to go together. First, however they would select a starting-point and then separate, while signals and meeting-places were all agreed on. If nothing rendered a meeting necessary before, they were all to be that day week at a place called now Knob Lick Warrens. All were ready, and Daniel Boone led the way. He had a purpose in this, for he wished his companions to have as much enthusiasm as he had with regard to this lovely country. Taking his way at the back of his log-hut, he led them after a time up asteep ascent on the very borders of the great forest wilderness, When America has her historical cartoons — cartoons representin better things than battles—they will surely paint this scene, where seven stalwart hunters are winding their way up a steep ascent. They all have hunting-shirts or loose open frocks of dressed deerskin save one. They have leggings and drawers, they have coarse under- arments of cotton, they have eather belts around the body, they have hunting-knives, powder horrs, and bullet-pouches, while, of course, they have rifles. Their garments are soiled and torn, for they have forced their way by an obscure trail, through shrubs and over logs. They are what some would call poor and mean-looking people; but they are nature’s true heroes—men who deserve the lasting esteem and re- gard of that Sosts joys 80 easily what they so hardly won. Daniel Boone, who was still ehead, suddenly stopped, and waved his hand. His companions rushed forward at the signal, and there before them, like a map, was spread the rich and beautiful land watered by the beautiful Kentuck with its rolling prairies and vast forests, over which roamed the buffalo, the deer, and other forest animals, scarcely as yet percept- ibly thinned even by the maraud- ing Indians of whom they were in search. All these men drew along breath as oe gazed at the lovely pros- e@ c “Ts it not a country,” said Boone, as he leaned upon his rifle, ‘is it not a country for which a man might fight i “ Hurrah !”’ shouted the hunters. “Then,” said Boone, pointing to a narrow and deep gorge, where alarge tree had fallen almost hid rity which en- .
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by a dense thicket, “in a week, there.”’ Then all shook hands, and each party, according to his faney, chose a Desh way Boone set the example, and led Ned Harris after him, until no one remained upon the brow of the hill save Harrod, the Silent iLunter, lost in ecstasy at the scene on which he gazed, which was to be the theater of exploits, which have caused his name neyer to be forgotten. It never will while the student of border history cares to read of the terrible deeds which made the Dark and Bloody Ground so noted a spot, and while any one cares to know of the bullets, mur- ders, and heroic deeds which pre- ceded the settlement of beautiful Kentuck. CHAPTER VI. OUT IN THE Woops. Dantet Boone had noticed the proud and gratified glance of the outh’s eye when he found he was be the companion of the great pioneer of the forest. Naturally enough, the simple backwoodsman was flattered at the other’s prefer. ence, and secretly vowed that if they were thrown much together, he would endeavor to make him as good a woodman as himself. Fe had cause to keep his words, “You ain’t been much used to this work,” he said, as they came to the edge of the forest, “eh, Mr. Harris ?”’ ‘*Call me Ned, sir,” replied the other. * Well, Ned it is, if you don’t sirree me. Let it be Boone.’’ “T am not much used to this rors it is true; but I wish to e “You know little about Injines and their tricks and devilments? continued Boone, “T only know,” said the youth, with a dark and gloomy frown, “that Iloathethem. Iam tempt- ed even at times to shoot down the peaceful ones who stray to the eastern villages; though they are ep themselves fast enough with fire-water.”’ “Why, young man ?”’ “Don’t question me, Boone just now. Fou pour boiling oil upon recent wounds. But why did you ask me at first?” “Because it is but fair to warn ou of what we may have to do. his forest, may be, swarms with them, and we must carry our lives inourhands. Stop! never tread on them nettles. Look!” And the hunter, to illustrate his theory, placed his long foot on a peculiar kind of nettle which abounded in the forest, and which, when trod upon, never rises, but retains a mark as distinct as that of snow. ‘* Never,” said the hunter, stoop- ing and destroying the tell-tale plant, ‘never tread on them things while there’s Injines about. The devils will examine every inch of gronnd, and once they fall on such a mark, will never leave the scent more than a dog. Mind rew, pick out hard dry places.’’ At this moment they found that what they had fancied was the skirt of the forest was in reality merely a strip of forest trees, and that a huge cane-brake lay between ther and the vast wilderness of trees. fFor/unately, there was a buffilo-path hardly beaten, which they followed, Boone first, Harris c.ose behind, both keeping a sharp look-out for a lurkin enemy. The buffalo-path aving been zrossed, they were again in sight of the forest. Boone, as usual, before abt from any cover, razed out from the cane-brake. All was clear, and again in a few minutes they were beneath the leafy arches of the forest, where a little sparkling rill flowed down to- ward the river. “You must stride over at Ned,” said the hunter, with a quie chuckle, ‘‘so.as to leave no mark.” Ned looked astonished.. The rill, which even in the middle was not three inches deep, spread over & wide bed of gravelly soil, “Tf Is not to be done,”’ he re- plied. Boone smiled drily, and acquies- ced; but then sat down, and took off his moccasins, after which he waded through the water a little above the buffalo-path; and his companion imitating him, they were soon on the other side. On examination, they found that the flowing water had obliterated their trail. “Now, youngster,”’ said Boone in his paternal but jovial way, oe haven’t got my seven-league boots on yet. Them Injines who cooped me 1 prea haven’t taken a bit of sp out of me, but it will take a day or two to pull me up again. So I’m going to eat.” And without further preface, the hunter sat down and began to eat of the provisions which the hun- ters had brought. Ned Harris did the same, as, having for some time been used to riding, a walk through a cane-brake, preceded by a clam- ber up a hill, was not without its fatigues. About an hour later they enter- ed the wood, Daniel Boone making as much as possible in the diree- tion whence the Indians who had pursued him had come, but ad- vancing very slowly, as every bush and brier, every tree or fallen log, might prove an ambush. uddenly Boone stood still, and caught Ned Harris by the arm. “What is it?” ‘Look yonder,” replied Boone, pointing with his finger. Ned looked, and saw a clear column of smoke rising from above the trees, at no great distance, they being at the moment in a kind of ‘clearing overgrown by briers, and pecan-nut bushes. “What does it mean?” asked Harris. “Tt must be Injines,” said Boone, thoughtfully, ‘and yet it is very strange. That smoke comes from green wood. But follow, and we'll soon see.”’ areeeinn along, their backs bent low eir very breath withheld, avoiding nettles and dry sticks, the crack of which will startle In- dians at a considerable distance, they dually approached the fire. They were soon again be- neath the arches of the forest, They now knew only the direction, and might easily lose it, as under the shadow of the trees it is al- most impossible to move in a straight line. “You stand still,” said Boone “‘with your face to me. I can’t miss them as long as by turning I can see you. If I do so,” (imitat- ing the hoot of an owl), “come up. If I shoot—well, I needn’t tell you.’’ And with his rifle ready, the cautious hunter started on his way, only occasionally glancing baek toward his human finger-post. Suddenly Ned heard the hoot of the owl, and hurried off to join his companion. “Tt is an Injine camp,” he sai leaning on his gun, “but tha makes itstranger, They’ve camp- ed here all night, and made a fire of dry wood, but after they had finished, somebody had thrown on green wood; now, young man, what does that portend ?” Ned modestly replied, that he did not know. ‘** You will have much to learn, if you would wage war with this people,” said Daniel Boone, sol- emniy; “‘them dry boughs speak yolumes to me plainer than any print my old Irish schoo]master tried to teach me.” ‘“May I ask what?” replied Ned. “The Indians are hunting and amusing themselves. They halted here last night, and with their usual care made a fire of yery dry sticks, which, of course, made scarcely any sthoke. Now, after their departure, somebody has lingered behind and thrown on the green wood—of course, a pris- oner,”’ ‘A prisoner !”” “Yes; and surely a white pris- oner; for who else would try to guide us ?”” Edward Harris’ face grew dead- The Big Flunter. ly pale, as he clenched his rifle. “A white prisoner, perhaps a | woman, a delicate girl- -like—but no, my lips can not bring them- selves to pronounce the name, Let us follow.” “Softly ! softly! young man. Daniel Boone is not going to turn his back on any one in the way of helping a fellow-creature, but we must be cautious. Follow me and tread in my footsteps across this soft earth, where them ‘Injines have left a trail like a cart-wheel.”’ CHAPTER VIL. THE SMALL FOOT TRAIL. Daniet Boone led the way, his eyes apparently fixed on the round, but at the same time alive o every sign of the forest. He was intently examining the broad aad careless trail of the savages, who seemed to be in such force as to care little for any prospect of pursuit on the part of the whites, whatever little advantage they themselves might obtain from an attack. ‘*See,”” said Boone, suddenly, pointing out a mark of a footstep smaller than usual, ‘that’s a gal and if I know any thing of gals, it ain’t quite squaw-like. It turns out the toes rather too much.”’ ‘*Great Heavens!” cried Ned Harris, ‘‘a white girl, and in the peer of these remorseless say- e8 | “Hush! hush! man, or the In- jines will think I’ve got a mission- ary along with me. Such another loud speech ought to bring a dozen arrows into your skin.”’ Daniel Boone said this in a low tone, and almost severely. “T be your pardon,” half whis- ered Hearts; “but whenever I ear of white maidens carried away by these accursed red-skins, LB gh no restraint to my feel- 6,77 ‘Do you wish to help this little one ?” replied Boone, bluntly. “As Thope for mercy.” “Silence, and follow,’ said Boones, Not a word more was spoken. Boone, with an unerring correct- ness that might have served as a model to an Indian, followed the track. But the Indians were mov- ing quickly, and here and there, where buffalo-paths intervened, or where a stream invited some of their usual artifices, they lost the track; so that when it came to the time of the setting sun they were still not up with them. “Tm tired ; that’s a fact,” said Daniel; “but one night’s quiet rest will put me all to rights. We mustn’t sleep in the forest.” ““ Where then ?” “In the cane-brake,” rey lied the intrepid hunter, and into the cane-brake he led the way. It was a strange abiding-place enough, but it was safer than the forest, and very soon after ‘a heart meal, Daniel Boone, careless oF water, orany other inconvenience, indifferent to snakes, was in a deep slumber, the first genuine tleep that he had enjoyed for seyen- teen ae But Ned Harris could not sleep. Thoughts of other days, burning thoughts which consumed him to the soul, kept him restless and sleepless, while, as soon as dark night fell upon the forest and brake, there came the dismal howl of half-famished wolves to make night hideous, hey seemed quite close, and as Ned Harris co make out the direction, he determined to give them a lesson. For this reason he laid hold of his rifle, and had al- ready cocked it, when a hand re- strained him. “Are you weary of your life, young man?” said the low voice Nlmaet Boone. Sennen te 18 hun wolves,’ whisper- ed Harris. és ‘ F “Where the wolves are there is the quarry. Them roaring brutes are round the Indian camp, wait- Ing for the bones and offal.” ‘The Indian camp, so close—” 5 “Yes, young man—and it you would not be a prisoner speak be- low your breath. The night air sarries sound strangely.” “*T shonld like to crawl toward jhem,’’ said’ Harris. “Not to-night. While so near ny bilock-house they will keep yood watch. Every night their rigilance will relax. Take my ad- tice, and sleep; you may want all yourstrength for to-morrow.’ And Daniel Boone, turning round, was again in a few minutes ina deep sleep. Ned Harris, aware that the other was right, followed his example, nor did he wake un- til two hours after dawn. “The Injines are gone,” said Boone, with a dry chuckle; “see the wet smoke,” A quarter of an hour later they were in the camp, now deserted even by the wolves, which, havin pincked the bones and devoure every thing they could find, had absconded, Again, as they expectec, a hand ful of damp and green wood been east on the fire. “That captive,” said Boone, "ig oretty free, or it couldn’t be done, Vell, it’s ‘mighty strange ; 30 all we can do is to catch up.” Again they were on the trail this day being able to ‘ollow. it with greater rapidity.and certain ty, both because the hardy, robust, sinewy frame of Boone was, re- cruited, and because the Indians straggled on the path and made no secret of their march. Inthis way, about mid-day, they reached the foot of a slope, at the summit of which was a pleasant grove of trees. The slope itsels was chiefly covered with brush: wood, Which grew in places to the hight of ten feet. hrough this at times they had to make their way. Both were eager to reach the summit, as both, required a cool rest and refreshment. “A fine place, for an ambush, this,” said P-oone, casting his eyes warily rouna. At the same instant, Harris leveled his rifle, with a savage ery. “Shoot, at your peril!’ cried Boone, knocking up his gun; ‘they are too many.” At the same moment, as Boone first spoke, a dozen painted In- dians, armed with tomahawks, knives, and guns, had burst upon them from bushes so near as to render flight impossible and resist- ance madness, In less time than it takes to write, the two white men were seized, disarmed, and dragged in triumph up the hill, whence they had been descried in the plain below, The Shawnees by whom they had been captured were in. rap- tures as they anaes the captives before their chief.. In obedience to a hint from Boone, Harris as- sumed, as well as he could, an in- different mien. Neither showed the slightest mark of weakness or of fear. They were taken before Telonga, who, all the while the ambuscade had been carried out, had stood with his back against a tree, as ap- parently indifferent to the result as if he were a piece of the trunk of the forest giant. “What seeithe pale-faces,” he said, sternly, as he eyed the fugi- tives with some complacency; ‘““what seek the palefaces in the hunting-grounds which the Mani- tou hath given to the red-man ?”’ “We were hungry, and we kill- ed venison; We were thirsty, and we .drank water,’ replied Boone, boldly, in the Shawnee tongue, which he had singularly enough well mastered, “My, brotherspeaks with a fork- ed tongue,” observed Telonga, with a dark frown; “when the long-knives came across the waters in a, floating house they said the same —what replied the red- skin ?” “Eat and drink ; as I suppose a brave that has led his warriors to battle will say to two white men who have never injured him.”’ “Where. sleeps , Tarké?., where lies Michinigua?” asked the war- rior, darkly, as he pointed in the
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‘ fl ee a a ul . & direction where had occurred the fight between Boone and the two Indians. ‘I have spoken. My father said to the long-knives— eat, drink, and build yourselves wigwams—there is room for both. But the pale-faces were greedy— they brought their fire-water and they made the red-man mad—and he signed away his land. The when he was in his senses, an could not know what he had done when the fire-water had taken away his brains, they brought their fire-bows and they killed the braves, until not one can be found near the great Father of Waters.” “Because some did ill, why should we be punished % said Boone, with some little of jesuit- ism. The warrior glared at him, and pesky J his back gave some c- tions in his own tongue, the pur- rt of which they did not catch. at yey were immediately seized and tied to a tree by means of inenee in such a dexterous way ba : ey could not move hand or The Indians then retired to a distance, and sitting down in a circle aint to hold what Daniel Boone knew to be a big “Well, youngster,”’ said the hun- ter in his most cheerful and har py voice, “what do you think 0 this ?” “My life is of little value,’’ re- plied Ned Harris, quietly. “<T have no object in life.” “Don’t you despond,’’ replied Boone, “I brought you into this scrimmage, and, please God, Pll get you out of it. But see yon!” Ned Harris did not hear him, for he was already gazing in the direction indicated. CHAPTER VIL LEALLIWAH. Wuewn the Indians retired to hold their conference with regard to the fate of the great hunter and his young friend, the prisoners were under the impression that they were alone. Brave as they were, they may readily be pretven, if in the first instant of their cap- ture they were ni ae confused This state of mind, however, only lasted for a short time. They then looked around in the faint hope ot discovering some circumstance which might awaken the hope oi “Then it was that they found they were not alone. Seated on a log, in an attitude of deep thought, was a young In- dian girl, whose dress and drapery was unusual, except in the case of the young wife or daughter of a great chief. Her face and arms, which were alone naked, were nted, disguising in some degree e characteristics of her featares, but utterly unable to concea) the fact of her great and entran :ing beanty. Her eyes were almond- shaped, while long silken lashes fell almost upon her cheek; her forehead was of medium hight, while her hair, instead of bei the usual black, was brown, bu apparently snort. This appear- ance, however, perhaps arose from the fact that it was so mixed up, twisted, and adorned. with beads, ‘eathers and small arrows, as to present almost a solid mass. Her countenance was oval and as varied sensations filled her heart, she be- came pale or rosy, even through the dusky skin and duskier paint. Her supple and el t form, round d yet slight, was cover- ed by a well-fitting jacket of soft whity-brown leather, made from the fawn. paeusely adorned with beads and split quills. Below this was a petticoat of similar materi- als, reaching to the knees; and n below this, handsome leg- ont ee ean dwar curious! interestedly, then ardently at her That she was beau beyond what he had ever imagined an In- dian maiden could be, was self- evident; but what would he not give to hear her speak? All the . The Big Hunter. hunters and trappers of that time could speak the Indian language with tolerable fluency. In pur- suance of the purpose of a life Edward Harris had made several dialects his study. He determined to try his hand. ‘‘TIndian maiden,” he said, in a soft, low tone, ‘tthe prisoners of our braves are thirsty. Will the inging Bird of the forest give us rink ?”’ The girl rose like a startled fawn,. and looked around. She gave a quick ae: to the right and left, as if in surprise at the absence of the warriors, and then stood meekly with her arms fold- ed. “ What said the pale-face hunter tw the red-skin girl?’ she asked, in a cuiet way. “ Water,” said Harris, who, now the stood up, was searcely able to speak from feelings of admiation and rapture. He quite forgot the position in which he was placed. The girl turned away, and dis- appeared for one instant in the bushes, immediately, however, coming back with a large gourd, with which she advanced to where the young man was tied to the tree. As his hands were useless, she raised the gourd to his lips. He drank heartily, for his thirst was burnin, “My sister is very kind,” ex- claimed Edward Harris, with 4 fire which was indicated both by his tone and the flashing of his dark eye. ‘‘ Will she give a drink to the young hunter’s friend ?”” The girl moved quietly to the next tree, with a grave smile. “Tt aio’t much use,” observed Boone, dryly, ‘‘as them cata- mounts will soon show you.” The girl glanced over her should- er. The warriors were just visible about a hundred yards distant. Boone glanced longingly at their two rifles, which lay at his feet. “Young man,” said Boone, with a grim smile, ‘‘ you are handsome and well favored, and the maiden is comely beyond any I ever saw. Talk to her. She’s gota pretty laything of a knife by her side. ne twist, and we are free.” Ned Harris gave an imploring look into the eyes of the maiden, who was watching him with evi- dent interest and attention. ‘My sister is good and kind; she will not see the white man murdered, Let us go, and before two moons a boat-load of beads and blankets shall be sent to her people ; and the Singing Bird shall be the richest in her tribe.” “Telonga is a great chief,” said the girl, still examining the youth keenly ; ‘“‘he will decide. 1s my white brother afraid to die ?”’ “No!” replied Edward, hotly— “no, girl, not afraid to die when the time .omes. But look you, girl—have you no father, no moth er no tie? ‘“‘Tam alone,” she said, sadly ; “when twelve moons are xP t shall be in the wigwam of Telon- “Well, girl, I have a father and a mother, who love me dearly who would have made me rich and happy ; but Ican not forget. Years , when I was a boy, your peo- 6 came ; they burned and ar: ed, and they stole away alittle gir who was to have been my wife. it is in search of herI have come. I believe she was taken by your tribe. If she be alive, I will pay them ransom ; if she be dead,I am ready to die too.” “Tn our tribe there are many white slaves. What was the little girl called by the pale-faces ?”’ “‘Vonstance,”’ said Ned, eagerly. The girl bowed her head over her folded arms and reflected deeply. Her pretty little foot struck the round. She was evidently trying recollect. “There are many white maidens in our tribe. Let the young hunt- er of the whites say that word again.’’ Harris, with bea eye and panting breath, repeated the name. The Indian girl clasped her hands, laughed merrily, but so soft- ly, 80 musfcaliy, a8 fo reach the young man’s heart. ‘ There is a girl, white as snow, whose name sounds like that which my brotherhasspoken. You must seek for her in the great Valley of the Cedars.” ‘* All very well.’’ said Boone, im- patiently ; ‘‘but if we are ever to get there, just lend us a hand young woman. I’m a warrioran can die, but as I wish to do some work yet as wants to be done, I am in no hurry to Lave my hair lift- “ Telonga is a great warrior, and he loves me,”’said the girl, thought- {nlly and sadly; ‘‘ butif the captives were set free, until he has spoken, Leallawah would die.’’ ‘‘Say that name again,’ cried Harris ‘« Leatliwah !’’ repeated the girl, with a half gratified smile at nis eagerness. ‘Whatever may happen—thank ou, Lealliwah. You have lifted a oad from my heart. If I live, I hope to reward you—if I die, Heaven biess you!”’ The girl moved slowly away, and reseated herself on the log. Her quick ear had caught the sound of the returning warriors, They came beck slowly and de- liberately, seating themselves in a half-cirecle round the prisoners. Telonga’s face, despite his stoi- cism, was flushed with passion, though not a muscle of his counte- nance spoke. He had seen the interview between the girl and the prisoners. His pride would not allow him to pierce’ it; but ofa fierce and jealous disposition, he had endured tortures which made tim anxious to haye the discussion rapidly over. Now, howeyer, he grew gradually calm. Telonga was aware that his great physical strength, his bravery, his powers of endurance, his terrible success in many conflicts withthe whites, and his wonderful swift- ness of foot, far superior as they were to any of his tribe, were his only pretensions to command. His ferocity, his pride, his contemptu- ous treatment of other warriors, militated much against him, while the fierce jealousy which prompted him to be followed on the war-path by his destined bride would have caused rebellion against his author- ity, except that his personal prow- ess was feared; while the younger warriors were on his side. The Indians sat smoking for half an hour, then they rose, and to the utter astonishment of the prison- ers unbound them and bade them walk together; and without fur- ther words entered the leafy arches of the forest. The prisoners were quite free, though their blood be- ing stagnant enough to make them walk slowly, the Indians occasion- ally cuffed and kicked them, which Harris, in obedience to a whisper from Boone, took in good part, “What means this ?”’ said Harris, while they stood a little apart from the red-skins at a favorite Sy may readily be pag ee that Edward Harris did not hear the fearful announcement without a shudder. He knew too well the terrible hatred borne by the Indi- ans to the whites,he had heard too much of cruelties Spouse by them upon unfortunate captives— cruelties so awful as not to bear repetition— not to be ool pee for any cruelties which could be magined by men whose creed was war—whose soul’s desire was glory —whose insignia of pride and honor were the bleeding scalps of men, women, and children. The war between the white men and the red-skins was in those da one of extermination and hate. On the border every night, the sky was illumined by the flames of ca- bins, while the air resounded with the shrieks of helpless victims. There was very little quarter given oneither side. The Indians, when they attacked a village or block- house, if successful, scalped the men, old women, and children ; carrying off the girls and youthful matrons, and perhaps one or two male prisoners, who were saved for the torture. The conduct of the whites was not calculated to put an end to this state of things. They retali- ated on the red-skins with fearful severity. In the disturbed dis- tricts, the sight of a tawny limb was sure to bring a bullet. It was war to the knife. Ned Harris knew this quite ss well as Daniel Bocne. e was young in forest life, but he resolv- ed to imitate, as much as possible, the composure of his companion. He no more wished to die than does any man who is not either in- sane or very wicked, but he resolv- ed that death should not make him exhibit any unmanly terrors, 01 awake in him any signs of weak- ness. The history of border warfare is but one story of heroism and self- denial. A library might be made of the stories of men who founded the Great Republic. The captives were carefully bound at night, but not in such a way as to hurt them, or check the circulation of their blood, but simply to impede their escape. But from the day on which they were unbound from the tree, they saw no more of the young Indian girl in whom they both felt so deep an interest. Telonga was one of those men whose soul is given to anidea. He loved Lealliwah with an intensity of passion of whieh he was asham- ed. He was, therefore, anxious to conceal it as much as possible. The presence of the girl in the same camp with Harris would have been too much for his stoicism. But she was not very far off, as Boone often called attention to the distant trot of her pony in the woods, indicating that she merely kept out of sight from prudential reasons. Telonga had selected the rifle of the great hunter as his own, while a second brave had taken the hand- somer but less serviceable one of Ned Harris as his prize. Both the white men looked with anxious eyes, lest they should be spoiled, for they had not yet lost all hope of escape. The Indians were re- turning to their home by a devious route, part of which was quite arid. both water and game being scarce , and they could not tell what extra- ordinary chances might be thrown in their way. They now seemed anxious to ad- ance, but having devoured every article of food on the preceding night, were evidently on the look- out for game. Still none appeared —not a wild turkey or deer, while not a buffalo was to beseen. The Indians became thoughtful, and at last a halt was declared, when it was resolved to scour the neigh- borhood, and not advance any fur- ther until game was provided in sufficient abundance. At this moment Daniel Boone and Harris stood apart under a tree, watching their captors, the latter with a careless and indiffer- ent, the former with a keen and watchful eye. The chief Telonga, or, the Great Elk, aonidentalty caught the expression of the hun- ter’s face. The eagle-eye of the Great Elk was fixed upon Boone with a mix. ture of hate, curiosity, and admir. ation. All his hate for the whites was in his glance, and yet there was a mysterious anxiety in the chief's manner which Boone could not understand. The mutual lance was instantaneous, and then th were as cool, calm, and col- lected as before. Then the chief advanced to where the two white hunters stood —in this instance, unbound. He then folded his arms, and paused for a moment, as if he expected
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a the white mah to speak; but the white man made no sign. he Shawnee was compelled to begin. “My white brother is a good shot with the fire-bow,’”’ said the ehief, with a haugety nod. “T tell you what, red-skin,”’ re- plied Boone, quietly, ‘‘ lam nota man given to boasting, but if you'll give me my old shooting-iron, and will stand on the top of yonder rock, yowll never see Chillicothe igain.”’ A frown fin over the dusky face of the Indian, but he conquer- ed his emotion. “Tf I give my pale-face brother his will he shoot for his red- ‘skin friends ?”’ , And stones placed his finger on the other’s shoulder as he spoke, “TY will,”’ said Boone, sturdily, ad- vancing to take his rifle, without another word. He could not repress a sigh of pleasure as he once more grasped the old familiar weapon. “The sun is high,” Telonga, quietly; “if my brother is not back when its rays tip yon- ‘der pine—”’ He did not finish, but pointing with one hand toward Ned Harris, ihe passed the other significantly ‘round his own head. “Indian,” said Boone, drawin, himself up to his full hight, whic was over six feet, and looking right into the dark orbs of the Shawnee, “I am a man without a cross, who scorns a lie. But as game may be nigh, let your young men follow me—when they hear the rifle crack, let them come. There will be food for the camp.” And he stalked away with as much calmness of manner as if he had been sallying forth from Lome. continued CHAPTER X. DEER-HUNTING. Boone had a design when he ac- cepted the task of providing for the Indians. He was aware that they were oe | the con- fines of the Shawnees’ territory, and that they soon would reach the vill , When escape would be all but impossible. Every night he remarked that the Indians re- laxed in their vigilance. He, and Ned Harris under his tuition, had manifested so much serenity of mind, had eaten their meals, smoked their pipes, and chatted with their — so unconcernedly, that the hawnees appeared to believe them reconciled to their lot, the more that Boone had spoken cheerfully of raising a ransom by means of some of those white traders who were always unmolest ed by the red-skins His object, then, when he gave the significant glance, which the Great Elk so realy interpreted, was to examine the country, and to discover if there were a chance of concealing themselves. any- where, and ultimately of escaping without leaving a trail, such as an Indian could follow. Daniel was accompanied by two {ndians—youths, but of powerful make and good runners. They were, assoonas the hunter reached any ground which suited him, to fall back, nor join him untila shot fired should signal them to advance. The course pursued by the hunt- er was up the rully of a mountain torrent, which at that season was dry. The valley was bordered by . fir and cotton-trees. In a few mi- nutes, Boone was, to all appear- ‘ance, alone in the mighty wilder- ness. There was no path, not the trace of a footstep, not a marked tree to guide him. His heart. beat more freely, the blood coursed mer- tily through his veins; he was -once more free, his foot was on his native plains, and his gun was in his hand. But for the situation of Ned Harris, and his own promise to savame, Bp would have been su- remely happy. ; Suddenly Fetus halted. He knew he was near a small lake or ond, in the neighborhood of deer. he water was almost concealed by the pond-lily, upon which whole drgyes of deer Will subsist, The Big Frunter, He now used the caution of a superior hunter in approaching his quarry. Healready heard a certain stamping m the water, accompa- nied by a grating sound of teeth tearing the stems, and he knew that the wind being from them to him would not betray his presence. Halting at a tree which was not twenty yards from the lake, he turned quietly around and canght one faint ng) ay of the dusky fol lowers in the distance, as they hast- ily retreated behind some bushes. The a extended some consid- erable distance over the plain, the side near him being only concealed by lilies and grass. On the other side was a dense grove of maples. A fine deer came from cover on the shore, and stooped to drink. At the same moment a volume of smoke, a sharp crack, and a painful! ery from the wounded animal pro- claimed his victory. Down went the gun, and ere the startled animal could rise from his knees,and while hundreds and hun- dreds of wood-ducks rosé on the wing, the hunter cut the deer’s throat just as the joyous red-skins came bounding up. They were de- lighted, as with their arrows and even fusils, the slaying of a deer was no certainty. “That will do for te-day,’’ said Boone, es “if you will take him in, Pl] have two more by the time you come back. Don’t eat him all, and I say, Indians, when you come back ee me a steak or two. I feel mighty hungry my- self.” The young warriors nes heartily, and then cutting a sma pole swung the fat and heavy buck across it, and started on their way while Boone quietly loaded and once more concealed himself, well knowing that one shot would not frighten away the deer from that secluded spot. The sun had now sed the meridian some time. t was hot, and the black fly and musketoes were hovering around. For afew minutes Boone remained perfectly still, But even his keen ear caught no sound. Somewhat curious to know how it was he did not even hear the stamping on the water, or the tearing up of the stems, he slowly raised his head, to bring it down as quickly. His unerring eye had caught sight of a shining gun-barrel, a air of gleaming eyes, and a pecu- fiat head-dress of some Indian tribe quite familiar to him, though on the instant he did not recollect where he had seen it before. CHAPTER XI. MASSAQUOIT. Pere was a predicament. Not fifteen yards from him was an ene- my, and one, too, to be dreaded. Boone knew well that it was a rifle that had gleamed in the sun. But no time was to be lost. Shoot two more deer he meant to though if this fellow remained near him, how it was to be done was amystery. As to the return of the Indians, it was not to be expected, for they would certainly not desert the food until they had obtained their share. Boone had leveled his rifle in the direction of the enemy, and was peering along the barrel while thinking. He caught sight as he did so of a dusky limb, and also of the muzzle of ‘a gun. Atthesame instant a thought crossed the brain of Boone, a flush passed over the dusky-brown face, and then a smile illumined his hard and weather-beaten countenance. tg ages,» himself by a sudden jerk in the bushes, he lost sight of his enemy. As he did so, the ery of a whippowil rose in the air, a low, long, prolonged cry, as of a wounded bird. Almost with the rapidity of an echo the cry was answered, and the two men start- ! lag to their feet, advanced to meet Ww h the slowly-measured tread of men who valued their dignity. The stranger was a tall and pow- erful Indian, with a heavy frame | Peculiarly broad-chested, and erec as the pfne of the mountains His arms and breast were profusely | ornamented with painted figures and devices, while the rows of wam- pum which depended from his | neck denoted that he was a chief. His feet and legs were guarded by deerskin buskins; while over his shoulders was cast a blanket par- tially revealing a tunic of some fibrous material, stained many colors. He had a lofty and noble forehead, with black and piercing eyes. is head was nearly bare except where a tuft of black hair was bound in wampum and sur- mounted by a bunch of eagle’a feathers. he expression of his countenance indicated good na- ture, courage, and indomitable perseverance, Not a'single quick step did the white or me a warrior take un- til they were close at hand, though each was delighted to see the other. At last they shook hands, still with the gravity which became men who were past the days of boyish sentiment... And yet the real pleasure they felt gleamed in both their eyes. “How. do, brother Boone ?”’ said the Indian. ‘ Glad to see you, Massaquoit,”’ replied the great hunter; ‘* what are you doing about here yn ‘Scouting,’ said the Indian, one of the most renowned runners of the well-known Sir William John- son. ‘And my brother ?”’ ‘‘ Shawnee prisoner,’’ replied Boone, with a smile; ‘but as I intend to escape this night, do ou just get behind me in the ash, e can talk while I shoot.’’ The Indian nodded his head, took his rifle, and disappeared in the undergrowth, nor did he ap- pear any more during the singular conference. Boone, who knew the other was close to him, briefly related the circumstances under which he had been captured, and his own views as to an escape. The Indian lis- tened to him without the faintest ae to an interruption, Boone | the while he was talking keep- <9 steady look-out on the lake, and occasionally pausing to listen for the returning steps of the In- dian warriors. “ And now, Massaquoit, are you ready to help an old friend out of a hobble?” he said, ‘* Massaquoit has lived forty summers and forty wintere, and never deserted a friend or s an enemy. The great hunter is his friend.”’ “What do you think of the weather?’ asked the white man, with a hasty glance at the sky. ‘* Before the rising of to-mor- row’s sun, the heavens will crash, the tall pines will be struck by the forked fire, and the earth will drink the tears of the clouds.’’ ‘“Well, I generally have found you pretty correct,’ said Boone, whose great reputation in after years was partly due to his powers of observation and partly to his steady determination to learn on all occasions; ‘but just tote us the signs.”’ “‘My brother is a great hunter, and should read the signs for him- self,” replied the Indian, modestly. ‘“No, Massaquoit,’’ said Boone, uictly; ‘‘I want to be sure, very thing depends on the weath- er. ‘* Does not my brother hear the cries of the tree-frog?—does he not sing merrily to hail the com- ing storm in which it delights ?”’ ‘There’s truth in that, old chap,” said Boone, grinning ; “but I’ve known that sign to-fail, and especially as that noisy brute is generally piping up.” ** My brother is to * wise,’’ con- tinued Massaquoit, in the same calm voice; ‘‘ but let him hearken to the loon. Does not that loud clear voice say in words that the heavens will soon pour down their waters on the earth?” “Well, there’s something in that.” “ And does not my brother hear the moaying of the thousand _ leaves and branches. They know - i that fhe sform-cloud Is on fts way, and they are telling one another. See, tov, where, on the water, the fowls are busy flapping their wings and running about as if in alarm. I have spoken.” ‘“And to the purpose,” cried Boone, with a smile; ‘“ well, I mean to make tracks to-night; so look out. Hist! There he comes—one—two three !”’ As he spoke, a “all buck walked cautiously forth from the forest, and stopped on the edge of the lake; there paused, and looked round, making, as he did so, an odd whistling sound. A coupie_ of does, fat and in good ease, then followed, and all three gazed quiet- ly for a moment, Then, as if it had been one shot, both the white man and the Indian fired. The does fell dead, and the buck, witb a terrible bound, Sprung out into the lake and struck for the oppo- site side. No time was lost by the hunters in securing their prey, and as neither had any wish for the Shawnees to come up, they each secured their prize; Boone shoul- dered his and hurried down in the direction of the camp, not at all liking that others should haye a chance of discovering the trail of Massaquoit. About half-way he met the In- dians coming along at a loping trot, having satisfied their own ap- petites, They brought a handful of dried maize and a lump of venison, which Boone took readi- ly, handing over the doe to their charge. In this way, they return- ed to the camp, where they were well received, though Telonga never unbent from his stoical and cold manner, He hated © the whites, and never willinyly spared one except for the torture. With acold glance of haughty but not pleased approval, he re- ceived back the rifle and adjuncts, after which Daniel Boone. went and seated himself beside his fel- low-captive. The Indians Jay about in all directions, while mn the distance, under the boughs of a large sycamore tree, could be seen the reclining form of the In- dian girl, half-concealed by an ar- bor of. boughs.,, By a kind of intui- tion, the prisoners were aware that they were not to look that way, and not once did they offend the keen and subtle jealousy of the wily savage even by a stolen glance. For some reason or other, the savages seemed to have no inten- tion of moying that day, Jt an. yr ge tnat they wished to reach eir native village in one more march, and as it was a long one, naturally were glad of a previous rest. Audso the sun went down, heavy darkuess brooded over the earth, and soon nothing could be seen at a distance of a few yards from the watch-fire round which the Indians sat smoking theirpipes after their evening meal, Except Telonga, who sat apart with all the stern calmness of a great warrior, the dusky braves now unbent, told stories of the chase, of the war-path, and even of love. A low laugh eyery now and then went round the circle. It is a mistake to suppose that the Indian is always as solemn as he is in the council-chamber, or on state occasions, No one likes more to unbend and cast off that artificial manner which is the result of edu- cation, policy, and the pecniliar life which they have adopted. Ned Harris, his eyes fixed upon the ground and rapt in deep thought, sat unbound against a tree. The Indians, in considera- tion of what had occurred during the day, had not tied up the pris- oners. At his side, to all appear- ance in a deep slumber, was Boone, though a very attentive watcher might have remarked that his ear was to the ground in the act of listening. ‘‘Harris,” he whispered, the noisy talk of the Indians rendering his voice inaudible at a slight dis- ce. “Yes,”? said the other, with a start, which was almost dangcrous, in such a deep reverie was he. “Don’t you do that again,” con-
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——————— SS 8 tinued Boone, in the same monoto- nous tone, ‘‘or you'll have the whole gang of red-skins upon us. Just listen, and don’t move your hand to the right orleft. Theeye of the chief is upon you.” Harris gave a yawn, stretched his arms, as an excuse to raise bis head, and clearly saw the cold, snake-like glitter of the chief's eyes fixed upon his face. ““] mean to step, and that no sooner than directly,” continued Boone, ‘‘so keep your eyes skin- ned and your ears open, and do as I do,” Boone had heard as he lay or the ground the low rumbling of the coming storm, and his experi ence told him it would be a terri- ble one. Inno part of the worla does the hurricane bear down with more force, or the thunder-crash with more fearful violence, than on the continent of North America, particularly as PS advance into the interior. es; there came borne along the ground the first boom of the advancing thunder, which a minute or two later caught the ears of the savages. All were silent. Brave before an enemy, with no fear in the trackless forest, the dusky red- skin yet dreads the storm, which, to him, seems the spoken wrath of the Manitou. n! on! it came with terrible speed. First there was a tremulous motion of the trees; then a heavy pattering on the millions of leaves of the forest announced the rain, while crack after crack of thunder awoke the slumbering echoes of hill and valley, and constant reverberating shocks filled the air. The greed was intensely vivid; and the savages, quite awed for a a eee their heads be- tween their knees and listened. [t appeared as if the very sluices of the heavens were opened, s0 heavy was the rain, which put out the fireinamoment. Still, by the vivid flashes of the lightning, the warriors might be seen motionless is statues, heedless of the swaying of the trees above, and of the ueavy falls of timber which every now and then could be heard in the forest. Suddenly Ned Harris felt Boone move, and turning his head almost imperceptibly, saw that his place was empty. He was about to fol- low when a flash of lightning re- vealed that Telonga had risen, Harris shuddered. To be found escaping was death. The warrior’s eyes were turned straight in his direction, but next minute he moved round and walked slowly toward the hut where the Indian girl was concealed. Then Harris moved on his hands and knees round the tree. Once behind it, he rose to his feet. The tall form of Daniel Boone stood erect beside him. Without a word, he handed him his rifle, and then led the way under the leafy arches of the forest in the direction of home. The thunder, lightning, and rain, still continued, and as Boone led the way across the open we in the direction of the lake, t appeared perfectly appalling. — aes: But it’s nearly over,’ said Boone, grimly; ‘‘and as soon as it is, we ar look for fighting. These devils will not give us up, and our tracks are like cart- wheels.” ‘*What is to be done?” replied Har ris. “Pretty much nothing,” con- tinued Boone, “but go ahead. Stop a bit—I’ve got to introduce you to a valued friend. There he stands ;” and he pointed to some- thing dark at the foot of a pine, at no great distance, at the same ‘moment giving utterance to the jlong, low, melancholy cry of the i whippowil. “Who, in the name of heaven, can it be ?” said Harris, as the cry was repeated. “A friend—show no surprise,”’ and next minute the three were beneath the pine-tree, where Mas- saquoit receivee them with the lofty air of a warrior, who stood upon his own territory, Harris looked at him with admiration, @ We clouds breaking, and the | moon bursting forth through the | php ee otk revealed his noble and manly beauty. CHAPTER XII. THE PURSUIT. A Loup cry—that of rage, ; and surprise—now rent the ait from the direction of the camp, pro- claiming that the flight of the van faces had been discovered. Both shuddered. They knew the awful assions which must rage within hose dusky bosoms at being thus outwitted, after bringing their captives to the very gates of thei’ village. No glorious reception, no admiring glances of the young squaws—no war or scalp-dance for them—no exquisite enjoyment of torture at the stake. , ‘““We’re bound not to be taken again,” said Boone, gravely ; ‘‘ bet- ter a bloody grave in the wilds of Kentucky than be roasted to death in Chillicothe.”’ ‘*T say the same—but what is to be done ?”’ and Harris turned in- voluntarily toward the Indian, who stood in an attitude of deep and intense attention—a figure carved from stone. “Ugh !”’ he said, pointing toward that part of the forest where was the Indian camp. A number of lights could there be seen flickering in the woods for a moment, and then were held on high until they seemed to merge into one. “‘Load!” whispered Boone, set- ting the example and thrusting down his ramrod with the deter- mined air of a man who means to fight to the last gasp for his life and liberty. Ned Harris imitated his example, examined his priming with scru- ulous eare, pricking the touch- ole, and, in fact, forgetting none of those precautions, the omission of which has cost so many brave men their lives. ‘Fire once,’’ said Massaquoit ; “then follow.” It was a strange scene. The storm had swept past after spend- ing its fury; but in its train began to gather once more those black and heavy clouds which the north wind hurries on, charged with electricity, and showers that peri- odieally drench the plains of the western wilderness. It was again dark. All was as still and silent as death, except where the e’phing of the wind rippling over the tree- tops made sad and solex:n music. Once now and then a faint moon struggled through the clouds; but, in general, the trees and valley were lixe # solid mass of black- ness. Then a kind of dancing light flickered like a star near the — and they saw that the in- ians were following the trail by torchlight. In their blind fary at having been outwitted by two white men, who not only escaped, but coolly took their guns from the pile of weapons, they did not use as much precaution as usual, but pointed out the conspicuous trail with keen satisfaction. They were also loud in their threata of ven- geance. Soon they were near, and the fugitives saw that at least a dozen Indians were on the trail. Only one or two were armed with mus- kets; while the others had arrows ready fitted to their bent bows. ‘“« Fire !—all—same,’’ whispered Massaquoit. All did so. The torch fell—a loud ery rent the air, and then all was still. But the fugitives did not pause to reload. They did not run, This would haye been whol- ly in contradiction to the tactics: of the red-skin scout, Who moyed, however, up the gully which Boone had followed on the previous day, with a slow and stealthy step, which left-not the faintest sound. Each man loaded as he went, while not a word was spoken until they reached the lake, where under a tree hung tae doe, neatly cut u into joints, which were hastily di- vided between tiem, They again Ammer « e The : Big Hunter. they advanced, skirting the water, without the slightest effort to con- ceal their trail—a circumstance which, thcugh it surprised Ned Harris, in no way astonished Boone. He was accustomed to the eccentricities of the scout— one of the most expert who ever fought or ranged for the colonists ae the great war with the French. At length pe came toa stream that supplied the lake, and which was not oy shallow, but filled by stones, bowlders, and rocks. Into ~ Massaquoit plunged up to his waist ‘Tread close bebind,’’ said Boone, after a whispered hint from the Indian, ‘‘the river’s full of holes. He knows the stepping: stones. It would be deat make a mistake.” Ned Harris required no second hint. tage bey marching in In- dian file, Massaquoit as leader, Boone behind him, and the young hunter last. All went slowly, as the current was swift and strong; at length they entered a narrow gap, between rocks, where it re- quired their utmost strength to contend against the current. Then they were in smooth water which spread out on all sides into a kind of pond, with high and precipitous banks. “Why !”’ cried Boone; ‘I’ve heard tell of this. It’s Dick’s Hole.”’ Massaquoit nodded, and turning to the right, stood next minute on aledge of rock which admitted them to a view of a cavern of mod- erate dimensions. The Indian stooped, blew wp some embers, lit a pine torch, and welcomed his white brothers to his caché, as all the places where trappers, hunters, and others haye their riches, are called. Massaquoit’s cavern was well stored with peltries, tied up in small packets for removal res how one man could hope to take away 80 much wealth seem- eda puzzling question. But the hunters were too much gentlemen of the forest to ask questions orshow curiosity. Mas- saquoit himself sat down, handed a bottle of whisky to Boone, wko passed it round, and most welcome was It after their wetting ; and then began to smoke in pe ect silence for some time. He then lay down in a corner, drew his blanket round him, and ina few minutes was asleep, as if no danger from pur- suers existed—as if there were not an enemy raging for their blood within perhaps a quarter of a mile. “Do you feel sleepy?’ asked oone, s No,” replied Harris, thought- fully, ‘‘I do not feel sleepy. The excitement of our unlooked-for escape has driven all slumber from my eyes. I will watch while you rest.’ “Young man,"’ said Boone, sol- cmnly, ‘you're young in forest signs. You do not know all the notes of warning which time that touches the hair with white gives to the practiced hunter. ’Tis hard to tell what may happen. The Shawnee may be now peering into the mouth of our cave. It would be a fine disgrace if Daniel Boone were to sleep while watching were needful. e can talk—where I sit not a speck can turn the corner of the rock without my beading him, Keep out of the glittering of the light, but kee P igal rifle handy; we may want them at a minute’s notice,”’ Ned Harris did as he was told. ‘So,’ said Daniel Boone, after a brief silence, ‘‘ you came out of the settlements to see what life in the forest was. By this time I suppose you know how you like ‘Pretty well,” replied Harris, quietly ; ‘‘ the excitement is pleas- ant; the mighty forests, the grand prairies, an e splendid rivers moye my soul; but that is not, Daniel Boone, why I am here.”’ “« Why, then ?”’ said the hunter, who did not affect not to be curi- ous, ‘Duty. We may have some hours to pass here, and if you like | you shall hear thy story of my Life, . wet eee ° wr Beer or rather the narrative of those events which have brought me a wanderer to the plains, prairies, and forests of beautiful Kentucky, and why I intend being a greater wanderer still.” ‘“Where on earth, young man do you mean to yo next?” esked Boone “T know not where it is; but if I can make up a party I shall visit the Valley of Cedars; if ne one else will join, I will goalone.”’ “Alone!” cried Boone, with an astonished smile; ‘‘ why, that’s right in the heart of the Indian country, where no white man ever was, and where no white man ever will be—down in the land of the setting sun,” “I mean to go,” said Ned Har. ris, quietly, without any of that boastful tone which some men as sume when they make a rash as sertion. ‘“‘I mean to go, and as soon, too, as I have made my pre parations. It may be a perilour journey—I may die in the at- tempt; but, at least, I shall have done my duty.”’ ‘Well, you’ve got to find out where it is first,” said Boone: “] am sure I ain’t going to help you in such madness, What for ?” “What for?’ said Ned Harris sadly; ‘‘what for? You sha know—but hist !”” Dead silence prevailed. Boone touched the scout with his foot and at the same time extinguished the torch. All was black darkness within, while without there was a grayish light, which admitted of objects being" clearly discerned. Harris, while Boone was looking into his excited face, had discoy- ered the presence of half-a-dozen Indians wading in the water. They were soon joined by others to the number of twenty, who all gazed with curiosity and some awe at the scene before them. Then they began a circuit of the pool, searching every where for signs of the fugitives. In vain; they could discover noth- ing, and just as day dawned they determined to descend the stream, when the quick eye of an Indian saw the entrance to the cave, Te crawl to the rock, to stand close against it, to peer into the gloom, was the work of an instant. He then entered boldly, and summon- ed his companions. A light was struck, and all saw that the cave had been recently occupied. It was now empty. CHAPTER XIII. AN EARLY SETTLEMENT. THE sun rose warm and glad on the banks of the blue Alleghany, upon a scene as hopeful and in- spi as ever was presented to man in a new, freshly - explored country. The birds sang glad and blithesome on the topmost boughs, the sun showed its huge red face over the distant eastern hills, the air moaned in the tall trees; and it was a bright and glorious morn- ing. The spot to which we now trans- port the reader had not been long settled, but it already began to as- sume all the signs of prosperity and civilization. For those who judge America by what they now see, a description of such a settlement may not be uninteresting. It is a scattered Mera in a kind of large open rairie, surrounded on three sides y the forest. The fourth is skirt- ed by the river. Over this beauti- ful grassy plain are scattered, at no great distance from one another, some dozen cabins or huts, in which the new settlers are content to dwell until means and leisure shall be found to erect more pre- tentious houses. At one end of the village is a block-house, two stories in hight, the gf a story being broader by three feet on each side than the lower; a very common mode of building. This building is made from hewn green logs, well dove- tailed together, and will hold, in ease of attack, the whole of the inhabitants of the village, and their principal valuuhlos—u prisuitive,
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yet efficient defense, muck used on the border. Around the block-house, at the distance of some feet, is asubstan- tial wall of palisades, good thick trees, which protrude twelve feet from the earth, and are braced together by cross-bars and iron clamps. Outside this was a ditch. This fort has never yet been used except as a schoo]-house and chap- el, for the hostile Indians have not shown themselves near that settle- ment since its establishment by one James Harris, about eight years previously. This man, an English- man of considerable means, hed selected this spot, cleared the land, and built himself a house some ten years previously. <A very large tract of territory belonged to him, which he was gradually bringing into cultivation, both personally and by letting portions on lease to such newcomers as he wished to have for neighbors, When ke settled on the Alle- ghany, he was accompanied by his wife, a younger sister, and several laborers and women. It was said that he had left England from some political motive; but, how- ever this might be, a more reso- lute, firm, and earnest man never began to recover a wild tract of land from the savage and the wild beasts. After a time, several families be- oo to collect around him, and hen it was the block-house was built, as a matter of precaution against the savage, who, though he had ceded this country by trea- ty, was sufficiently treacherous to endeavor to win it back by force. Many and fearful ‘rumors reached the settlers of bloody massacres in various parts of the land, many of which might have been avoid- ed by the exercise of common prudence. : In all the early wars the whites were quite as much to blame as the savage races, which originally owned the soil. Fully aware that they had ceded their lands either for a song or to gentle violence, the whites should have been more forbearing. But their policy was to get the several tribes together by the ears, as well as to lose no ee a a of destroying indivi- dusls on the most futile of pre- tenses. Presently there came to Harris- ville a tall, handsome fellow of about three and twenty, whose courage, strength, and persever- ance seemed to fit him above all things for abackwoodsman. This man had bought a few hundred acres along a valley of a stream that came down from the hills; and he at once built himself a log- hut of considerable dimensions, which was visible from the block- house, and then set to work to clear himself a garden, a corn-field, and a potato-patch. No idler was John Harding, but a right-down earnest man, who, though not without dollars, was determined to carve his own way in the world by sheer hard work. He was one of nature’s gentle- men. Having received a tolerable education, he had been intended for the profession of the law, but his heart longed for something. active and suitec to his physica powers and peculiar characteristics of mind. He did not give up the idea of becoming a pleader in the courts of law, but it should be in a new settlement, where he would first build his own house, shoot his own game, and enjoy life ac- cording to his own fancy. For some little time the eople of Harrisville saw little of their new neighbor ; but when, after six months’ hard work, he had pre- aes himself a residence, corn- elds, and other necessaries, not without the aid of a hard-headed old negro, ke at last strode down to the village to call on those who | had been for some time curious to know him. As he walked through the cabins,few would have thought that that tall frame, dressed in a ae hunting-frock, leggings, and “Skin cap, though with a spic | and span new shirt ~eering over his collar, was a young lawyer ed fitted to shine in the courts Ce) | man visited. Themis and of Nimrod. Mr. Harris, from his wealth, po- sition, and character, was the first He lived in what was emphatically called the big house, being, indeed, the only frame- house with half a dozen rooms in all the settlement. Mr. Harris was much struck by the ap- | pearance of the huge settler as he accosted him at the gate of his | garden, where in reality he had gone out to meet him. “Mornin’, judge,” said John Harding, who, since he had left college, adopted the quaint mode of speaking of the backwoods- men. “Good - morning,” replied Har- ris, with asmile; ‘ you have been a long time finding us out.’’ “Well,” said John, in a dreamy kind of way, ‘‘there’s been a goodish bit todo, yousee. I came as soon as I could,” “Walk in, Mr, Harding,” con- tinued Harris, who very much liked the look of his new acquaint- ance; ** we’re just going to dinner. Mrs. Harris will be most happy to see you.”’ Harding followed. clear he was uncomfortable. For six months he had always had either an ax or a rifle in his hands, and now lie really did not know where to put the latter. The inside of the frame-house was neatly furnished, but Harding saw nothing but the ladies. There was Mrs. Harris—with a handsome child of about five years old—to whom Harding bowed with con- siderable grace, to stand next mi- nute with almost open mouth be- fore Julia, the younger sister of Harris, a laughing, merry, light- hearted, and most fascinating En- glish girl, about eighteen years of age, and who seemed at first sin- gularly out of place in that wild region. But we sometinres little know the latent energy which lives in the bosom of the gentlest of beingr, fitting them for any task which shall come home to them as a duty or labor of love. How Harding ever got through the ceremony of introduction, how he contrived to get rid of his vap, and tosit down by this “‘ eplen- diferous critter,” as he called her, was more than ever he could say. But he did, and before ten minutes were over was chatting with her as freely as if they had been friends for years. Harris drew his neigh- bor out, especially as he at once saw that he had been struck by the beauty, innocence, and grace of his oung sister. He found at once hat Harding was by birth and education a gentleman, though his animal spirits had driven him to take such a novel step as to aban- don the delights of civilization for the hardships of the backwoods. Harding w4s in no hurry to leave, and so remained quite till sunset, after exacting a promise that they would visit him on the followin Saturday, and see his clearing an his maple-sugar. ‘How do you like him?’ said , to his sister, with a sly sidelong glance at his wife. “What, the great grizzly bear ?” “T mean that honest, noble- hearted fellow, Harding,” observ- ed Harris, uietly. “ Well—for an American savage he’s about the least disagreeable know.” ‘* How should you like the griz- zly bear, or the American savage of a husband?”: slyly rejoine 8. “Brother!” cried Julia, with eyes that flashed like dfataonds, between indignation and a desire to laugh, “‘ how can you talk such nonsense ?”’ “He'll propose next Saturday,” ‘aid Harris, quietly, “‘as sure as gou stand there.” « Will he f—I should like to see bim !”’ “He's one of the finest fellows [{ ever met.” “Six feet two of muscle and 4a,” said Julia Harris, pouting. * ¢ mean morally as wel! as phv- sically. It’s clear to me that he’s what we colonists call ‘real grit!’ ” -_ vA The Big Hunter. 7 It was quite | “A very good recommendation for stone,” said Jutia, pettishly ; “but not for a husband.” “T hope you may never get a worse,’’ replied Harris, in quite a serious tone, Julia left the room, rather than carry on the discussion on asub- ject so unpleasant. CHAPTER XIV. LOVE-MAKING. Ir was a lovely morning when Julia rose to dress herself for the journey to the house of ‘the big backwoodsman. She had tried to get off going, but Harris insisted ; and when she found that she must succumb, woman-like, she deter- mined to be reyenged, by being coquettish, pretty, and charming as possible, in order just to tease the impudent fellow, who had caused her so much annoyance from her friends. But, despite all her vagaries, Ju- iia was happy. The morning seemed more beautiful than any she had witnessed before. It was 30 cool, so clear, so bright, there was such a freshness in all nature. Ihe trees seemed to wear a bright- er and greener mantle than before, che very forest-flowers s pegph of a richer and warmer hue, while the birds themselves undoubtedly sang more joyously. There was the sun gililing the tops of the dis- tant mountains, while in the val- leys the grayness of twilight still lingered. ulia, despite all her efforts to appear offended, could but be: in- fluenced by the light of love. No woman is ever offended be- cause a man loves her, even when she herself has no intention of re- . sponding to his wishes. Juliahad no faint glimpse of the possibility of marrying John Harding; of eourse not. It was the very lasi thing she would think of. John, had made Harris declare the day a holiday. It was Monday when he culled to see them, and he had spent the whole of the inter- val in preparing. He had _ sent down to the settlements for differ- ent. articles of furniture, for cer- tain ornaments not usually found in the habitat.ons of the hardy early settlers, ce had also pro- cured some Gld World dainties, so that th» breakfast-table was really surprisingly elegant in appear- ance. John Harding came out. The first thing he saw was Julia on her pony, in a straw hat with crimson ribbon, a light summer dress, and such pretty shoes, that showed the daintiest anklein the world. Julia meant to be coldly polite; but what is the use of making resolves with a good-hearted man like John slarding ? He took her oy off the tote he could have lifted both— and carried her into the house. Harris and his wife had the grace not to laugh, not even to appear to notice the matter, which saved John Harding. Julia did glance quickly at them, and seeing them demurely shaking hands, in her great gers) of heart, deter- mined to forgive the monster. They breakfasted, and then John Harding Be showing thein over his farm. There were men at work at a barn, outhouses, a dairy, and other things quite new in those “My goodness!” cried Mrs. Har- ris, in genuine and unfeigned as- tonishment, ‘‘ how do you mean to earry all this on ?”’ ** How 80, ma’am ?” “‘ You—a single man, impossible! ap oh find you a wife,” she re- plied. : ; John Harding colored up to the very roots of his hair, while Julia, with a dark frown, turned to look down the valley. “You have a first-rate place here,”’ observed Harris, “‘ and when we get more settled your estate will be ‘quite’ valuable.’ “Hope so,”’ said John Harding ; ‘fand now, Miss Harris,” he con- tinued, taking her hand and plac ing it within his arm without cere- SE EER ST OEE EIS. SERBS Se ees Ie) ASO mony, ** T want to show you some- thing.”’ And before she could make the slightest resistance, he had led her to a grove of mulberry trees, whence the station could be seen. even the very doors of her bro. ther’s house be distinguished. “* Tt ain’ t far—and you can always see them,’’ he began, looking up ata bird that was sailing by with / a slow sweep of wing. Julia looked puzzled. “* Now, miss, it’s of no use my beating about the bush. I can’t do it. I’ve got a nice farm here, I’ve got every comfort; but IT: lonely as a bear that’s lost her cubs I’ve been thinking what it was 1 wanted, and I’ve found it out.” ‘““Have you?” said Julia, who was—all young ladies will under- stand—in a terrible flutter. “T have,” he replied; ‘I want some one to take it all, myself in- cluded.” ‘* Want to sell your farm ?” “No, I want to give it.” “ Give it ?” cried Julia. “Yes, miss, to you—farm, mas- ter, and all. Now don’t speak in a hurry, miss. I’m a rude, plain man—arough, and, perhaps, coarse man; but my whole future life— my very existence and happiness depends on the next few minntes, miss. You may langh at me”’— he took her hand in his—‘t you may coolly reject me; but, in pi- ty, do not. If you think you ever could like me—if you think that my devotion, the humble devotion of a man to an angel, might mak« you just like me some day, say so and I will hope, I will wait; bul say no, I leave this place forever I will go into the woods, and mar the arrow of the skulking savay soon take from me that Ui which will bea burden. Julia Harris, 1 love you, I can’t live without you, and I won’t !” She could not speak. The sud denness of the address, the deep. sarmivst tones, the absence of any thing but the welling tenderness of a great heart, that felt and could scarcely express its feelings, ntterly confounded and astonished | her. ‘* Have I offended you ?”’ he said, Tox ** No — offended,” she began, turning full upon him her eyes sparkling with tears—she saw the i Atta. Bh in hiseye; “‘ but—” ere was a look of cold disap- intment as he heard the word ‘but,’’ which smote to his heart. ‘“*Mr. Harding,” she said, look- ing down upon the ground, “ this is very sudden, very unexpected, very strange. I will not, however, say that 1am not flattered. It is not the custom in the old count to decide as quickly in matters af- fecting a lifetime; but—but—but —if my esteem—in short, if you will believe me—that—that I will try to make you happy—well—” “ Hurrah!” shouted John Har- ding, utterly unable to contain himself, and before the astonished girl knew what he was going to 0, he caught her up, kissed her, and half-fainting, blushing, strug- ging, carried her to where Mr. and rs. Harris stood admiring the prospect. “She’s mine—she’s agreed !” he said. “Put me down,’ cried Julia, “JT won't be treated like a child. After this conduct, I won't have psf thing more to say to you.” ooking intensely miserable, John Harding set her down beside her brother. “JT couldn’t help it—I was so ha 59 EV nat is the meaning?” said Harris. “ Surely it is not possible that my sister—” ‘* Has,” cried Julia, with a 4 ei, look at her brother, Pm agres to become Mrs. John Har- ng. wy am proud and glad to hear it,” cried the Englishman, shaking hands with the gigantic hunter. Never was a courtship shorter or more satisfactory. Julia t2ased her lover almost to death, but he bore it manfully, and well was he sewarded: for once they were mar-
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ee ae SSS SS eee ——— So re ae —-— -S S25. SS = et. Se eS Ee § ti === 10 ried, a better, more dévyoted, car- | none but those who rise with the nest, and good little wife no man ever had, The giant was a mere cipher in her hand, but she never availed herself of her power. She loved him with her whole soul, ana had but one desire in the world—to make him happy. Then, to complete their joy, there was born unto them a daugh- ter, whose name was Constance. CHAPTER XV. THE WARNING. NEVER had there been a happier, a more fortunate marriage, than that contracted, under such sin- gular circumstances, between the huge eolonist and the beautiful girl from the great island beyond the sea, to which most of the residents of America still looked with the tender affection of a child for a dearly loved mother. The settlement had inereased in numbers and wealth ; the whole neighborhood was as one garden, while the hill estate of the judge’s brother-in-law had progressed with a rapidity which displayed the in- tense evergy of the man’s charac- ter. His house was now elegant and spacious, numerous farm- buildings were erected at a small distance, while a very large portion was under cultivation. They were one and all prosper- ous and happy: The settled parts at this time were very little annoyed by the Indians. They had retreated to their native wilds and forests, nor did they visit the villages, except in search of powder, shot, and other articles, while they traded for beavers and other products of the chase. Harrisville was more than usu- ally free from Indian visits, bein out of the way and solely inhahi 6d by the owners of the soil, their dependents, and one or two scouts and hunters who supplied the settlement with game. It was morning; the sun was glorious and warm as it tipped the summit of the hills with gold. sturdy horse and a little pony are held at the entrance of the judge’s garden, and in a few minutes he comes forth, attended by a youth of twelve, his son and only child; they mount, and at once falling in- to an easy trot, start on their usu- al morning ride to the Hill Farm, as the residence of Harding is called. The way is pleasant. A rude but well-beaten path Teads them through waving corn-fields, green hedges, and inclosed fields, givin everywhere evidence of wealth an prosperity. The wilderness every- where retreated before the enter- prize and energy of civilized man while even the forest is open and clear in hundreds of places where wood has been cut down for fuel and other uses. At the door of the house, stand- ing on the steps beneath a portico shaded by honeysuckle and vines, is a lady, with a child holding her by the hand. This child is seven years of age. She has golden hair, a fair complexion, merry laughing eyes, and every sign of being one day a beautiful and charming wo- man. Mrs. Harding received them with her usual frank and joyous manner, rejoicing as she always did in the intense friendship which ex- isted between those two children. It was indeed pleasant to behold the little girl, so frail, so fair, lean- ing for protection and support on the tall, slim youth, who executed her slightest. wish, and whose greatest pleasure was to be tyran- nized over by her. “ John’s taken his gun and gone out shooting,’ said the happy little woman, as she welcomed her brother; ‘' come in, I shan’t wait bréakfast for him. There’s no knowing, when he gets tramping in the woods, when he will be back.”’ Mr. Harris smiled, and , being quite ready for his breakfast, en- tered the house, and sat down to the grateful morning meal whic | day, and go forth in search of ge- nuine appetite and health, really enjoy. About an hour later, the tall hunter came stalking in, his eyes beaming with delight as he saw around his table so many that were dear to him. He had shot a deer, and brought it home whole upon his stalwart shoulders. ‘*T tell you what it is, judge, we must restrain s0 much indiscrimi- nate ig does Game is getting scarce. I only saw this one down by the black pool to-day; “two years ago you might have counted them by the dozens.”’ ‘All your own fault, John,”’ said his wife, merrily; ‘‘it’s that dreadful long rifle of yours.” John Harding laughed ina pleas ed kind of way, though he shook his head, and was about to make some merry answer, when a sha- dow fell across the open doorway of the breakfast-room—and a sha- dow, he knew not why, fell upon his heart, An Indian, young, but powerful in the extreme, tall and well made, with but little dress to cover him, stood in the doorway. ‘* Massaquoit!”’ cried the judge rising, ‘‘ why, what is the matter 3 He knew the celebrated runner, a faithful and devoted friend of the whites, from boyhood. “Let m pale-face brothers look to themselves—the Shawnees have dug up the hatchet—Elenepsico is in the woods with a thousand war- riors—some bad white men have killed his family—the sky is red with the blaze of burning heuses.”’ John’s wife turned deadly pale, and catching her child franticall to her bosom, almost sobbed aloud, “The great dread of my soul has come at last,’’ she said; ‘‘I have always feared this.’ “Indian !’’ cried John, fiercely, “T don’t believe a word of it. The red-skins must know the power of the white man, and surely they wit not proyoke us.” “The Indian is brave. He knows that the pale-face is a great war- rior; bat: his knife has grown rusty, there are no scalps in his wigwam, and his women laugh and tell him he is a squaw.” “That will do,” said John Hard- ing. % Brother,” be in Harris, quiet- AA ‘this man is faithful and true. he best thing will be to take the women and children into the old block, and then scour the woods for signs. If the bloody heathens are bent on war, we must fight. If any one has indeed slain the chief's family, it is asad affair. The pas- sions of the tribes will be roused, and we shall see dreadful spi Sel “ Perhaps,” said John Harding; “but as I don’t happen to care a hickory stump for a hundred of the red-skins, I shall not desert the home which is all I have in the world. If they come here, they'll wish they hadn’t; that’s all.’’ The little noble-hearted wife said nothing. She knew her husband well, and firmly intended that, come what might, bit | would sleep in the block that night, but she did not like to show her unlimited in- fluence over him before either her brother or the Indian, whom she allowed to depart after a few words of conference. Mr. Harris had many connec- tions in other stations as well as in some of the forts, and he had al- ready heard rumors that the In- dians were preparing for the war- path. They had, indeed, given in some places alarming signs of their presence; the woods were alive with them, and now and then a treacherous shot from the deep forest would strike down a laborer in the field; while a hunter would leave his home at morn, to be heard of no more until his man- led and gory body was discovered fa some secluded forest nook. They had heard, too, of flat- boats being wa laid and their in- mates massacred, but hitherto the you settlement had been wholly ee ftom any attack or outrage, ~__ The Big Hunter. . commandant. CHAPTER XVI. WARS AND RUMORS OF. THE news spread like wildfire through the scattered houses, that an Indian runner had brought alarming news to the frontier fort, and ere an hour had passed the whole of the men capable of bear- ing arms had congregated around their respected - magistrate and There was but one opinion. The women and yalu- ables should be removed to the block-house, and a party of men sufficient to hold out against the Indians should be left to garrison it, while thirty stout hunters and backwoodsmen should scour the woods under the guidance of Mas- saquoit, and discover what might be the intention of the Indians. All knew that if the Shawnees were up, they might expect a long and bloody war. These savages were always the determined ene- mies of the whites. They were known to be a vindictive, revenge- ful and reckless people, delighting in war, and their very name was a word of terror and execration for many a long year to the settlers in Kentucky and on the banks of the Ohio. This plan having been decided on, a youth was sent up to Hill Farm, which proyed to be amply uarded against surprise, John 1aving called in his men and set them on the walls, well armed and ammunitioned, hey were, how- ever, all field-hands, utterly with- out experience in Indian trickery and treachery. He returned word that he should, if necessary, join the forces in the block in the course of the day. And thus the hours passed, until the evening, without evidence of any intention to attack the place. The forest was still and silent, though between its leafy arches athousand painted savages, might be lurking, to waylay and de- stroy. Since the time when we first in- troduced Harris to our readers, the population of the settlement having much increased, the block- house had been much enlarged. It was two stories high, the upper projecting over the lower as be- fore, The roof was steeply shelving with planks, so smoothly shaven that, the most agile savage would have failed to hold a position on them; though the dry shingles were fearfully combustible. On the side of the river, and on the side of the forest was a pro- jection for the sentries, and here at nightfall sat Mr. Harris, peering eagerly into the darkness. The day had been very warm, the night was deliciously cool, even necessi- tating a blanket round his shoul- ders. There was a moon in the heavens, but it was half concealed by a haze, while fleecy clouds drifted slowly past, making dark shadows on the ground. And still no sign. Once or twice Mr. Harris thought he saw dusky forms glid- m slong the skirt of the forest while the moon was hid, but could not be sure. The substantial wall of the palisades was, however, so far distant from the nearest trees, that had alarge body of the enemy — rushed forth from any part, they could not have reached the ditch without being discovered and shot down. Thus the weary hours passed. The women and children were in the chamber below, or in some arge outhouses attached to the block. Weary and exhausted with the day’s work and excitement, they slept. Not so with the men. Through every yt m9 in the block streamed a flickering light, wyiile loud Lrg tey and cries in- dicated that the backwoodsmen were awake, and treating the threatened danger with their usual coolness and indifference. Mr. Harris was too interested in coming events, too deeply anxious for the return of the scouts to wish for rest. He had therefore volunteered to remain sentinel all night. Slowly the hours passed, and by the very chillin the air he knew that the dawn was at hand. He stood in the black shadow of the wall above him, and scanned the horizon. With a groan of an- guish he almost fell off the perch on which he stood. The Hill Farm-house was on fire, and by the lurid light of the crack- ling flames he could see that round it the red-skins danced in terrible and fearful glee. Mr. Harris hada night-glass, which enabled him to verify his suspicions more tho- roughly. ‘Stand to your guns,” he shout- ed; ‘‘the heathen is upon us.” The men rushed wildly to loop- hole and roof, to gaze with awe at this terrible evidenee that war, with its red hand, had entered their peaceful valley. At the same moment, out from the forest came pouring a flood of Indian warriors, who with shouts and yells—their hideous war-cry—came rushing to- ward the fort, firing at every loop- nole and crevice, and shooting ar- rows, like falling stars in the mur- ky night, tipped with burning tow. But the men in the fort took such deadly and steady aim, that the savages were glad to retreat behind stumps and trees, and be- hind a bank which unfortunately rose no more than forty yards dis- tant, and which skirted the edge of a small lake. According te their universal habit when thus re- pulsed, there was a dead silence and in five minutes from the firs attack not an Indian warrior was to be seen. But there was not one man with- in those walls who did not know what this portended. A regular siege on the part of the Indians, who would reduce and weary them py continual, sudaen, and harrass- ing attacks, until exhausted, wea- ry, ill, and fainting, they would yield to some last desperate attack, or surrender at discretion. From the opening in the roof, carefully protected by bullet-proof planks, two men came to watch. One of these was Harris, whose eye was fixed all the time on the terrible beacon-fire on the hill. And now up into a watery sky eame bursting the first faint streak of dawn, silvering clouds and tree- tops with a frail, cold loveliness which was very beautiful. First only the hill-tops were speed with light, then the tall and wavin houghs, then the top of here an there a scattered house, until sud- denly up shot a golden ladder of light, within its b eg ms f blaze other orbs of milder light, until all nature was of ashining yellow ; the pale stars faded, the edge of the clouds were tip with flecks of light, and from tae and every bough burst forth the chorus of morn. But scarce an eye was directed to admire nature and its beauties. All were either pezing with deep anxiety at the Hill Farm, or watch- ing the skirt of the forest. Sud- denly, with a terrific shout, the In- dians rose and commenced a ter- rible and deadly fire on the block- house. For some minutes it was so unremitting as to take the gar- rison by surprise, but soon the coolness of brave and practiced woodsmen prevailed, and the sav- ages received back a volley that sent them howling to cover. But the roof of the block-house was on fire. A number of arrows dipped in burning tow had, in the confusion, been shot at the roof. The dry shingles in a moment were in flames. Coolly, and with that calm de- termination which is ready for any emergency, Mr, Harris seized the numerous buckets provided for this contingency, and soon dashed out the flames. Every eye was now fixed upon the bank which concealed the Indians, every rifle was ready to shoot at the first who should have the andacity to show themselves, especially those whe should again attempt to shoot their burning arrows at the tower. Then Harris once more turned his glance toward the hill, and saw that which froze his blood, and lifted his hair with intensity of horror. Down the hill-side, pur- sued by twenty painted warriors,
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——— or rather fiends, came rushing a form he knew full well. It. was. John Harding running for his life, his wife in his arms. They had burnt him out of that home once so happy, they had driven him forth a wanderer, but with all that he cared for still in his possession. Close behind the stalwart settler, holding fast to the skirts of his hunting dress, came another fignre, lighter and smaller, which, as the group neared the fort, seemed to be that of Chloe, the negro nurse who had taken charge of Constance from her birth. The child was in herarms. Harris frantically bade the men keep the Indians at work, while he, with two determined hands, déscended toward the gate to let his brother-in-law in... This was a work of danger and difficulty, as the Indians commanded from the high bank every part of the inte- rior of the stockade. Bending on his hands . and knees, in this imitated by his com- anions, the brave judge, clutch- ing his knife and pistols, while a tomahawk was fixed in his belt, crawled toward the door. At-thia’ minute another volley from both sides, another cry of fire, anothe: emptying of buckets oa the blaz. ing shingles, made so much con- fusion, that, the gate leading with- in the stockude was reached. It was fastened by two large bolts and a heavy bar. The former were at once drawn, while one of the men stood by to lift the bar. Harris peered through a small chink in the rough wooden gate, and saw his brother-in-law coming on at & tremendous pace. His head was bare, his hair flew wildly in the wind, his face was deadly ale, while his teeth were set with hat air of fierce determination which was such a marked part of his character, The burden he bore seemed to him as nothing. In his great love he cared not if beggary were his, 80 that they were saved. Oh, that awful shout! The In- dians on the skirt of the forest have seen the fugitives, and a dozen grim warriors come dashing forward to cut off their retreat. “Drive back the bloody hea- thens !”” shouts Harris, turning to the block, as, regardless of all consequences, he casts open the heavy door, ‘Run, brother run!” he shrieked, in tones of deep and heartfelt agony. o need to cry out. The power- ful man, in whose arms these bur- dens seem as feathers, is still eom- ing on at a fearful pace. He seems to fly, so terrific are the bounds he takes along the earth. At this moment two volleys rouse the startled echoes of the forest, The Indians have fired.on the little group, while, as soonas they were within range, the backwoodsmen had given them a deadly answer. When the smoke cleared away, John Harding was seen rising from the ground, and once more tearing along with the speed of a race- horse. Then he enters the stock- ade, the ponderous door is closed, and he sinks for a moment on the earth, clasping the insensible form of his wife in his powerful arms. “My God!” he shrieked ; “speak, Julia! Have they hurt you? Demons from the lower nan have they wounded my e¢? Speak—speak, I say!” Andhe glared at her with an agony of suffering which made every heart ache. Brother,” said Harris, with forced calmness, “be uman. She wiil never speak in |”? John spoke not, moved not, eyrred not. His fixed, glazed. and, for once, cruel-looking eyes were fixed upon the cold, nian: pled face of his wife; who was ead, stone, stark dead, and yet 80 beautiful, as, with her flesh still oe she seemed a mockery of e. ‘Where is the child?” sudden- ly and hoarsely whispered Harris in his ear. “The child! — what child ?”’ gasped John. “ Merciful Father my child gone too ?” _ And he rose to his feet with a lance so awful, that the others nvoluntarily held back. He strode toward the door. All caught him back. ‘Are you mad?’ said Harris, holding him firmly; ‘“‘ what would youdo? ‘Thechild must be found, but why throw away your life? Let me look forth. Do you stand, men, to your guns.”’ And he opened the door, glanced to the right and left to see that not, an Indian was in sight. Not one was to be seen, even the bodies wereremoved; while nowhere was there a trace of Chloe, the black nurse, or Constance, the only child of the bereaved father. Against such terrible trials. as these had the early settlers con- tinually to contend. Every hour, similar tragedies were enacted, and the desolate men, thus beg- gared in heart and hope, went forth to become prowlers of the forest, skulkers on the plain—no longer chasing the deer and simr- ing the beaver, but hunters of men. Harris had great difficulty in re- straining John Harding from scouting the plain in search of hiv little daughter. It was use- less. The Shawnees had, doubt- less, in the ferocity of their hearts, long since brained her. lor John Harding there was no hope in this world any more, ex- cept in revenge. CHAPTER XVII. 1HE BLOCK-HOUSE. JoHN HARDING appeared for a few minutes stunned by the fearful nature of the misfortune which had befallen him. He closed his eyes, passed his hand across his brow, opened them again, gazed at his dead wife and then at his friends, after which he burst into loud screams of laughter that was worse than tears. “Ha! ha! ha! how dared I be happy? What business had I with a wife? Ah, accursed red-skins blaze away! By the heavenabove, for every hair of her head, for every drop of her blood, for every pang of that awful flight, shall a scalp fall from you! Give me a un, that I may be avenged, or my eart will break.” : He rose, with the body in his arms, ran across to a shed—a kind of armory—took the now cold corpse within, laid it on a couple of benches, closed the door, lock- ed it, took the key, and then clutching a huge rifle, which was thrust into his hand, entered the block. Itwastime. The Indians, who seemed to increase in num- bers every moment, were firing with a rapidity which gave the — not a moment of repose. sain and again was the attempt renewed to fire the shingles, and _ and again was it foiled by e besieged, until, however, the roof became charred, steamy, and smoking. John walked through the upper block without a word, and took his station on the sentries’ stand outside, where he stood facing the Indians without the slightest shelter. A loud cry, the hellish war-shout, end a dozen muskets fired at him, was the answer to his temerity. But he heeded them not, though his hunting-shirt was eut in various places. Takin steady aim at the dusky form o an Indian, which was incautiously osed, he fired, and a savage gell proclaimed the dead ly result. And there, from that fearful ris- ing to the equally fearful setti of the sun, he stood, unmoy silent, without even a ate 0 water to moisten his ee = ips, loading, firing, utterly regardless of all that was taking Pee around, except when he could slay & red-skin. The Indians, meanwhile os ning to suffer from the terrible | Weapon which, in right hands, they always respected, began roll- ing logs and stones to the edge of the bank already alluded to, and thus constructed seyeral strong breastworks, from which they The Big Ffunter, a a. were able to take alm with more deadly effect. Every now and then, while from every place of concealment they could find guns were discharged, a whole flight of arrows, tipped with flaming tow or balls of burning pitch, were dis- charged upon the roof, to be at | onee submerged by torrents of water. The Indians became furious, and in their madness, many came rushing toward the stockade, in the hope of pulling it down or fir- ing it. But these were shot down dead, or driven back limping to their intrenchments. Then sud- denly the look-out from above an- nounced thatthe Indians were dig- ging a trench by which to approach Without risk to themselves, but with the certainty of undermin- ing the outer defenses. hen came a cry from those the o be it was to kee or more water whose dut roof wet, handed up. There was not a drop left. The silence of despair, of such despair as shows itself in the re- solve to do or die, fell upon the whole party. But they were not men to give way. There was a well within the intrenchments, but if was in an exposed place, and to fetch a bucket thence was to rush to certain death. What, then, was to be done? A variety of rhe Sede tea were made, but none feasible. Mesuwhile the firing continued, and on the sentries’ platform was heard the quick, sharp, pacts erack of the deadly rifle, graspe by the widowed and bereaved father—a deady rifle that sent more souls to Hades than any within the fort. “There’s water everywhere hereabouts,”’ said a stalwart back- woodsman, aftera moment; “ let’s dig a well in the block.” A loud murmur of approval fol- lowed the suggestion, and in an instant four men who were used to the spade descended to that part oecupied by the trembling women and children, and huddling them up in one corner, began tearing up the boards and digging for their lives—and truly so, for once the block-house really on fire, all hope was gone. They might fight or surrender—death was equally cer- tain whichever course they de- cided on. Death for the brave defenders of the innocent, worse for them ; and ali knew this well. The skirt of the forest was now alive with Indians, who, though not taking any active part in the attack, were waiting with stoical patience for the time, which ap- peared nearer and nearer every moment, when they might rush in, flood the fort, and commence the awful work of destruction and de- solation. Still the Indians, having a num- ber of boys and youths loadin their pieces kept up a terrible and eonstant fire, every now and then adding the rrp § arrows, which still kept setting the roof on fire, and not a drop of water to ex- tinguish it. The men below work- ed with a steady determination from which nothing could move (hem; they heeded not the cries. “Water, for the love of God, water !’’ said one of the men in the upper block; ‘‘the roof is again on e They had stripped to cheir trow- gers, and having made the hole bi snough, were all four down in throwing up such heaps and piles of earth as had to be hasti'y re- moved by the women and cast into the open air. They could hear the erackling of the flames above, which seemed to tell them pein that all hope of successful de- fense was fast being removed. At this instant John Harding looked up, saw the smoking, char- red, and Sraing ae saw the stern looks of despair and rage which animated every bosom, and at once ascended the almost per- endicular ladder which led to the at roof, below the shelving one, and stood erect, a mark for the exulting, yelling, and delighted savages. A fearful storm of bullets fell Tike hail around him, but he seemed invulnerable, and so fully persuaded were the savages, after a moment, of this fact, that they suddenly ceased firing, and watch ed him with an air of stupor per- fectly ludicrous. With as much coolness as if he had been plucking flowers for his wife’s bouqet, he began tearin down the burning shingles an casting them out upon the ground. ; Then, having accomplished hie task, he gave a wild, unearthly, defiant shout, and disappeared. Heedless of the congratulations of the men, he returned to his post, and once more the steady, unerriung crack of his rifle was heard whenever an Indian showed himself. The red-skins seemed now to be alive to the fact that the beleagur- ed force had no water, for sudden- ly, without a moment’s warning, from every part of the rude breast- work, came a very cloud of arrows with blazing ends which speedily set the ill-starred roof in flames again. ‘Hurrah! down with the buckets,’’ shouted the excited dig- era. They had found water, which 80 near the river was always discover- ed at a moderate depth. In an in- stant a chain was made, and bucket after bucket passed from hand to hand, until the roof was perfectly deluged. From that mo- ment the Indians appeared to change their tactics. The at- tempt to set the place on fire was not renewed. But another feature was soon tu be introduced into the combat. Darkness began to fall over the scene, and under cover of the night it was not likely that the be- sieged would obtain much repose. Still, as no immediate attack was inade, it was arranged that all but fuursentries should seek rest, every man sleeping with his rifle close to his hand. As soon as this de- cision had been come to, one sentry ascended to the roof and lay down in such a position as to command a view of the clearing between the stockade and the forest. Suddenly the forest was agein alive with the marauders, and the flashes of the guns encircled the block-house with a line of fire, while every loop-hole of the block was again spouting flame and death. During this attack, Harris and John Harding, by previous con- cert, descended to the outside of the block, were let out of the gateway, and soon stood on the outside in the deep ditch which surrounded the stockade. Harding could not be persuaded to lie st: any longer, and Harris had deter- mined to accompany him. CHAPTER XVIII, SCOUTING. Tue task they had undertaken was one of the utmost danger and difficulty, and which yet experi- enced hunters could hope to over- come by the exertion of those vir- tues and arts which appertain to backwood life. They were armed to the teeth, they had exchanged the heavy shoe of every-day Tite for the moccasin, which gives a slow and stealtay glide, while both weré alive to the signs of the forest and the tricks of their rath- less enemies. Crawling in the ditch, the made adetour in the semen - rection to that by which the In. dians were making their fierce at- tack, and in this way almost made a circle of the forest until they came to a my from whence they could clearly distinguish the In- pe or working at the trench, which was now within fifteen yards of the stockade. This was alarming, as the inten- tion of the enemy clearly was to undermine the stockade and force an entrance in this way. But it was of importance to know this, as here would be rendered neces. a determined defense. till this was not the object wits sar
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a] * eS Sa ——s = ===: SSS ee ——— = i ee ee SSS eS 12 The first man who came was at Indian, who held in his hand » knot of resinous pine, which en abled him to follow his trail with certainty. It was indeed a singular and ghostly company to look upon a SO A N,N we whichthey hadcomeout. Hardin was in hope to find some traces 0 Chloe, the nurse. He was in agonies as long as he knew not the fate of his child. Better, he thought at times, that she was dead in company with her sainted mother than a prisoner in the hands of beings who would treat her with worse indignities than death. Then she might, perchance, be kept alive in hope of ransom, a yery common practice with the Indians, who, when triumphant in their forays, would, after roasting and skinning one or two to serve their fierce passions, keep the others to satisfy their cupidity, which was only second in influ- ence over them to their cruelty and savage instincts. Crawling past the trench, the two men surveyed the ground. Their object was to reach th forest and get in the rear of the In dians, and thus discover whether they had made any prisoners, and if so what was their numbers, and how they were guarded. Harding was resolved, in this case, to run every risk to rescue her who was to him now his all in all, the sole thing which bound him to an ex- istance otherwise desolate and hopeless. They crawied forward until they nearly reached the spot where they had started from, when, with- out a word, they moved along a kind of ridge which led direct to the forest. The firing still. con- tinued with unabated vigor, which was the sole chance of those two lonely scouts. It enabled them to make progress without being in any way noticed by the besiegers, as flash after flash came from both block and forest, And still they crawled on slowly, with the stealth of the serpent, until they reached a small hollow in the ground, where they took breath and peered forth upon the conflict. The defenders were re- pelling a furious attack from all parts. The Indians had simulta- neously rushed from every point of the compass, and were pouring volleys of both arrows and _ fire- arms es the devoted heads of the whites, the former weapons being always charged with burning tow and looking, in the darkness o the night, like fiery serpents. flow gladly would the bereaved father Care leveled his. rifle and picked off one of the ruthless savages, but his hand was stayed. Harris whispered to him to come, as lie was afraid of the other's for- bearance. Harding followed him, and in tive minutes more they had plung- ed beneath the arching bows of the forest. They moved with the cau- tion of Indians, as in every bush and brake, behind every tree, in every hollow might lurk one of the loping raseals that so hunger- ed for their prey. It was neces- sary to use the most extreme cau- tion-—-to move a step or two, to halt or listen, and move again, scarcely venturi to touch the ground with their feet for fear of tbe crackling boughs. It was the wish of Harris to cross the trail by which the Indians had coms, and then work back to their rear. Mile after mile did these two un- daunted seouts pass teneath the gloomy arches of the forest, no through tangled undergrowth and brushwood, now up the rugyed de- files of the mountains, down the precipitous sides, now over streama and gulleys, and yet not at any time being a mile and a half from + the settlement. seg saree gh A entered the bed of a mountain torrent that fed the Wabash in rainy weather. It wae overhung with trees, while not any undergrowth impeded their prc. gress. Suddenly both haltea to gazean, listen. They saw .a dozen will-o’-th«. wisp’s. ‘““Whatisit ?” said Harding, ins low, hushed voice. Harris laid his hand upon hh ari, aud pressed it in token of 8 lence. It seemed, at that hour and in that lace, a long train of shadowy orms, which glided like “p ari tions on a narrow war-path, s Tent, still, without step. Harding cocked his rifle. Every torch was extinguished, as if by magic, and the forest, from mere contrast, relapsed into deep: er and more total darkness. ‘ Be still,” whispered Harris in the other’s ear. ‘* You may shoot friends.” John Harding ground his teeth together and made no reply. Every faculty of his powerful frame was stunned, annihilated, dead. Then Harris stooped low, and gave three times running the hoot of an owl, which, being answered, he once more spoke: “Tis the scouts,’”’ he said, and rising, walked forward until he found himself with Massaquoit and half a dozen more of the rang- rs. It was then learned that the few 1isoners who had been taken, had en removed, under guard, to Chillicothe, where runners had one in search of reénforcements. he indian rising was general. The comunotion along the frontier was unusual. Everywhere men pre- lie fora long and deadly combat. very nightthe sky was red with the flames of burning cabins. But little tine was wasted in talking. The sound of the distant combat still was borne upon the breeze, and the united party de- termined on regaining the fort. It was time. During the dark- ness of the night, the Indians had pushed forward a kind of breast- work close up to the walls, and had set them on fire. The men were nearly stifled by the heat. The exterior walls of the block- house began to smoke, to peel, and lastly to burst into flames. The air was hotand sulphurous ; while men, with heated and be- rrimed faces, still peered forth, faking incessant aim at the enemy, while others handed up_ the buckets with an endless supply of water. And thus dawn came only to show them how little hope there was of prolonging the contest. As usual at this hour, the Indians made a general onslaught from every quarter, paola eir hid- eous war-cry in voices hoarse with fury and hate. ut forth from the forest burst a long array of men, armed with rifle and musket, who take the In- dians ‘ehind, and change the na- ture of ‘he contest. The forest rang- ers, reénforced by the inhabitants of neighboring settlements, who had marched all night, dealt death upon the foe. Then out rushed the besieged, and away to the cover of the woods rush the astonished savages, there to make a last and desperate stand. The contest is now ferocious and desperate. With gun, with toma- hawk, with knife, from behind trees and bushes, in hand-to-hand conflict, death is dealt freely round —but wherever the battle rages most desperately, whereve1 Cc) savages make a bolder stand than usual, there is the bereaved bus. band and father, dealing death at every blow and immo ating In- dian’ after Indian to his terrible feelings of revenge. At last the awnee warriors broke and fled in every direction, nor haJted until the scouts report ed their total departure from the country. But the black and char- red fort, the devastated fields, the ruin on the hill, remained to tell the story of one of the most terri- ble conflicts which signalized the commencement of that war. Then came the funeral of her who had made John Harding a happy and contented man. t was attended by every man, woman and child in the settle- ment, who knew and loved her. It was to note the grief of The Big Hunter. that powerful man as he stood at the head of the grave and saw the coffin lowered. He watched while the grave was being filled, and then turned away without a word. They saw him no more. They heard that he had employed, at a great expense, Indian traders to negotiate for the ransom of his daughter, if alive, but the result was never known. The settlement was rebuilt; but Mrs. Harris was so much hurt at the loss of Constance that she in- sisted on her boy being sent for safety to New York, where he was educated until he was a hve 4 man, when he, of his own accord, left the capital to join his father and with a determination to fit himself for the life of a hunter, in order to qualify himself for the task of seeking out the lost child, which, in the warmth of his young heart, he suspected to be alive. CHAPTER XIX, DANIEL BOONE’S HOME. SvuoH was the story told by the young man to his renee, when, after their escape from the cave, they camped the next night at a considerable distance from the scene of their eseape. They hid in a canebrake without a fire, to avoid being discovered by their enemies. Their escape from the cave had peen very simple. The cavern was an old cacheof Massaquoit’s which had a kind of shaft leading to the summit of the rock. In shaft he had stuck atree, which had pro- jecting branches, which enabled him easily to ascend and descend at will. Early in the see after a hasty meal, they started on their way, and traveling by forced marches, as it were, soon reached the spot where the two men had parted from their companions. But not a trace of them was to be found. They searched the woods and mountains, they visit- ed the block-house, they followed the trail across the prairies back- ward and forward in vain. They had given up all hope, it was clear, and had returned home to spread the news, doubtless, of their ner perished in the in- terminable forests and canebrakes of Kentucky. This decided them at once on a hasty return home, especially as the great hunter had ly determined to return with his whole family and settle in a scanned which so delighted his eart. In his heart, Ned Harris approved of his determination and came to the same resolution. His mind was made up to visit the Cedar Valley, ind nowhere could he hope to start with more chance of success than from the plains which the savages he was in pursuit of made use of as their hnuting-grounds, Harris was pretty well aware of the dangerous character of the task he had undertaken, and also that he must study woodcraft and Indian warfare before he could none to succeed in the design he had so dearly at heart. This must, of course, be a question of time, while he must seek as much as possible association with men of experience and courage who were capable of initiating him into all the secrets of the backwoods, The residence of Boone was at no great distance from the settle- ment inhabited by Harris’s father, so that the young hunter determin- ed to visit that Bret and discover what progress could be made in hastening their removal to the lovely plains and splendid forests of the west. Massaquoit led them by short cuts, which his experience made him perfectly acquainted with and at last, after two years, Daniel Boone came Once more in sight of his residence. There had been a storm in the night, but all now was clear. The mo looked bright and beautiful, the birds sung cheerily on every bough, the rain sparkled brightly upon grase and twigs, and fhere they stood gazin own upon the village, scarcely yet awake. It was like most of the settle- ments in those days, having a wall of buildirgs and palisades to pro- tect the village. There were a couple cf yates, near which a a sentry always stalked as sur- prises were common, There were some thirty cabins, while all around were the signs of affluence and prosperity. th a hurried step, the future atriarch of the wilds advanced ward his home, followed at a short distance by his two com panions. When about thirty yards from the inclosure the gate opened, and two or three men came lounging out. Casting their eyes in the direction of the new-comers, they gave a loud shout. They had recognized the truant and called him by name. In another minite, wife, sons, and daughters came rushing forth, too delighted to receive ohe, who, as it were, came forth from the rave, to blame him for his long deser- tion. The scene was an exciting and a pleasing one. All had given pdm up for lost, so that the rejoic- me, were the more hearty. 1en came the welcome to the stranger, wlio was most heartily re- ceived. The day scarcely sufficed for the record of their adventtsres, which Danie] mixed with sc tany vivid descriptions of the new country as to inflame the minds of his hearers. This was exactly what he desired, and when Harris left him that evenizg he privately intimated that he might hold him- self in readiness, as he should start with his family for the promised ‘and as soon as he could dispose of his farm. It comes not within the compass of our narrative to narrate the events of the next few months, during which Ned Harris suffered all the torments of anxiety and doubt. Of a romantic and ardent temperament, he longed to be on the trail. Even if he should not recover his little Constance—his child-wife—he might be serviceable to some other white girl, and that would repay his sufferings and his labor. But Boone was a long time sell- ing his farm, and though the youth hunted and shot in the mean time, and inured himself to every hardship of forest and hunt- ing life, yet was his impatience great, when at last the welcome summons came. Bidding farewell to his friends, and amply pro- vided with arms and ammunition, as well as a good horse, he was speedily on his way once more to brave the perils of the wiids, and share the fortunes of the great pioneer of power and civili- tation. CHAPTER XX. THE CARAVAN, More like a procession from the ark was the caravan which started from North Carolina, one fine morning, on their way to distant and unknown plains. There were severa) large drawn by oxen, to carry their valuables, and in which the women and children were placed. Then came some forty horsemen, armed to the teeth, with flocks of swine and cattle with which to stock the land they were to take possession of by the law of the strong arm. It was Boone and his friende on their way to settle in Kentncky, where the brave pioneer and his companions —among whom we have to name Ned Harris—had, after serious hardship and peril, erected a fort and affected a ‘‘clear- ing”’ preparatory to a permanent occupation of the soil. This oc- cupation it was the caravan’s de- sign to make, and despite the dangers of the he ey all, old and young, were in h spirits. None were happier than Ned, who being the fast friend of Boone, ha’ willingly consented to return with
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him to the East, from which tc pilot the little convoy to the ‘promised land.”’ ed Harris was delighted. Not only was the secret wish of his heart to be tified, but he fore- saw that his love of adventure beh meet with ample satisfac- tion. They were about entering on a vust ond dangerous territory, fre quented by wild and savage tribes, who would not allow them to set- tle without a struggle. Ned was a great favorite. His handsome face and figure, his manly tones, and readiness to aid any, women and children especial- Iv soon won him golden opinions, here were two charming girls in one of the wagons, about fifteen — of age, who seemed never appy but when he was beside them. These were Amy Boone and Edith Callaway; of whom, more at a future time. In this way the caravan continu- ed on its way, ever keeping a sharp look-out; halting in places where a surprise was unlikely, and always throwing out a couple of aati men as scouts to seek for ndian trails. At the end of a few days they were far away from the outmost haunts of civilization, on the borders of the country they were longing to reach. After crossing the Chick iver suspiciour s had teen marked of Indians, so that on one particu- lev night unusual caution was exer- eised. The country was very wooded, and the progress made through the woods was so slow, that several horsemen determined to scour the appre in search both of me an enemies. Among these was Harris. He, however, soon found that in the direction which he had selected progress on horseback was im- possible, so, dismounting, led his horse, and began ascending a slope which appeared likely to _ lead to a hight whence he could have a view of the country. _He was now alone, and cast upon his Own resources; a thing he had long desired, as it enabled him to test his own capacity to deal with the difficulties of the forest un- aided. The way he had chosen was steep and rocky, the trees and brushwood made him take con- tinual turnings, so that it was a long time ere he reached the sum- mit of the hill. When he had done so he found the hill so crowd- ed by trees that he could not see a dozen yards. His only chruce then was slowly to descend the hill on the other side. Not a bird, not a deer-tracn had as fm rewarded his exertions. t was now mid-day, and young Harris, looking up at the heavens, in order to make a starting-point, erept cautiously down a hill stee er than that which he had ascend- ed. At ths bottom was a kind of eanebrake, very swanipy, but, to his great delight, with a deer track right across it. Slowly creeping along—the mark was 1e- cent— he held his rifle ready, ard cocked it. Just as he did $0, Le heard something moving through the canebrake. His gun was level- ed, he saw the head of an animal, and pulled the trigger hastily. The gun flashed in the pan, just as a stout horse, supporting an In- dian warrior, with a woman clasp- ing him round the waist, and a <= +4 being seated in front, came in he Indian had his head not seen him being turned the other way. Harris bent low, and let the In- dian pass, while he kept his eye fixed upon the path he followed. Believing him to be alone, he crept behind without showin himself, following the trail, which alone served to guide him. The Indian moved leisurely, like one who was at home, and suddenly turning a point in the forest, came in view of a village by a murmur- ing stream. It was a lovely spo wrapped in stillness, except tha here and there warriors lay about smoking and chatting, while the women seemed to be at work in the wig wame, Edward Harris felt that he was too near to danger to be pleasant, while also it was his duty to warn the camp of the near proximity of the merciless savage. Just as he was reflecting on the best course to pursue, some men came running from the oppealte side of the open space, evidenly in a state of great excitement. All the warriors, about a hundred in number, leap ed to their feet, and Harris was at once convinced, from their ges. tures, that the caravan had been discovered, Then the solemn vity of the Indians returned, and while some prepared their arms, the chiefs hel council, eyen sitting down round the camp-fire with pipes in their mouths, in order to fix their course of actionwith due solemnity There was no time to lose, as, once started, their course would be swift, from their know- ledge of the forest. He according] turned to flee ere he was acci- dentally discovered, when up from the river rose a dense and heavy fog—the effect of a sudden change »f wind—which spread oyer hill and dale. lawn and river, untii he sould scarcely see the bush five ,ards before him, This was an awful situation No mun, in such a case, could fina his way in the forest except an Indian. Ae might wander about until he was quite lost, or might walk straight upon the camp. Still, from: sheer want of experience, he tried to keep away, but presently found his mistake. He could see shadowy forms close to him, and was fain to lie down and wait ia silence. Then he heard the low, monoto- nous chant of the savages, as they went through some incantation previous to their departure. Harris was in agonies. To allow his friends to be attacked, to suffer the innocent women and children to fall into the hands of people who show no mercy, was horrible. But he was helpless. To cross the mountain, with a war party in the woods, and énveloped | in such & fog as this, was impossible. His only chance was to follow in their trail; and this he resolved to do, Listening, with all his faculties strained, he could distinctly make them out marshaling in a body and, stooping low, heard the du tramp of a hundred moccasined feet upon the sward. Keeping, more by feeling than any thing else, along the of the opening, he came close to them, as the jast man disappeared beneath the leafy arches of the forest. It was a great risk, as to follow he must keep thea :n sight, when he might himseuw be dis- covered. To obviate this, he tried to guide himself by the sense of hearing, and for some time was suc- cessful, though every now and then he almost stumbled over the rear- guard. Presently he caught a glimpse of a tall warrior in the act of listen- ing. His footsteps had betrayed him. The man stood still a minute or two, peering with keen I practiced eyes into every ush. Meanwhile, the main body cor- tinued on its way. But the single tall warrior, bringing his long rifle to an aim, step ed back slowly. “Come oat of there,” said the tall man, in a hushed tone. “ Boone!” eried Harris. “ Hush!” said Boone, “ You - man, you have begun well, An ol hand could not have hit upon a more proper way of tracking the varmints. But hush, and follow me. They must not attack the caravan without a warning or we | are lost. Not another word was spoken but Boone, hastening on, ere the column quite disappeared, motion ed to Harris to keep close to him He was quite fit to grapple with the cunning savages. His nature was stern, simple, and gies and what a red-skin could do, tha' could he, Presently they began ascending aslope and it at ouce oecame evi A) tury oe bat Tee SER ee Nee. yates: Zn ¥ sb6 < Rat Poe gee ' The Big Hunter. | dent that the fog was fiminishing in intensity. Boone touched Harris on the shoulder, and drew him on one side. Then hurriedly whispering him to follow, he set off down a sort of gully, which seemed to tend in the direction of the one. The path was rude and arduous in the éxtreme, but they were striv- te those they loved. ark! they are at the end of the gully, a steep rock is before them, they are forced to crawl on their hands and knees; while close at hand they hear the stealthy steps of a large body of men, and there they go, just on the skirt of the wood, while below the men are lounging abou without their arms, the women an children, at some distance, near a pool, chiefly engaged in washing clothes. ere is not a single mo- ment to be lost. They clamber to the top, they level their rifles at the Indians, and then, with a ter- rible whoop, they rush down the wo. followed by the whole’ bo y. In time, for the men have sized their arms, and the women have eoncealed themselves behind the wagons. he Indians, in another moment, were flying to cover, in conse- quence of’ the tremendous dis- charge of rifles they had to en- counter. They, however, soon rallied, and poured on the de- voted heads of the emigrants shot after shot. But the brave pioneers were too good shots, and too de- termined, to give way. Their fir- ing was incessant and deadly. The Indians were less expert in the use of their weapons, so that at last they retired, and the forest once more relapsed into its pristine quiet. But Boone’s eldest son was shot with five others, and several were wounded. The grief of the brave hunter was terrible to behold, and a council was at once called, in order to determine on their future course. A very large number wished to turn back and give up Kentucky forever, but to this the grieving but still bold hunter objected. And his counsels prevailed. The caravan reorganized, and gg: a somewhat diverse route y the Chick river, succeeded in safely net the chosen loca- tion on the beautiful Kentucky river, where the pioneers at once addressed themselves to the work of fortification and clearing. CHAPTER XXL A SERIOUS RESOLVE. A YEAR later we are on the banks of the beautiful Kentucky river, its luxuriant vegetation somewhat cleared by settlers, while a small town has arisen, known to fameas Boonesborough. Here the brave leaders of the thousands who afterward peopled the region, have taken up their abode, in the center of a wilder ness, which at were daily bring- Lg er subjection. Not a single attack had been made on them by Indians the whole period of their - pat his pacific conduct on the of the red~.«ins had been Be Rr interpreted. Some have record it as the consequence of a desire on their part to be at which desire would have been carried out but for that t contest between England and her colonies, in which the Indians were to play so conspi- cuous a Advantage had been taken of this circumstance to push forward their settlements, to erect houses and forts, and generally to sur- round their habitations with corn and other fields, signs of present pe bse and future prosperity and happiness. un parties were organized within a moderate distance in the woods, without danger, or the thought of it; and Boone began think the place altogether too 13 uiet. for him, he caring kittle for life when not accompanied by a spice of excitement. There is enough coming. Not a step had been ies in the cause which Edwaid Harris had so much at heart. Not one of the eminent hunters who were as- sociated with Boone could tell him with certainty where the Valley of Cedars lay. Harris rew moody, was seldom seen in he settlements, and when there kept apart from all. His life was spent beneath the protecting boughs of the forest, until he be- came so inured to the life of the woods as to venture on the reali- zation of a scheme which had long been pressing itself upon his brain. He would start on his journey alone. He knew the direction in which the valley lay, and he believed that, with patience and perseverance, he might succeed in reaching the place where, according to the story of Lealliwah, there was a white girl, who might be the long lost Constance. He knew that scattered over the vast continent were hardy trappers, who, in de- fiance of the Indians, traveled even to the regions beyond the Missouri river; and from some of these he might hope to procure a clue to the spot indicated by the rl as the secret home of the ribe. This resolution had not been taken without due reflection. Every possible difficulty had been foreseen and dehated in his own mind. A canoe had been secretly procured, arms and ammunition provided, and such provisions as would keep, stored away in a oo only known to himself. But though he was quite panes he still made no signs of moving. He was waiting for Massaquoit, who had promised to come with the spring leaves, but who came not. The young man and the In- dian were great friends. They had, since the fight at Cumberland Gap, been much in one anotlier’s company. They had hunted the forest and fished the river together. But Massaquoit was needed else- where, so they parted; but not witnout fixing a rendezyous. Har- ris wished to see him alone, and be- fore any of the others were aware of his return. He knew well that every sune mind would look upon his project as sheer madness, and that all reasonable men would try to dis- suade him from its attempt. He therefore kept it a strict secret, until it gnawed his vitals, and made him gloomy, saturnine, and worn, like one who has endured both great bodily and mental suf- nine 4 But the time was 1st approach- ing when his constancy and valor would be tried. The sun was ape down its beams, so as to show that eveni was soon coming, when Harris walked to the bank of the Ken- tucky, at a spot remote from the station, where the river was as wide as a lake, and where a small spit of land indicated the mouth of the lagoon up which his canoe was concealed. ere he sat himself down at the foot of a tree and waited, his rifle resting on his knee. He was very thoughtful, for that which he was about to under- take was a dangerous and almost hopeless task ; but. what will not outh and enthusiasm attempt bh the cause of affection or of love ? Presently, as the last tint of light faded in the western sky, a step was heard, and Massaquoit stood before h The greeting was friendly, even cordial, for the Indian was used to the society of the whites. Then the two again seated themselves, and a pipe be- ing lighted, smoke? the calumet of e. Perhen Harris, witnout further preface, unfolded his design, to which the Indian listened with a deep and solemn grivity that be- came so distinguished a warrior. He made no gesture of assent or dissent, but a gleam in his ‘eyes
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showed that admiration of the other’s courage was the uppermost idea in his mind. “Ugh!” hesaid, when the other had concluded; ‘‘my brother is very braye, but ere one moon is passed he will lie food for the wolf and vulture, if he undertakes this terrible journey!’ ‘““ Why so?” “The way is long, the trail is arid, and the forests are filled ty my people.” “But goi must. quoit, go I will!” “But why does the young white brave speak in the ears of Massa- quoit ?”’ ‘*Because I want you to paint me so like an Indian that not even a Shawnee would know me.” “ Ugh!” cried Massaquoit, with a grim smile. ‘I will be cautious and careful ; I will travel by night and hive by day, so that not an Indian may see me. I feel sure that I shall find some traces of those who may guide me tothe Valley of Cedars.” “Tt is beyond the ym Father of Waters,” said assaquoit, who then, in picturesque and copious language, painted the thousand and one difficulties he would have to endure. ‘* My father is very wise,”’ said Harris, quietly; ‘‘but a white brave has but one word—I have spoken.”’ Massaquoit made no reply, but after a short time taken in reflec- tion proceeded to light a fire. This done, he opened a wallet, and took from it a number of articles necessary to the operation he was about to carry out. In the course of his scouting expeditions he had often to change his dress, to transform himself from a warrior into a medicine-man, or buffoon, and vice versa, accor ling to the tribe he had to deal with. Harris wished to appear a hunter in the peaceful pursuit of his vocation. He knew the language of numer- jous tibes, and trusted in this to earry him kn a The moment the fi e was lighted, the scene became most pictur- esque. The light caused all with- out ite circle to appear dark and gloomy, while the river flowed past like a black canal, and the ne of trees on the eee bank was like a perpendicular wall. Harris tion of the Indian, to divest him- self of a fod only of his dress, which he then arranged in such a way as that, at a distance, he might easily be taken for an In dian. If captured, Massaquoit ad- vised him to own to being a white man, who, loving the forest and prairie life, had adopted the rb of the owners of the soil. his the Indians might take as a compliment. Then he proceeded to paint the face, arms, and breast of the bold outh with lines and totems that Now, Massa- ndicated peaceful intentions. He smiled grimly when he had finished, and said that if Harris were seen lurking about Boones- borough he would certainly be shot. Scarcely had the words been said, when the reportof a rifle was heard, a bullet whizzed past, and, without touching either of them, buried itself in a tree. The two men disappeared. like magic from within the circle of the fire. “Indians,” said Harris, whisper- ing in the other’s ear ‘No—white men—took my bro- ther for Indian,” replied Massa- quoit, with a smile; and without another word, he cast himself down under a bush, and prepared to — ; Harris did the same, though he would gladly have had further ex- lanation. But he knew the In- ian too well to hope to extract any more from him, He could not, however, sleep for a long time. He lay and watched the moldering embers of the fire and the darkly flowing river and moonless night, listening all the time for the sound of another attack. But it aa not, and toward gray dawn fell asleep. 4 roceeded, by the direc- The Big Hunter. When he awoke he was quite alone. CHAPTER XXII. A STRANGE MEETING. Harris felt no great surprise at the other's absence, but waited patiently until he happened to glance his eyes across to the op- posite bank, where hé saw his own eanoe, and next minute onservea Massaquoit come forth from the dark wood, enter the boat, and paddle across. When he came near, Edward noticed that he had a turkey in the prow of his boat. A friendly greeting took place, the fire was replenished, and the turkey placed in a position to be cooked quickly. Meanwhile Ed- ward waited with some impatience to know if Massaquoit had made any discovery as to the author of the shot which might have proved 80 fatal. But he made no allusion of any kind to the subject. At last the young man’s curiosity could be restrained no longer. ‘* Did my brother see any sign of a wild animal in the wood?” he said, with a quiet smile. “Tt was a pale-face hunter who shot at my white friend—one who neyer missed before,’ replied Massaquoit. He said no more, and as, Harris saw that he did not wish to be questioned he ane the subject, raked the fire, made hot embers, and placed pieces of turkey to broil. As soon as breakfast was finished, he smoked his last pipe with his companion, shook him by the hand, entered bis canoe, and with one firm stroke of the paddle, sent it whirling down the stream. Nor did he once turn his head until he reached a bend in the river which indicated that he was about to lose sight of the camp. Then he moved his head and saw Massaquoit standin motionless on the spit of lan where they had passed the night. A slight choking sensation was experienced by Harris—the pain of all partings—and then he looked once more forward. The river was well known to him, and so thickly wooded were its banks that be had little fear that day of being waylaid by any lurk- ing Indians. Still he kept a good look-out, having his rifle close to his hand to be prepared for any tme-gency. The hunter and the ranger Of the forest may never sleep except. when under shelter, and then he must sleep lightly. He must be alive to the ciucking of a twig, to the tramping of feet on grass, to the removal of a stone, to the rustling of the trees. Every time Ned Harris came to a bend in the river, he crept in- shore and examined the beach be- fore him with extreme care, until convinced that he was safe. Then he pushed forward boldly, and ere nightfall he was nearly at the mouth of the Kentucky river. Then he determined to halt and rest for some hours ere he continu- ed his journey. The stream was wide and swift, and in the distance could be seen the waters of the reat and mighty river into which t was soon to be merged. Looki round, he selected a small plot of ground overhung by trees. The k was lofty and pba jah but the boughs hun; own low enough to almost tou the water. nderneath this he drew himself, and after fasteni his tiny boat, and taking a trugal repast, he lay down to sleep with a cloak over him, and his close to his hand. How long he slept it was difficult to say, but when he awoke the darkness was intense. But determined to proceed and rest the whole of the next day. Pushing out into the stream, he moved far enough away from the shore to be out of danger of snags, and mes of guiding his boat with his paddle, glided along into the t waters of the larger river, ‘he scene was awe-inspiring to one of his temperament. Alone with a vast continent stretching to the right and left, thousands of ene- mies on every hand, to say nothing of wild beasts and other terrors; it appeared almost madness on his part to dare such perils. But he had faith in his good fortune. About an hour after his journey began the moon rose, and he kept close to the Kentucky shore, for he coulc make out, by the pale, silvery light that there were savage villages on the opposite banks, while every now and then there came, carried on the wind, the baying of their dogs. But Net knew that he was not as yet near a district where he could hope to hear any thing of the Valley of Cedars, which he so erly desired to visit. ush! Even the sound of pad- dles dipped in the water are danger- ous, for he hears voices close at ‘hand. He was about to turn a pelt overgrown with trees, when be sound of human beings en- ed in conversation drew his at- tention. Without a jerk, merely putting his hand out and clutching the first twig which presented it- self, he checked the progress of his canoe, and listened. As he did so he came within view of a small blaze of light. ‘*Keep still — persimmon and pickles—if but a spark was seen on tav other side, they’d be down on us indroves. There’s a big vil- lage opposite.” ““T know it,” said a stern, low voice, so deep and hollow as fairly to make Ned Harris start. ‘‘ And there’s dozens of widows and or- phans to tell of the power of my rifle. I care not if they come.”’ ‘But this child does, consider- ing he’s gota tolerable veneration for his hair, and don’t want it lift- ed, I don’t care fora few Injins, but don’t convene to fight a thou- sand yelling, yelping curs, We're on a nice trail this side, and can pick off a dozen or so,” ‘*T will never spare one of the bloody wretches,” said the other speaker. Ned Harris was at a loss what to do, He fortunately remembered his dress, or he would have ad- vanced to the camp at once—as it was, he determined to announce himself first, and advance after. The two men started violently, > Rae their rifles, but nct ris- ng. “A friend is at hand,” he said, in a loud, clear voice. “Ayre you alone?’ said the more prudent of the two. “Tam,”’ replied Harris, ‘* quite alone.”” ‘* Then come and show yourself.’’ “T am disguised as an Indian, which has cost me one shot al- ready; 80 I had to be cautious with men who have such ideas about Indians.’’ As he spoke, he walked an = up to the fire and sat down. ‘The two men looked at him without speaking, and he had leisure to ex- amine them, One wasa real down- easter, He was a tall, lanky-legged, alg individual, with strange hin arms and general awkwa appearance, not detracted from by a very seedy hunter’s suit. His leather shirt had seen very many better days; while his once white felt hat was so begrimed and mud- died as to be very much like those wesee sometimes kicked about be urchins in a field in company wi tin pots and broken china, of countenance, almost for ane: e. ‘““Who painted you such a par- ™? Fy the first spea. ought it was some of his deviltry. But what a up in th ae ta ee **T want to find the way to the Valley of Cedars,”’ he said, quiet- ly; “I have reason to believe some white girls are kept prisoners there.” ‘“Whew!’’ said Nathan, with a prownmes whistle; ‘‘the Valley ot Jedars —why it’s miles — thous ands |? The other man spoke not, but he gazed on Harris with eyes like burning coals. ‘*T don’t care,” cried the im- petuous youth. “And pray, young man, what are your reasons,’’ said ihe stern hunter, ‘‘ for thinking that some white girls are prisoners there ?”’ ‘““T was a prisoner once with some Shawnees, and a girl named Lealliwah told me there were some white girls, though she was not sure if the one I wanted was there,” said the young man, modestly. ‘““What was her name ?”’ “ Constance Harding.” “And yours ?”’ ‘* Edward Harris.” **T have heard of this before,”’ suid the man, with something like a hollow groan; “‘you must be brave and staunch to affront such danger for a chance. I haye sworn never to spare an Indian man, wo- man, or child; but one beside Massaquoit shall be sacred. I have had that girl at the end of my rifle many times, but something, | know not what, restrained me. It was not her excessive beauty; no —it was not that; but there was something, I know not what, | will go to the Valley of Cedars with ou Ned Harris listened to him with awe and admiration as he spoke in low, solemn, almost musical ac- cents. ‘Let us sleep, for at dawn we must proceed.” And he lay down in search of slumber which seldom is refused to the voyagers in the open air. But it came not readily, as for some hours Ned was kept awabe by sighs and groans of a character which betokennd a mind ill at 280. CHAPTER XXIIL INDIAN DEVILTRIES. Tue choristers of nature had just begun to warble forth their notes, when the three men sat up, on a raw, cold morning to con- sume their first meal, which was taken in silence. Harris was then told that he must leave his canoe for a day or two, as they were on an expedition which must not be neglected. A small troupe of In- dians were about lying in wait for some of their own countrymen of another tribe, and already several had fallen, They were determined to exterminate the lot, Ned Narris saw no harm in kill- ing as many Indians of a hostile party as possible, so that he made no great difliculty about joining them. The hunters were on the trail, which was fresh, but conceal- ed with rare art and ingenuity, ag the mysterious loss of one or two of their party had alarmed them. But not a speck, not a leaf re- moved from its place, escaped the eagle eye of the exterminator of the red-skin race. About mid-day they came up with the spot where they had halted the night before, and whence they had not long depart- ed. Without a moment’s halt they were on the trail, which was now easy to be followed. At the end of about a mile they came to where it parted for a short dis- tance. They followed the lesser, and then discovered that it ended in a small dell, where the signs of a great tussle were clearly visible on the ground. “Some poor white man,’’ said the stern hunter; ‘‘let us go.” And with terrible strides he hurried away, until they came toa sudden halt in frontof a hilloe above which rose a column smoke. Up, this they hurried, to find
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themselves at the summit of a perpendicular cliff, from which they looked down upon a scene never to be forgotten. In the center of an open space was a large stake driven into the ground, and surrounded by hastily made faggots of a combustible wood. ‘To a tree was tied a man— evidently a white man—so as to be able to see all the preparations for his own execution; while men, women, and children danced around him, with a wild and fiendish exultation which appears foreign to human nature. They shrieked and yelled in a manner more worthy of insane maniacs than men. Then their ranks opened, and the prisoner—a man of tall and erect form—was led to the stake. His uwrms were solidly bound behind him, and then another rope wae fastened to his wrists, of sufficient length to enable him to walk round the stake. The faggots o1 wood were placed about five feet from the stake, and at a signal from a tall chief they were fired uow here, now there. Then up rose the frightful yells and laugh- ter of the Indians, as they saw the prisoner moving about within the liery circle to avoid the flames. But hespoke not. He knew the dreadful character of the men he had to deal with. The Indians now formed in a large circle, and danced around, now holding out their hands as far as possible, then running up almost to where the flames burst forth. The combustible hickory rods soon burned out, and there stood the prisoner, black, scorched, mad with pain, but alive. This was in- tense enjoyment to the Indians, who now flew at him, trod out the embers, and began mutilating him in the most horrible manner with their knives. Then, at a signal, they desisted, only to change the mode of torture. ‘To show what human nature can endure, we must mention that his ears, fingers and other parts had heen cut off, but he was still alive and erect. The wretches now be- gan firing charges of powder into the calves of his legs, while the devilish Indian boys applied burn- ing brands to different parts of his person. He seemed dlinded now, and as he ran about from side to side to avoid his cruel tormentors, only to meet others still moze cruel, the women and boys scream. ed with pleasure, while the men sounded either the war-whoop or sung some song of rejoicing. Now they throw hot coals under his feet, until in his agony he shrieks for some one to kill him, The tall hunter leveled his rifle. ‘“We shall be served as bad,” said Nathan, quietly. “T can not bear it,’ said the stern and dark hunter; “do you kill yonder tall Indian, while I shoot the poor dying man. Then ” ig Mighty tall tracks we'll have to make,” growled Nathan, “to get away from them savages. But a willful man will have his way— here goes—” They all three fired. The victim seemed to stand still, then stagger, aud fall to the ground; while two of the most active of his tormen- tors shared his fate. The rest stood still, paralyzed, and then came bounding in ‘the direction of the three audacious white men. They no sooner saw the effect of | their volley than they took to their heels, making no attempt at concealment, but trusting w olly | to the fleetness of their feet, Away over hill and dale went Edward, losing sight of his com- peor after the word canoe had | een shouted. For some time hig ) pace was tremendous. Indeed, he afterward confessed that he never ran s0 fast in his life. But present~ ly he ceased, to take breath, and turned round. Not an Indian was in sight. Still he knew that some dozen exasperated savages were on his trail. e therefore, after load- ing his ae made tracks, as Na- than would have said, but uot using wi dio slvength, reserving it for a last desperate struggle. Bis design was to reach the river, swim a few hundred yards, land again, and thus destroy the trail. His ear was alive to every sound, and presently he knew, or thought he knew, that his pursuers were upon him. He was on the edge of a small prairie, bounded by some trees that appeared to line the river. Just as he began to run, he saw Nathan burst from cover, run- ning at afearful rate. A loud and triumphant cry announced that he too was discovered. It is on such oceasions that men ean run. They have been known to do so for twenty miles, and drop down dead at last. The Indians came bounding after them at a fearful pace, that would have distressed a profes- sional runner. But the white men rained ground, and the exasperate: Yodians then fired a volley, and the next thing Harris knew was that he had risen to the surface, after an involuntary plunge into the deep waters of the Ohio. With a hasty glance, he saw that Nathan was close to him, ene He tried to clutch him with his left hand; it was useless—his arm was broken. With a sudden jerk, he caught him with his right, and dragged bim under the cliff, which, worn away by the vast ac- cumulation of waters, projected many feet out at the top over the base. Ou the waters of the Ohio float- ed a cap and an old white felt hat. This saved them. The Indians, after some consul- tation, came to the conclusion that they were drowned, and therefore turned their backs, in order, at all events, to enjoy the luxury of aid- in the capture and execution of the third fugitive. But though thus reprieved, the state of the fugitives was any thing but envi- able. Ned Harris had been shot through the arm, Nathan through both legs; while both had lost their guns, ‘Their case could not pe more desperate. ‘You'd better vaimoose, stran- gery said Nathan; ‘‘?m done ‘OF. ” ‘Nonsense! we'll have many a tussle yet. We must make the best of a bad job. Here, get on my back, and we’ll get yonder to where there are some trees.” Nathan obeyed with a groan, and after a terrible trial of Harris’s strength, they clambered through the water, and reached a low bank bd eis ig with trees, fell exhaust- ed and fainting on the ground. When they came to, their first act was to listen earefully to find if they were pursued. The next task was to see to their wounds, which were painful Here the ex- perience of the practiced back- woodsman came into play. He ointed out leaves and herbs to rris, who, after some time, found them, and making, under the other’s direction, a kind of poultice, by means of water and two flat stones, applied to the wounds, using strips torn from their shirts to bind the rude but soothing apparatus. Then their wallets were examin- ed for food, which fortunately proved abundant, while both had rum, which they used sparingly. Then Harris took up his compa- nion, and despite the undergrowth, despite the inequalities of the way despite his own wounds, he went courageously on. He could go but little distance at a time, anc | seemed to suffer so much that Nathan often implored him to go alone, and send some of the ran- gers in search of him. But no — Harris would never leave him. And thus, for three days and three nights, they crawl- ed along, halting an hour at a time, snatching a hasty sleep, and then pushing on again, defenseless, unarmed; while the forests were alive not only with men, but sa- vage beasts, that prowl about in- cessantly in search of human pray. At length food and spirits yuve out. t night they lay eit | two as forlorn, wretched The Big Hunter. | 15 hopeless men as ever the dark mantle of night concealed from mortal gaze. They slept, however, for they were utterly exhausted. “Go,” said Nathan, when day- light onee more beamed upon them; ‘‘go—I am dying! move. Let me lie in peace !’’ ‘““Nonsense! Are yonder ber- ries good to eat?’ pointing to a oush near at hand. The other nodded his head, and on some berries and water they made their breakfast ; after which, faint, weary, and sore-footed, they went their way. That day Harris aie in every quarter of an hour. ut courage and perseverance will do much, and when that night they reached the end of their journey, they were not far from the creek where the canoe was concealed. That night they lay in a thick canebrake, and toward midnight were aroused by horrible sounds. These were the hideous yells of the savages at no great distance, while stil) nearer could be heard the howls of famished wolves. They had knives, and prepared for the last desperate struggle. But both Indians and wolves passed away, and about daybreak they were again able to start. What the heroic Harris suffered can never be known, for he kept it to himself then and afterward; his agony must have been in- tense. But he had his reward. That day the canoe was found intact, and the two exhausted and wound- ed men halted at once to recruit themselves. A hearty supper and a hearty breakfast revived them, and next day they were once more on the waters of the great river, paddling against stream on their way home. This was no easy task, as they were both cripples; but two days later, two unkempt, haggard, and worn-looking men drew up their canoe to a landing near the settlement, and literally crawled ashore. Harris could no longer carry Nathan, so that they both had to craw] on their hands and knees. No one was visible. They were doubtless in the fields. But, yes —yonder are two merry, laugh- ing girls in a canoe, on the cm site side of the river, paddling themselves slowly along, and float- ing gayly with the river. For the sake of shade, they keep near the bank. The two men know them well enough, and think how pleasant it is, after so fearful a journey, to find themselves in sight of youth, beauty, and happiness. But Ned Harris sighed as he thought of those unfortunates far away, whose fate he so ardently wished toascertain. A vision of a never-forgotten face came to him, and he gave a deep sigh. Suddenly they turn their heads in the direction where the two men are © ying. Harris has given a shrill ery. He has seen, though they have not, a tall Indian, bend ing from the bank, and taking hold of the stern of the canoe. A wild, piercing cry from the girls, a flerce shout from the two wounded men, and the girls are gone, while crowds of women and old men came rushing to the bank. Harris cried wildly for armed men tofollow on the trail, or 8 the red-skins had stolen two irls. ** What girls ?”’ “Amy Boone and Edith Callo- = Two agonizing shrieks burst from the grieving mothers. “But where are the men?” cried Harris. “Gone to Blue Licks,’ said a dozen voices, Harris became dizzy, and lost all sense Of where he was or what was happening. OF frat mene ne CHAPTER XXIV. BLUE LICKS. THERE rose a wail of anguish from the two mothers most terri- ble to hear. The evil was s0 / sadly without remedy—the men I can’t | being absent—that no one knew how toact. The only men able to do any thing were wounded. It was a sad and terrible event, but nothing could be done. There was nc one at the station able to affront the dangers of the woods and recall the parents of the chil- dren. They must wait. They must wait while the fa- vorite childyen of the station were led into captivity, to suffer and endure indignities$and insults to which death was as nothing. They must wait, while suspense and dread were gnawing at their hearts, and each rumor of the forest and prairie excited addi- tional dread. Not only was the present evil—the abduction of the children—hard to bear, but the whole colony felt a secret presenti- ment that this was but the begin- ning of their misfortunes. None knew what they feared, and yet all feared something. The wounded and suffering men were taken into the fort and there put to bed, while one or two lads, with the ambition of men, glided off across the river to see if they could find any trace of the In- dians. to the girls; they were young and beautiful, and would therefore be reseryed for some young chiefs when they returned home. The boys found the trail of the In- dians, but they had, to all appear- ance, departed in fear of a pursuit from the fort. ; The boys followed the trail with extreme caution, but not seeing any thing of the Indians, and fear- ing to fall into an ambuscade, they started on their way home. Their mission had, however, not been wholly without result. They bad, at all events, discovered vhat the maidens were captives, and had not been murdered, scal ed, and left a prey to the wild beasts of the forest. Days passed, during which Her- ris and Nathan recovered but slowly. Their fatigue, together with the hardships they had en- dured, told upon them with terri. ble effect. A constant look-out was kept for the Indians as well as for the returning party, which was deily expected. They had been already gone much Jonger than was pro- posed; they were in search of salt. One evening, the fifth after the return of the youths, and when the men had teen gone nearly a month, a mounted hunter came riding in with the astound- ing intelligence thai the whole party had been made prisoners, that the men were in the hands of the British—war having suddenly broke out— while Boone was taken away, none could say where, The abduction of Amy and Edith was fora moment forgetten. Every woman in the colony had lost her protector; every woman was, as it were, a widow. There was nothing left for them hut to break up the settlement and return tosafer regions. It was pitiable to behold the desolation which had fallen on that They went about listlessly, utterly ignorant of what they were doing; their thoughts wholly given to the be- loved who had been taken from the arms of those they loved for- ever. Their joy may, then, be conceiy- ed, when, in a few days, the whole party returned—Boone excepted —having overcome their guards, recaptured their arms, and fled, hen Boone started to the Blue Licks, it was to manufacture salt, which is made in abundance from the brackish water. Salt was scarce, and the Licks much fre- quented for the purpose. Every thing necessary for the purpose, including kettles, provisions of all kinds, were safely carried to the secluded spot, and everybody went None feared any violence ~~
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] charged with hunting. Not an Indian sign was seen in the neighborhood, so no fear of inter- we ion existed, ut the war had broken out which was to transform a colony into an empire. Both sides, desirous of making the struggle as deadly as possible, had enlisted the services of the savages, and thus began the ruth- less struggle in which they were to be such cruel actors. It was Boone’s day out, and he had been very success‘ul. Some of his oye he had cachéd, while a part of it he was bringing home whistling, as he went, in perfec security. Suddenly, as he was turning a cornergof a canebrake, he confronted the head cfacoluma of some two hundred Indians. He wheeled round, and ran as fast as he could, with a dozen yelling braves in his rear. He knew he should be captured, but he wanted time for reflection. The Indians were in overwhelming force. If he resisted, and blood was shed, death was the certain couse- quence, Fleet of foot as ever, he soon reached his companions, who flew arms. **Don’t fire a shot,’ he cried; “up with your guns if you value your lives. ey are ten to one.”’ All had such faith in their chief, they knew him so well, that he was obeyed, and the whole party were prisoners, without a shot being tired. Boone was very mnch blamed for this act, but he was right. It saved all their lives. Their blood was not up; the men were hand- ed over to the British, but Boone was reserved, for what fate he could not tell, ; He, however, speciily discover- ed that his being kept in confine- ment was intended as a compli- ment. They feared him more than all the others put ether ; but they also respected him, as oy proved by their sparing bis le. CHAPTER XXV. THEY START. Tue loss of the two girls, the ancertainty which hung over the fate of Boone, prevented the set- tlement from thoroughly enjoying the unex return of the thirty husbands and fathers. Bunt H felt his forced quietness most coon is sufferings of mind were far worse than the suf- ferings of his body. He was nearly Nathan and he were, how- ever, well bes to walk about ; and as they could do nothing else they conversed of the past and laid plans for the future. They were determined to start for the Cedar Valley, as Nathan had imbibed some of his com- panion’s enthusiasm. “But we must find Massaquoit and your big friend,” said Harris. Nathan looked sharp at him; it was a very peculiar and stran glance, but Harris did not catch it, ‘* My big friend, as you call hi is not so easily found. He’s go notions of his own. I did him a service once, and I kind of trades with him twice ayear; but itdon’t do to come near him too sudden, . Still, I don’t mind trying.” ‘Our wounds will be well in a few days,’’ continued Harris, “‘ and if Massaquoit comes in, what say you to a start?” ‘Quite welcome, friend.” And in this simple way an e dition was determined on involy- ing a long and wearisome journey, over hills, across rivers and plains, and a barren dese where scarce any thing living coul exist. Harris knew that Nathan was dependent on his hands for a living, 80 eacontract. He was to have a horse, a new rifle, and a certain sum of money if they reached home in safety. A week lar the two young men etood on the banks of the river ready for a start. Massaquoit was with iuem, and two youths, heartily to work, while two were | who had taught Amy and Rdith to know what love meant, aud who were their affianced husbands would gladly have accompanie them; but the Indian runner dis- approved of any further addition to their party. Force would be of no use; they must depend wholly on cunning; while three or four men could travel in much greater security than half a dozen, es- pecially when all were tried and experienced hunters. hey had a canoe to start in. Several of the best men of the station had followed the track of the ravishers, and had traced it to the river, No doubt the Indians, then, had gone home to their vil- lage, satisfied with the prize they had captured. It was resolved then to journey to that point in a osoat; land, and judge for them- selves. But they had a visit to make on their journey up, which would greatly influence their fu- ture movements. Starting about dawn, they journeyed all day, with the exce tion of one halt, and by nightfall were on the mighty river, and at no great distance from the spot to which they were bound. About a mile down the main stream was acreek or bayou, 80 overhung by trees and creeping plants as scarcely to give passage to the canoe. They were, indeed, obliged to stoop in order to pass its mouth, but beyond that the roof became higher, and they were able to advance more easily, but slowly, as this ey ag place was dark and gloomy in the ex- treme. ' “When we turn a corner, I spect, bx Sd we'll see a light. You must let me go forad then, and see if he’s in the humor,’ said Nathan; ‘he’s mighty quick at « shot, and mout take us for Indians.”’ Scarcely had he finished speaking when the canoe, gliding round a corner, brought them in full view of a scene not easily forgotten by Edward Harris for many a long ca | afterwad. n the mouth of a cavern, about seven feet high and about as wide, sat the big hunter. Before him was a fire, over which was sus- pended, by means of three ne, asmallironpot, The light, in tha’ dark hole, fell full and brightly on his countenance, which was rigid as death. His eyes were fixed on something which he held in his two hands, while great scalding tears were chasing themselves down his bronzed cheeks—tears of grief and woe unutterable. Close to his hand lay his rifle, while around were guns, pistols, toma- hawks, with several rude articles of furniture, He looked like a statue, be was 80 motionless. “This ’ll never do,’’ whispered Nathan, as he drew the canoe out of sight; “he'd be mighty riled if he knew we’d seen him, 80 I must just start him a bit.” And he, at the same momen gave a low, peculiar whistle, an re lightly ashore. “Who comes to disturb my eace ?’’ said a stern voice. “ Allright big ’un,” replied Na- cen, in a jovial tone. ‘‘ How are ou ‘*You are not alone ?”” ‘*No, governor; there’s Massa- quot and Ned Harris—all friends,”’ continued the trader, still in a od-natured way. ‘Friends !’”’ laughed the other, in a wild and savage way. ‘ Enter, Ihope you have some gcod ex- cuse for Gistnebing my privacy.” Thus invited, they entered the circle of light. No greeting passed between them save that the man rose and allowed them to wn within his cave. He pointed to the iron ted that they were to help them- selves. Hedid sohimself. It was asavory mess of deer’s - meat, which proved very acceptable. Harris then, without exactly addressing himself to thelone and silent hunter, told the story of their escape, of the abduction of Amy and Edith, and the misfor- The Big Hunter. t, and by signs ‘ntima-, tune which had happened to Boone. There then ensued a silence, which lasted some minutes, “And you mean to track those rls, even unto the Valley of Jedars,’’ said the big hunter. - I do.” “JT will go with you. I know every step of the way; I have been there. Byt she whom you seek is not in that village.” Harris turned deadly pale. “Are you sure?’’ he falter- “T believe so. But even if she were not, would you retreat? Would not common humanity make you sacrifice yourself for those other unfortunate whites who are prisoners there ?”’ “Tt would. If she, playimate,’’ said Harris, with deep emotion, ‘‘ be dead or lost forever, my life shall be devoted to the eause of injured humanity. If { can not save her, I will others.’’ “ Nobly spoken, young man,’ said the big hunter. ‘If Con- stance Harding be above ground we will find her; but the task will be an arduous one. We have to pass through vast territories scoured by Indians ; we may have to lie in ambush days, weeks, a month perhaps. Are you well pro- vided with powder ? ‘* Yes, our canoe contains a good supply.” “That is well, Sleep, for we shall haye ts wake at daybreak. The trail is a thousand miles ’ong.”’ CHAPTER XXVIL A STRANGE SHELTER. A TRAIL a thousand miles long, and what a trail—out there to the mighty West, beneath the setting sun, where the mountain-peaks rise to the sky, and whence come rolling river upon river to swell the great father of waters—a trail on plains where there is not a rock or tree, nothing but grass to feed the millions of buffaloes, which roam, as yet free and unmolested except by the Indian, who, killing them only for use, does not wan- tonly destroy. A trail oyer the plains where not a blade of grase is to be seen, nothing but hard soil — through forests, swamps, and across rivers scarcely fordable even with boats, 80 swift are their streams. To dwellers in cities—to men who have never left the confines of civilization—such an undertak- ing appears appalling. But there were giants in those days, and the early settlers thought no more of such an undertaking than we would of a pedestrian tour in some district where every comfort is to _ be found, and man is scarcely an hour lost sight of. The morning broke bright and joyous, when the adventurers awoke. They could make this out both from the song of the birds and from the wavy neat on the tree-tops. The big hunter was now as cold and saturnine as ever. He was mending a moccasin, nor did he, while Nathan, who knew his humor, prepared breakfast, make any remark. But he ate like a man who felt that suste- nance was necessary to him; though he handed round a flask of whisky, he himself drank water. . It was in fulfillment of a vow which, at a fature period, we shall understand. As soon as he saw that all were ready he rose. pig oe into his own canoe, and led the way. He, however, went only a few yards, when he again set his foot on shore, and shouldering his huge rifle, bade them follow him. This man poe to have a most perfect knowledge of the forest. He turned neither to the right nor the left, but, as if he had oeen on a proad path, led the way at a pace which would have indeed been trying to men who had never had any experience of the perils and dangers of the wilds. But as ne knew the tremendous journey (at was before them, he made my little regular halts, du which they sought ees te. This was done at twelve and at sundown, when their blankets were drawn forth, a small fire cautiously kindled in the depths of a hollow, and general preparations made for the night. All conversed but the big hunter, who was more silent than the In dian — himself rather taciturn. After supper a pipe, and toeu sleep (always welcome) came to their relief—a _ slee ran and sweet. About ma, ae arris awoke. He had felt a kind of op- ression On his chest, which made im wish to turn. He did so, and - was about to fall once more into a deep slumber when he heard voices. The voices, too, were close to him. He listened attentively, but could make out nothing more than that men were speaking, but in what tongue he could notsay. He put his ear to the ground, but the con- versation was then more indistinct. Touching each of his companions gently, and whisperiog low in their ears, he made signs in the direction whence the sound emanated. A half-suppressed ery, indistinct and low, was the only response. Then all clutched their rifles, and slowly and methodically crept in the direction of the voices. As, guided by the sound, they had no need to keep together, each man acted for himself and advanced iu his own way. Edward Harris stood up, his rifle ready, but not cocked, as @ projecting bough or branch of a tree might set it off. And still the voices were distinct- ly heard at no great distance, but not more distinctly than at first. This continued for about half an hour, when Harris stood still, and listened again, Not a murmur broke the silence of the forest, not a sound came oe on the breeze, but that eternal whispering of its myriad leaves, which, from the time the tree germinates until it dies, ever continues, though what secrets they can have to tell no man can know. Aware of the difficulties and dangers of his position, Ned stood stock still for some minutes, in the hope that some indication of the whereabouts of his friends or the strangers might be wafted on the breeze. He peered around, and at length noticing in the distance a ‘aint glimmer of light where the moon shed its rays on the clearing, he deliberately, with the soft step of a wild-cat, made in that direction. When, at length, it was reached, it proved to be a very cireum- scribed open space, surrounded by very large trees, some fyorirg some lying down—the victims of time—and overgrown with moss and lichen, During his march, Ned had omitted two precautions -— to notice the way he came, or the direction of the wind. There re- mained nothing then for him but to remain where he was. until morning, when he would retrace his steps, or his companions would follow his trail. Close to his hand lay a mighty monarch of the forest, which, having become re- duced toa mere coating of bark, had fallen, and lay horizontally on the sward. It was adeepand cavernous hol: low, as likely as not to contain a bear or snakes; so, stooping low, Harris struck a light with the hunter’s inseparable friend, a flint and steel, and set fire to a handful of Spanish moss. The hollow was empty, 80, with. out more ado, he thrust his body in, feet first, and drawing his rifle after him, prepared te pass the reat of the night. CHAPTER XXVIL. IN THE TREE. Sort and balmy sleep is so easily courted by the denizen of the woods and forests that Harris was falling off, when he was start- —
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de Y. _ hardships an a led by the snapping of a twig. His very flesh crept. Had any o the wily savages watched. him to his Jair, and were they about to capture him in this defenseless and awkward position? Again the crackling of a twig, close to the mouth of the hollow log, which mouth was obscured by lichen and moss. Then a dusky hand lifted the kind of vail. arris, for the life of him, could not repress’ groan, «t the same time that voices were ugain heard close at hand. The dusky hand disappeared as the young man recognized the tongues of a number of Indians in eager conver. on. They spoke neither very loud nor very cau- tiously, but they trod softly. To all appearance they were utter- ly ignorant of the presence of long-knives in the forest, which was the more apparent when the halted beside the log, across whic. they cast the produce of their chase. hey had been fire-hunting. Harris held his breath. His position was one as desperate as eould be imagined. They had evidently halted to regale them- selves, and had selected this clearing from its convenience, and the fact, as he soon discover- ed, of a small spring rising in that romantic and secluded spot. From the voices, Harris became aware that he was surrounded by about twenty savages, who would he too happy to find such an occasion of adding to their enjoyment as capturing a pale- face under such humiliating cir- cumstances. But what is this they are about to do? They are lighting a fire at the very mouth or his huge log. Yes! kon are gathering wood; and then an Indian has lit some mova and dry leaves, which, soon make a cheerful blaze, Again larger sticks, then huge chunks, are cast upon the flames, tuus discovering clearly to his eye the ferocious ‘countenances of a hunting-party of Shawnees, whose glaring eye- balls and prercng glances appear- ed all fixed upon his own counten- ance. It was a trying and terrible po- sition—a heavy breath, a cough, might have betrayed him; while the smoke, which entered the hol- low as into a chimney, 80 suffo- cated him at first as to almost force him into a fearful fit of coughing. But life is dear, and no man will more readily defend it than he whose bravery is undoubt- ed. ‘ Slowly, like a serpent chan his dan: Hanes wormed bimaclf as far back as the trunk would allow him, and there lay still and mo- tionless. Fortunatel for him there were cracks and knot-holes in the log, or his sufferings mus/ soon have come to anend. Mean while, the Indians had begun their usual gorge. No one can travel with less food than a red-skin. He will traverse vast forests, ex- posed to the hazards of lonely _ Bickness, of lurking enemies, and pining famine, with a few parched peas for his only sustenance. He will adventure on shorniy sake, on the great inland seas, in & canoe of bark, which the waves toss like _ a feather, with a Landful of jerked meat. But when he has gained an ample supply of food from the perils of the chase. he will make ample amends, an feast as long as his stomach does not reject food, This was the case on the present a oe They had obtained a most extraordinary supply of deer’s-meat, part of me had been removed to their boats, while the rest was preserved for im- mediate consumption. But what struck Harris almost with awe, as the feast went on, was to find that they had an ample supply of fire- water, which they must either have become possessed of by plundering a flat-boat, or by means which to him at that moment ap- peared more horrible still. The horrid idea flashed across his mind that his companions had fallen victims to the cunning of | the Indians. They were amply supplied by means of small kegs, with sufficient spirits to qualify the brackish or muddy water which they might meet with on their journey. Harris almost groaned with anguish. But for the noise made by the now reckless savages, as they ate, drank, and laughed, as if they had been in their own vil- lages, he must have been heard. And now a new source of uneas- iness arose. As the drink went round fast and furious, the savages, with a perverseness utterly foreign to their usual mode of proceeding: began inereasing the volume o their fire. This was a serious danger. The trunk, or log, in whicn he was concealed was dry as tinder—the moss and lichen would flare up like rockets; and if once the fiery element took pos- session of his lair, he would be roasted to death. Again chips, boughs, and logs, were cast on the fire by the drunk- en Indians, who danced around the flames in a state of frantic mad- ness, which can neither be imag- ined nor described. In vain one or two of the chiefs and elders tried to calm their effervescence and diminish the fire; their advice was not attended to; and after a scene in which dignity on one side, and drunkenness on the other, strove for the mastery, the sober men re- tired into the darkness of the for- est. This wasafresh danger. Harris had at last contrived to get out his knife, and had begun enlarging a knot-hole. But if sober and ex- perienced warriors were watchin on the skirts of the forest, les their foolish comrades were sur- rised, what was hischance? Still t was quite clear that something must be done. The mouth of the log was becoming as the mouth of a furnace, As yet the bark did not blaze, the extremity exposed to the weather being damper. But it was slowly advancing toward him. Jt crackled and it spirted, it eeled off in fiery flakes, and then t roared, and the flames rushed madly toward him, The hole he had cut served ta create a furious draft. For a moment he believed him- self lost, but placing his mouth to the knot-hole he breathed the ure, fresh air, and felt revived, till the heat increased, the raging mass advanced nearer, unt scorched his very head. Involun- tarily he drew back and gazed at the fearful scene. He was lookin through a red-hot tube, at the en of which jumped, and leaped, and screamed, a whole congregation ofdemons. Then it fell in a mass of burning bark, and not a foot of trunk separated Harris from the red-skins, Again he pressed back, and then, to his amazement, after meetin, With a slight resistance, he felt hit feet suddenly become cool. But he was stuck—his belt encumbere& with shot-pouch, powder-horn and other fixings of a hunter checked his progress. Calmly, with the deliberation of a man who was dressing for a journey, he undid the fastenings, and one by one disencumbered himself of 1 that hung about him. Then slowly, with, it must be conf fear and trembling, he moved ou’ from the fiery furnace, the flames of which were lapping the bark within a couple of feet of his head. Then he was in the open air, and next minute upright under a tree, leaning for breath upon his rifle. But he was not alone. A man leaped against a tree not five feet from him. At the same moment, a loud re- port, that scattered the burning tree far and wide, so startled the Indians as to reduce them for one moment to silence. _Harris knew well that it was his powder-flask, but did not wait for further exam- ination, plunging madly into the woods, as two or three of the elder Indians started in chase. : ut Harris knew that having ar & few yards upon them, de- ection was difficultin such a night , a8 this ;s0 no sooner had he got a | fair start than he halted, slipped : The Big Hunter, behind a tree, and creeping instead of running, determined to outwit then rather by cunning than any trial of strength. He was well aware that to fight was useless, as be had but one charge of powder. With this view, he kept glidin from tree to tree, until he reach the edge of an opening, over which was scattered both trees and bushes. All was now still and silent as death, except the sighing of the wind, and what Harris, with some surprise, recognized to be the rip- pling of the mighty waters, which were near at hand. There was a somewhat dim moon in the heav- ens, which rendered crossing the opening dangerous. But it was equally dangerous to stay where he was; 80, with a quick run, he darted for a clump of trees, the branches of which swept the ground, though they started from the trunk eight or ten feet above. Ke could now see the wide river, with its silver sheen of ripplin waves, and the perfect wall of darkness of the opposite bank. But his eyes soon turned toward the spot whence he expected his enemies to emerge from the forest. He had not long to wait. One after another three warriors em- erged from exactly the same point that he had, and then a fourth, holding a torch close to the ground. This was terrible, as there could be no doubt as to the result. The trail on the grass was much clearer than in the forest. There was but one plan which was feasible, and that was to make forthe river. This he did with all the same cantion he had already us d. The mver was about two huadred yards distant. He had not gone more than half this, when he found that he was dis- covered. Thered-skins were com- ing up with terrific strides. Har- ris at once took to his heels, and had just reached the bank when a ee and peculiar war-cry alarmed m At the same moment three red- skins burst from the bushes to in- tercept his flight. He, too, would have turned, but suddenly he made an astounding discovery. These men were guarding a small fleet of canoes. Hope gave him almost fabulous strength, as singling out a particu- lar canoe he entered it wildly, gave it a tremendous impulsion with his left foot ere it left the ban«, and then laid himself down flat s moment, to regain breath. Ther he peered out and saw that twe canoes had already left the shore in haste, though he was himeelf s considerable distance out in the stream. With a beating heart he felt for the paddle, which he fortunately found, and at once struck out for life and liberty. His way was down-stream, as the Indians were above him. The chances were very few. He was alone against some half a dozen men; he was on a river, the banks of which swarm- ed with enemies, and he was as ood as unarmed. Still, every moment of life is precious; and Harris struck out with every atom of strength he could exert. The bright moon and stars _ that speckled the heavens were reflect- ed on the calm surface of the wa- ters, that rippled onward by means of their own weight; but there was a chill in the air which be- tokenea a coming change. By slow degrees mane came tower- ing up; the stars went out one by one, as violets are vailed by waving grass; the moon was obscured, and then wind, in” fitful gusts swept across the msing billowe of the mighty river. Harris could no longer see his enemies, while the banks them- selves were gradually obscured. Then the wind rose higher and higher, dull thunder came, and from the riven clouds burst lurid and forked lightning, showing his relentless pursuers closer at hard ‘han they had been er: the light. It now required all the energy and skill of pursver and puree to prevent the canoes ' m upsetting or being filled with 17 water; already Harrfs had edged nearer to the north-eastern shore, making preparations for a mre when just as gray dawn touche the summits of the trees the gale abated, but not the energy of the pursuers, who were within gun- shot, almost as near in-shore as himself. He was about fifty feet from a projection which impeded his way, and was about to give along sweep out into the current, when his progress was checked in a very unexpected manner, “Keep on,’’ said a low voice, “and when you get to the spit of sand yonder, bring up your rifle.”’ Harris was too astonished to reply, but slackening his speed, in order to gain breath, was in an- other moment on shore, and mak- ing his way upward, but not toward the spot whence the voice nad emanated. The young man was too interested in the progress of events not to take every pre- caution he could think of. CHAPTER XXVIII. THE RENEGADE. Any one who had seen the mode of procedure adopted by Ned Har- ris after landing, would have been indeed surprised. Instead of mak- ing straight toward the spot whence the voice had issued, he fixed his eye on the advancing boats which were within half rifle- shot. As he expected, a gun was fired, but the bal] struck the water some distancé from the boats. Ned Harris became thoughtful, and as to become thoughtful under such circumstances was to act with caution, he selected a spot where the ground was hard and stony, glided along with a noiseless step, and passed behind the thick trunk of a tree. Then he caught hold of a bough, lifted himself bodily up, and con- cealed himself in the branches. It was a thick tree, the boughs of which were dense, and the leaves to be counted by myriads. Then forth from the bush came peering a man of hideous and re- pulsive aspect. Tall, gaunt, thin; with hollow eyes, sallow complex- ion; with unshaven, unkempt, en- tangled hair; with a mouth drawn down at the corners in all the in- tensity which is given by hate, ma- lice, and every evil passion; his ill look was further increased by his red hair, that straggled, mat- ted and dirty, from beneath a coarse, red handkerchief. His whole costume was in keepin with his face, being sordid an filthy in the extreme, while even his gun was rusty and worn. His red, bleared eyes wandered hither and thither with a keen and rapid glance. de had evidently expected to behold the dupe of bis disgraceful trick calmly awaiting his approach, But he was nowhere to be seen. Silence reigned supreme in the fo- rest glade, not the cracking of a log, not a motion in the grass, be- trayed the presence of a man. e could not make it out. “ Wull!”? he said, in the thick, murky, husky tones of a man who habitually degrades himself by the use of arcent liquors: ‘‘ whar’s the cuss got to’—hang me if I know. He kudn’t’a twigged, sar- tin. Here, come along, you dod- rotted villains,” he continued, as. some Indians came in sight; ‘‘ the fule’s absquatulated !”’ The Indians gave a sharp grunt of acquiescence, and then, secur- ing their canoes, began a minute search of the shore. There was the mark of Harris’s feet clearly to be distinguished on the water's edge, but that was all. Indians, however, are not easily to be daunted; and, scattering in the forest in every direction, began to survey the ground, examining stones, fixing their eyes on ever. blade of grass, casting quic glances uy in the trees, but finding nothing. - It is only by the most constant practice that the Indian is able to acquire his marvelous power of re:
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the inferior animals over his terri- tories; and yet itis not all prac- tice,as the most experienced white, who has dwelt nearly all his life with red-skins, never acquires this art in full perfection. Meanwhile, the white man—the renegade, whose crimes were fifty- fold those of any of the Indians— turned slowly toward the river. Already that broad and beautiful stream was made the means of traf- fic by many traders and emigrants, while this wretch lived upon its banks for the sole purpose of en- trapping unwary voyagers to their ruin. e would feign to be a white escaped from the Indians, in momentary fear of capture; he would say he was a weary hunter who had lost his way; and, when the owner of a flat-boat or pinnace would kindly put in-shore to take him, he was the first to rush upon them with frenzied rage, to destroy and torture. The history of the revolting acts of this man is the darkest feature of that border warfare which was ever a battle of giants, but which, in this case, was, as it were, a con- test between a tiger and a lamb. He showed no mercy; in his whole career one act of kindness might have saved his character from utter blackness, but there was not one, The Indians themselves often re- volted at the hideous character of his deeds. Ned Harris knew him, and but for the presence of the Indians, woul have rid the world of a ruf- fian sor whom no man could have the least thought of mercy. He was clearly within reach of his rifle. Prudence, however, forbade any such act, and there he remained for hours, until the Indians return- ed, downeast, battled, and furious, ready almost to vent their fury upon their vile companion— the fearful wretch, Simon Girty. He, nowey cr, met their grumbling with imprecations. After an alterca- - tion, which lasted a few minutes, the Indians went to their boats, and Simon resumed his watch, Ned Harris was faint; he knew well that if he allowed himself to get lower and lower, he should soon be fit for nothing, andat once resolved to make a desperate ef- fort at escape. He knew in what direction his companions must be, and hoped, by good fortune, even to rejoin them. By means of a long leathern thong, he lowered his rifle to the ground—that rifle, with its one shot, which to him might be life. Then, hanging down and swingin trom the branches, he gently fel upon the earth, and listened. No sonnd, The renegade was seated on the bank, smoking. For a mo- ment Harris stood still, his eyes tixed on the heavens to make out the position of the sun; then he took his way toward the quarter where it appeared his companions were likely to be, And all this time the renegade sat still, calm, thoughtful. He was probably at that very moment puzzling his brains to know how the other had escaped, To adyance was his only chance ; and if he did not find his compan- ions, only in that direction could he hope to secure shelter, food, and ammunition, in the big hun- ter’s cave, Under a burning sun, over rough end briary paths, through rivalets und bayous—this a great relief— through bush, and brake, and thorns, he tore his way for a while yuickly, but at last with a feeble and tottering gait that gave ear- nest sign he must soon give out. Night, too, was approaching — dark, gloomy night—in a peculiar- ly thick and impenetrable bottom where, doubtless, the panther and bear sheltered by day, while ever the snake hissed in darkness and in light. Nothing eatable had passed his lips but berries and leaves all that day, and at times a great sensation came over him; it was a dogged resolution to lie down and die. The writer once felt ib when losk | gous beiure Ae comes, cognizing the passage of man or The Big Hunter, 7) on the prairfe,and many miles from me. He looked at last for a place to pass thenight. Though it wanted a whole hour of sundown he could, he felt, go no further, and was about to cast himself wearily on the ground when he saw before him a plain and beaten path. His astonishment may be conceived. He did not, however, hesitate one moment. It might lead into the very jaws of death, in the shape of an Indian village; but nothing could make his fate worse than it was. With eager eyes, and heart filled with a wild kind of hope, he mov- ed along. He had not gonea hun dred yards when a sight met his eager gaze that filled him with amazement. It was the very last that would have occurred to him in that lone- ly, retired, and almost desolate region. CHAPTER XXIX. THE HUT. Ly the center of asmall clearing was a log-hut, indisputably the work of a white man, but a white man of slovenly and idle habits. A broken fence surrounded ascrap of what had been mtended for a garden, but it was now nearly lev- el with the ground. The hut, half frame, half log, was of mode- rate dimensions, with evidences of haying been long built, since which time nothing had been done to repair it. There were shingles wanting in the roof; the logs were overgrown by moss, the planks of the framework were some of them loose, while the door itself hung loosely on its rusty hinges. But it was inhabited, for smoké rose from the mud chimney, and then a woman, slatternly and ill favored, looked out. As she di¢ 80, the branches of a tufted clump parted, and a man, with haggard and wan look, met her gaze, tried to articulate, and fainted. There is something instinctive in the heart of woman, for before this forlorn creature rushed to see who and what he was, she reént- ered the house, and came out again with a flask, which, as soon as she kneeled beside the youth, she pressed to his lips. It was the coarsest whisky, but it was just what he wanted. In five minutes he opened his eyes and breathed heavily. ‘“* A good-looking youth,’’ she muttered. ‘* What does he here? Is this Ais handy- work? What ails you, young mam?”’ ** Hunger—thirst,’”’ he replied. She laid his head gently down, and again revisited the hut, from which she brought forth a mug of whisky and water, with coarse bis- cuit. Dipping this in the liquid, she made him eat, which at first he scarcely could do. But soon a ge- pial warmth spread through his frame, his eyes grew brighter, his pallidcheek resumed its native hue, and he ate greedily. Thenhe rose. The exertion was, however, al- most too much for him, for he nearly fell. ‘*Now, stranger,” she said, ‘wait until l get you some more food, and go thy ways—the sooner the better.” “Gol” he cried; “I can not walk. Put me anywhere; on the bare ground. But turn me not away, until I recruit myself, I should die in the woods.’ “You know not what you ask. Buttera pale-face in his coffin, than m that place accursed. Be advis- ed. Take food and drink, and 0. ‘‘But why are you here?” he ~— eying her keenly, as he spoke. “It is my fate. There are se- crets which will be given up only at the last, and mine is one of thern.’’ ‘What danger do 1 affront, if I enter there?” ‘*Death—a wretched, miserable lingering death, if you are not & on regen . | | | / *T am armed. I will remair I can not walk, at least for some time.” And he tottered toward the house: “Then come in and rest. He will not return yet. But in the name of her who bore you, if you would not have murder, go 300n.”’ And she led the way into the hut. It was small, murky, and evidently the abode of neglect. Not that it was wanting in furni- ture; indeed, there was a suspi- cious abundance of chairs, tables, and boxes, which made Ned Har- ris shudder. There were rifles, too, pistols, and powder-horns in abundance, of every make and country. Some low stools were set round a smoldering fire. On one of these Ned Harris seated himself. The hut was about twelve feet square, perhaps more ; but, crowd- ed as it was with plunder—there could be no mistake about this—it seemed smaller than it was. About seven feet from the ground there was a loft over half the hut, which seemed also partly filled with similar goods to those which lumbered the whole space, But what chiefly interested Har- ris was the woman. About thirty, and, on close examination, evi- dently having been not only good- looking, but refined, she was now aged by sorrow, suffering, and by drink. Her hair, once black, was now halt si.vered over; her fore- head, once white and smvoth, was deeply dented with wrinkles and frowns ; her eyes, once piercingly black, were dull and bleared; her mouth, once a model, was coarse and puffy; while the whole ex- pression of her countenance was that of patience, endurance, long suffering, and fear. She must have lived long in an atmosphere of dread. ‘“*Why do you gaze at me ?”’ she said, suddenly; ‘‘did you never see a woman before ?” ‘*] was trying to make out how one used to better things, and evi- dently well brought up, can be here freely, of her own accord.” ‘Silence! or I will strike you dead. Used to better things—well brought up! And will this never end? I livein an atmospLere of pollution, I drink, I am what I am, and yet the old leaven will remain. Talk to me of yourself—of me sa. nothing. Are you rested? Will you go?’ “T can not,” said Harris, trying to rise, and again falling back, powerless. ‘But he will kill us both,’’ she cried, her cheek blanched, her eyes haggard, her lips quivering. a Why ? ** Because he is wicked and jeal- ous,’’ was her answer. “* How soon do you expect him, and when does he go away in the’ morning ?” continued Harris. ‘*He will be here soon—if sober, he leaves at daybreak,’’she replied, mechanically. “I do not wish to bring you to sorrow. Could I not pass the night aloft, rest, and go away in the joriing eae he know noth- ing ? ‘*He know nothing! A breath, a sigh, asingle crack of your fin- ger, would arouse him. If you slept you would never wake.”’ ‘But I will not sleep. The whole livelong night I will watch, for I stand sentinel on my life, When he has taken his departure then, my limbs refreshed at all events, 1 will go, and bless you who shall have saved me.” She looked at him with a wan, haggard glance that spoke vol- umes. Blessings !—talk not of them here,” she screamed. ‘Use not aword that should bring down fire from heayen on this house. But a willful man will have his way. Go up and lie there as still as ou were in your coffin. One thing i ask: I have befriended you— whatever you may hear or see, whatever you may learn through my folly in sheltering you, never reveal to living soul.’ “ Never,” he said taking her ' hand, ‘never will I forget your real and genuine kindness.” “ Away—touch me not. Boy, there is blood upon this hand—the blood of women and children, of babes and orphans. It is a hand accursed. Once it was white and innocent—that was in days gone by, when—merciful heavens! let me not think, or I shall go mad. Go up, take your gun, be still, and may we never meet again.” Harris did as he was bid, ascend- ed the ladder which led to the loft, crept beneath the rafters, and lay down weary and helpless. But close to his hand was his rifle. Weary and slow were the minutes. Despite his danger, he felt come over him sucha terrible desire to sleep, that it seemed bet- ter to risk death than remain awake. His eyelids closed, his senses every now and then left him, and he would have sunk into a sound slumber, when suddenly the woman rose and hurriedly went to the door. “Come at last!’ she said, in accents that to his astonishment were half reproachful, half tender. ‘Yes, guess I have. Don’t ive us none of your foolery. ‘his child’s mighty hungry and mighty riled.”’ ‘“Why ?” asked the other, as she pustled to the fire to prepare ais dinner, the savory scent of which, as the cover was takep otf, rose with a generous ¢ffluvia to the loft. “Some young cuss I trap ashore guy me the slip. ut never mind, he ain’t fur. I guess we'll give him goss before tu-mor- row night. Ain’t a-going to have any sneaking whites a-loating about my diggings. ’Tain’t one of your old sweethearts, eh?” This was said so quickly, and with such asavage tone, his long, pointed teeth showing all the while, that the woman very nearly let fall the bowl into which she was about to ladle his stew. “How you frighten one.”’ ‘““Wish I cud,” snarled the brute. ‘‘But mark me—if ever I finds any white-livered settlers a- hanging about yar, I kills him and I kills you.” ‘There is One above who knows that I care for no one in the world but you,”’ said she, mildly. ‘But yer did once.” “JT did. I had a happy home then—a husband and children,” she said, mournfully. “Hal ha! ha! and s0 you would now, if the cuss hadn't split upon me and got me that beating. I said L would be re- venged. I bide my time, old hoss, says I. I wura decent-look- ing an | then, and yer thought sv, and I fawned, andI lied until you hated your husband and loved me. Ha! ha! ha! And then I killed him when he knowed it, and his lady-bird had runned away. Ha! ha! ha!” ? “Simon Girty, Simon Girty!” she gasped, “let me have no more of these memories, They will kil “Kill and be hanged to yer— give us my grub.” The woman, with a deep sigh. that spoke of woe unutteraole, of wretched subjection and avery obeyed without a word, CHAPTER XXX, A TRYING POSITION. Coup to the very marrow of his bones felt Ned Harris as he became aware of the name and nature o1 the man into whose power he had so nearly fallen. Many and foul were the renegades who deserted their religion and their country, not only to consort with the red- skins, but to su them in ruthless cruelty, and in diabolical schemes of vengeance; but not one ever came near in wickedness, monstrous villainy and delight in the tortures of his fellow-creatures to Simon Girty. Harris now understood the
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wretched woman, who had been led by her own weakness and the other’s cunning duplicity to become the companion of a monster. If discovered, not only would death be his portion, but*death under the most awful and terrible circumstances. To contend against this fiend in his present enfeebled state was impossible. He could almost faney, as he lay on his -ide gazing out through the vroken shingles, that the man must hear the beating of his heart. The night was singularly dark, gloomy, and storm-laden. e could hear the wind howling, with a sad, murmuring armen. through the branches, while every now and then a gust stronger than usual would make the trees shake their damp crowns and cast down dried-up boughs, leaves and rain. The sky was leaden in its hue. It was a night for murder to stalk abroad, a night of sharp odors and cuehertoms sounds, though not a beast left its lair, not even an owl hooted in the torest. Harris, however, except when he cast a glance at the outer gloom, kept his eyes fixed through a chink upon the man and the woman. ‘The former was eating his savory mess with eager ap- petite, every now and then paus- ing to wash it down with draughta of whisky scarcely diluted with water. But all the time his eyes, like two hot coals, were fixed, with a strange and terrible glance, on tif woman, who, with’ half- averted face, was looking into the fire. The expression of the rene- rade’s countenance was awful. oubt, hate, rage, were all com- mingled in one look of concen- trated passion. This fiend in human shape clearly suspected something. The woman every now and then stirred up the fire or put on a few chips, but never altered her strange, fixed glance. She appear ed thinking porn which, as she in general talked, laughed, and shrieked by turns, to drown thought, puzzled the brutal com panion of her life. Suddenly he pushed away his bowl, and began savagely to load a large pipe. ‘¢ And now,” he said, in asharp, squeaking voice, ‘let us talk.” The woman started, and looking barr round, colored deeply. “s at ayre you thinking on ?” ne said, with a piercing glance. “ Nothing—nothing,”’ she said, tnrning away. ‘‘ Nuthin’ ; guess that’s the thing that makes you so tarnation glum. Thar’ s been somebody yar.” The woman started, and then confronted him with a calm, yet deadly-pale countenance. * vill you never leave off your jealousies ?”’ she said, mournfully, ‘‘T ain’t jealous,’ he replied, with a savage scowl; “no, not I. It ain’t likely—but jist look at me. You've been up to something--I know it by your eye. Ef [thought you'd betrayed me—” «What then?” “Td cut yer ugly throat.” The woman laughed hystert- cally, Simon Girty all the while watching her keenly. ee CHAPTER XXXI. CAUGHT. Ir was a singular as well as a trying situation, both f young man and the kind-hearted woman. Could she hold out against the menaces of her brute husband? Should she and quail, Harris of Seed was lost. Were it not better tl en, to shoot the villain as h tLere before the woman me at make any revelation? There was no time for thought, for Girty pro- a at once with his inquisi- on: ** Eliza,” he said, in a hoarse, hollow tone, “ somebody’s been here.” ‘“‘ Well, and what then?” she said, quietly. After a moment's | thought she had decided on her course of action. ‘‘ What then ?”’ he said, with a howl like that of a wild beast; “you shall see. Who was it ?— speak, yer everlasting—’’ ‘“*A wounded youth,” she con- tinued; “I gave him meat and drink, and sent him away.” ‘* A tall, good-looking fellow in’ hunting-clothes?” said Simon Girty. “ es.” “Then, as sure as my name is Simon Girty, yer dies;’’ and he clutched his knife. “ Why ” ““ Why ? because this here place ain’t safe nohow. If that skunk only gits off—oh, no! he’ll never come back with his everlasting all- fired rangers and burn me out of house and hum—oh, no !—yon in- fernal traitor!’ “T am no traitor, Simon. A man like thoae I knewin better days came here. He was weary, footsore, and fying with hunger and thirst. e fainted on my threshold, and no woman could have done less than I did. I gave him what he needed, refused him a shelter, and then I sent him away.” “And why did yer send him away?’ he asked, in secente choked with passion. ‘* Because you have blood eno upon your hands already,’’ she said, with a shudder. ‘You'll find Pll have more,” he replied, savagely, ‘‘ you drotted fule! The boy had balked me. Now he has eseaped, ‘ter shall suffer, by the internal! I give you five minutes!” And slowly, without evident passion, but with his face a whity- brown, showing his long, pointed . teeth, while his eyes glared hid- eously, the man rose—rose, knife in hand, as a butcher might to slay a sheep. Murder had so stained his soul, that even the thought of killing one who was unto him as a wife did not move him as it would have moved other men. This wretch had come to regard the slaughter of his fellow- men in the same light that an ex- ecutioner does—as a trade and yo- cation. And the night was still dark, the sky was storm-laden, and the gusts shook the forest trees to their foundation. “Simon,” said the woman, ri- sing and confronting him with her arms hanging to her side, ‘‘ I fear not to die. There is nothing in life worth living for. I have lost all that makes woman cling to earth—my home, my husband, and my little ones. 1 have lost worse —my own self-respect ; joy in this world, and hope inthenext. And now I have lost that for which I have periled my soul—your love. In those days when, underneath the shelter of the old apple-tree in the old orchard, you kneeled at my feet -and in honied accents sought to win my soul—another serpent in the garden of Eden- you —— me.” ee uess you were a fine then ?” : oo “T am an old woman, now, 1 know. But, Simon, because you loved me, you may not kill me, Let me go forth and face the sav- age panther, the ferocious bear, or still more ferovious and savage Indian—let them kill me to-night —to-morrow, when they please. But do not you stain your soul with the blood of one who, degra- ded as she is, still loves you and was once loved by you.” ‘J don’t hate, and I don’t love er,’ said Simon Girty, coolly. ‘ All I kin say is this here—you’ ve done the traitor by me, and I’ve caught yer out. You've got to die, that’s prairie law.” She fell on her knees and clasped her hands. He caught her by the hair of her head. “Have mercy—have mercy on ourself !”” she added, as he raised > oe knife. on strange look lit u 8 eyes at that moment, a look which the woman saw not, but which had she seen, would have chilled > The Big Hunter. Be her very soul if was so fiendish, hellish, and triumphant. “Ha! ha! ha!’’ he laughed, as he let her go. “Yer only a sucking fule. Think I ain’t got no better game than you? Thar, no more about it; only this—no more loping skulkers comes in here, or them and you don’t go out alive.” She rose from her knees, and once more sat before the fire, rocking herself to and fro with the air of one who has done with life, and has not a word to throw away wnnecessarily. Simon watched her with his bleared and bloodshot eyes, with a glance which was scarcely to be translated. What had saved her? probably soon discover. We shall CHAPTER XXXII. THE INDIANS. AND still the night was dark. Suddenly Simon Girty, who was smoking in a state of complete abstraction, raised his head, and a diabolical smile illumining © his features, spoke once more. ‘Put on the kettle and pull out a keg of whisky—here’s company a-coming.” She made no reply, but as she turned her back to hang the kettle over the embers, an awful, horror- struck, scared expression passed over her countenance. She could scarcely lift the iron pot. As, however, she placed it on the fire, four Indians stalked in, and, with- out a word, seated themselves. It is perfectly true that the red- skin in his own village is as merry, light-hearted, and full of fun as the volatile Frenchman. The are equally fond of exciting admi- ration by boasting of their achieve- ments, as of exciting laughter by comic and humorous tales. But in their intercourse with the whites, policy, as wellas ignorance of our language, necessarily makes them stolid, while they are, indeed, as grave and stiff as stat ues when engaged on serious business. One of the savages had bears’ claws mingled with buffalo teeth formed into a collar round his neck, proclaiming him to hold no ordinary rank. For some time there was silence, while Simon Girty prepared the calumet or pipe of peace, which was duly handed round and smoked in silence. ‘““Why has my brother called us? here is the pale-face war- rior? How did he escape when our young men would have made whistles of his bones, and drunk fire-water from his skull ?” ‘“Wull,” said Girty, taking the kettle from the woman, and mix- ing stiff glasses of hot whisky for - the Indians, ‘‘I guess this child never was s0 licked afore. That ’ere youngster must have had Satan’s luck, not barring his own. I kain’t make it out.” “He went not through the for- eat. Nota bush, not a brake, not a blade of grass, but was examined. He lies hidden like a fox,” said the chief. “Guess you’re about right,” said Simon Girty, with a grin, * guess ny ayre. Butas I’spects to get him, what shall we do when we does ?” ““My brother is very good. Why does he ask the red-skins when he knows better than they do?” This was said with all the lofty courtesy of a genuine gentleman of the wilderness. But it was a on the ignoble soul of Simon ra *“Wal—I reckon, friend Little Black B’ar, I has an idear or tu. But as this young skunk,”’ with a terrible look at the woman, while at the same time he took up 4 piece of wood and began cutting off small pieces with his knife ‘has particularly riled me, I should like somethin’ new.” The Indians bowed their heads, with grimand ghastly smiles, 19 “Burnin’s old. Thar’s old Crafurd; ’spect we gave it him hot—only that’s a long job.” Not a word. ‘Shootin’ at legs and arms is putty well; but it wastes good powder, and that ar’s scarce.’ Again the Indians nodded ap- proval. “But, d’ye see?—thar’s one job I hearn on, but neyer seen —that’s cutting off toes, ears, and fingers, and then skinnin’ alive.”’ And Simon Girty laughed aloud, while the Indians nodded gravely. “But what says my brother, who is so wise? How are we to catch this pale-face runaway ?”’ “That ar’s easy if yer makes up yer mind tu what we shall du with him,” said Simon Girty, con- fidently, as he sipped his whisky with a deliberation and calmness secretly admired by the Indians. The woman trembled. She sat pale and ghastly in a corner out of reach of the light, which flick- ered from the hearth upon walls, roof, and the inmates of the hut. “Tf my brother wishes it,’’ said Black Bear the younger, with a courteous bow, “the long-knife sball be skinned alive.” ‘““Thar!” crizd Simon Girty, with a hideous chuckle; “‘you hearn tell, They’ye decided, not me. Now you know your fate, perhaps you'll come down.’ The woman rushed forward and fell upon her knees. She under- stood now what had saved her life. It was the click of Harris’ rifle as he prepared to shoot the ruffian, which, falling on his ear, had stayed the murderous stroke, ‘““Do not stain your own hearth. The man was a weary wayfarer, and I gayehim shelter, He would stop, and I bade him rest until you left here in the morning.” ‘“Wretch! let your paramour kim down; or, by the ’tarnal, you'll suffer in his place,”’ ‘*Monster!’’ said the calm, de- liberate voice of Ned Harris, ‘‘1 am coming. But for her, you guilty soul would long since have winged its flight.” And without another word he calmly descended the ladder, and stood in their midst. No ons offered to touchhim. He was un armed, and they had guns, toma hawks, and knives; so that resis tance was simply madness. ‘So,’ said Simon, as he sur- veyed the handsome youth, with a glance of intense hatred and envy, ‘‘this here’s the way yer alavante with afeller’s wife when is back’s turned.”’ “You lie, and you know it,’’ replied Harris, folding his arms and gazing fixedly at him. “Wal, that ain’t here nor thar. I suppose you’re ready,’’ sneered Simon, ‘“‘T hope I always am, for I have agood conscience. I never slew my fellows in cold blood; my hands are not reeking with the gore of women and children of my own race; I never lied, and fawned, and sneaked; I never committed petty felony—and 1 never was caned until the blood ran down my back.” ‘“*Thunder!’’ yelled the rene- gade, who felt this latter allusion most keenly, ‘‘ but you shall never say that ’ar again, I kin tell yer.” And he drew his long knife. ‘* Not before me—iet me go out- side — anywhere,” gasped tke woman. “Go,” grinned Simon; “‘?m glad you stopped me. Killing right off is too good.” And while the Indians grunted approval he sheathed his knife. The woman fled, screaming and wailing, nor did her cries cease until they were lost in the dis- tance, beneath the wildly- wailing woods, over which still hung the dark and gloowy sky. Used as she was to horrors and crimes, this one seemed to her too terrible to bea. The young man reminded her of one whom she could never forget, despite her degradation— her noble, good, outraged, and murdered husband. Her very soul bled, then, at the thought of what was going to ba
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ee ee SS es —— = eS —— — + - SS ee —EE 20 CHAPTER XXXIIL A FIEND’S WORK. Harris never flinched. There was something in the heart of such a man, of which a blood- stained wretch like Simon Girty had no conception. A sense of honor, and a determination not !to give way, no matter what tor- tures might be heaped upon him, sustained him, even in this hour of trial. There was something, too, in the presence of the woman, from the fact that she was a wo- man, and as such, must feel some sense of pity, which gave him comfort, and enabled him to face the villain with a defiant air. But, even she had disappeared. He looked about on that dark circle, and not a face gave a sign of sym- pathy. Yet, the countenances of the savages were not so terrible as that of Simon Girty. “So yer trappped, eh?’ he suarled. ‘‘Yer caught fair and squar’. D’ye think I didn’t know ye was thar? D’ye think I didn’t hear the click of the rifle? Iknow the sound too well. Thar ain’ta man, not even Boone himself, that Chate wuss than you.” “Do your worst, Simon Girty. Black-hearted dog, traitor to all that is good and true, I might have killed you where you stood, but a woman’s presence saved you. And why, you ask? Because that wo- man had been kind to me,and had given me rest, shelter and food.” “Do yer happen to know what our wust is? Ye heard our friend Black Bar. He tho’t of skinnin’ yer. That’s a capitile idee. It suits me. It’s worthy of the head that planned it, one of the best among the Shawnees.”’ hi copes, I do not fear you,” replied Harris. ‘What does it matter to a man how he dies? But, beware Simon Girty! The band which administered deserved punishment to you once, yet re- mains to avenge any wrong you | inay heap upon me,” ‘But yer young,” said Girty, ‘who, with a fiendish delight, gloated over the prospective agony of his prisoner. * Yer very young. A man like you has the world be- fore him, It looks bright and cheerful. Prehaps ye’ve got a woman some’rs as cares for ye, an’ will ery her pretty eyes out at yer loss? Oh, wouldn’t I like to be hid some’ rs, and hear her, an’ then break in an’ tell her that we put an’ end to yer, an’ then—’’ The hideous menace which was conveyed in that unfinished sen- tence was something terrible, “‘T came on an errand of mer- ey, and I am on a search which only ends—” ‘Tt ends to-day,’’ said Girty. “Perhaps so; I am in your ower. But, whether I live or die am glad of the mee py a ts) secing you face to face, and telling you what a villain you are.”’ ‘‘An’ to think the durned fool had me within reach of his rifle, an’ spared me!’’ grunted Girty, his face wreathed in demoniac smiles. ‘Only to think!” ““Yca know why I spared you.” “T don’t keer. Would J be sech afule? An’ to see me lay lowan’ keep dark, waiting,for my friends? Wal; got any thing more to say?” rs Words will not avail me. Do with me as your brutal heart prompts you. Whatsoever wick- edness you are capable of doing, end it as soon as you can.” “End it, young un! Don’t think it. It will be many blood hours before you will see the end. Oh, when I hear ye howl, when the red hot fire-brands are stuck ‘into yer flesh, won’t I laugh, an’ say, (hat is for comin’ inter an honest man’s house while he’s uway, a-tamperin’ with his wife.” ‘*T say what I said before, you lie, Simon Girty. The woman was kind to me, and if I live to do her a service, and it is in my power, I will gladly do it, even if it be the sréat service of taking away your ateful life.” “Don’t think to do it, youn man. Yer time here will be sho enough — shorter than ye think, , ‘ ? but fong enough for you. Tie him to th cheer, Black B’ar.”’ The Indians seized upon the young man, and tied him firmly to a huge chair, which Girty had eut frem a block of wood. “That’s right, Put sticks on the fire now. Come; don’t waste time; I long to be at him.” Two or three Indians ran out, and found sticks which they heap- ed upon the tire. A great blaze leaped upward. From a receptacle near the fire Simon now took out several broken knives, the blades of which he thrust into the blaze. ‘Let them heat,’’?saidhe. ‘‘In the mean time, let’s hey a little fun with him. Don’t ye begin to tremble now, ye young reptile. Don’t ye wish ye’d never come into an honest man’s house ?”’ ‘Honest!’ sneered Harris. “You don’t know what that means You know what you were whipped for, don’t you? Don’t say 2uy more about honesty.” “ Don’t say that ag’in,” howled Girty. ‘Ye make my blood bile, when I thiak that Simon Girty has lived s« lomg, an’ done so lif- tle to averge that insult. My curse, my ody curse.on them that did it,’’ “You deserved it,” said Harris. “They were merciful to you.’ “They druv me out from among ’em,’’ he snarled. ‘*They set me with my face to the wilderness, and said, ‘let him live or die; what do we keer?’ I'll have a bloodier revenge Pies for the divil- try they did that day. Ye kem on as’arch, di. ye? Where’s Boone’s darter? Wirur’s the Calloway gal? Ha, ha! Simon Girty lives yit, an’ will live tonger, durn ye.” “Villain | as it you that dragged thum from their homes ?”’ “That teciied ye, did it? I tho’t it would. ebbe one of them is the gal ye loye? If I thort so, ef I know’d it, I'd hey her brought here, an’ before yer face I'd do a deed that ’ud make e howl fer very rage. I wish J now’d it. Which one is it?” “ Neither,” “T believe ye lie.” “Do you suppose * would tell you, even if it were true? Set the girls at liberty, and do with me as you choose.’ “Thank yer. It’s very kind of ye to say that. Set’em at liberty an’ then do with you as we please} fhank ye, I say gin But, I don’t think we kin let ye off that way long ez we hev got ye safe anyhow. It didn’t strike ye before thet it would be a foolish thing to give up somethin’ for nothin’ ?” ‘« Simon Girty, listen to me. I were at liberty, I would go down: on my knees to plead with you. Think of the agony of those poor mothers; think how they lie in their beds, thinking, hour after hour, of the terrible danger of their loved ones. Do one good deed, and feel the blessing it would bring.” “T ain’t a fool,” said Girty, ina hoarse tone. “I kain’t give up my revenge.”’ “You have no enmity against these poor girls.’’ ‘““Hain’t IT? I have ag’in’ their fathers, and old Dan’l Boone may nowl fer his darter, She won't come back to him no more, I’m thinkin” to turn Eliza out of the house, an’ take her in. She'd make a hansum wife. Ef the chief will give her up I believe Pll do it.” “Infamous wretch!’ said Har- 8. “Seems ter me yer mighty free with hard names, fer @ man in yer sitivation. Id be, keerful, ef I was hye It won’t hurt ye tu keep a still tongue in yer head.” “You can not do more than kill me. “Yes, I kin. But, I’m wastin’ time. Grit yer teeth, young un. I'm goin’ to show yer a trick ye never vecum of. I was licked till the blood run down my back, was 1? I'll see how you like it, yerself.”” The rufflan stripped the hunt- ing-shirt from the back of his vic- | tina. and went out of the hut. The Big Hunter, Wahue he was gone, Little Black Bear and his comrades stood like statues of bronze, never changing the expression of their faces, Simon Girty came back in a mo- ment, bearing in his hands a number of lithe hickory whips. “Ye bragged ter me that I was lashed, did ye? Tll let ye know that Simon Girty ain’t to be imsult- ed. Now, then.” Selecting one of the longest aud largest of the whips, he raised it above his head, and it fell, with a sharp, hissing sound, on the naked shoulders of the young man. The sufferer would have borne any torment rather than let Girty suppose he felt the blows. At every stroke of the lithe hickory the flesh rose in broad, white welts ; then the blood began to come, and the back of the young hunter was crimsoned with the flowing tide. At last the villain used, wearied with the exertions e had made. and looked at, the fece of the prisoner. Not « muscle moved to show the torment he endured. ‘“‘Yer a game one,”’ said Girty ; “how did ye like that ?” “Tam in your power,” replied Harris; ‘ go on.” “ Not jest yet; I've licked ye enough jest now —sech a lickin’ will teach ye not to speak of it ter a man that’s suffered the same See yer.” He went to a barrel, which stood near the door, and stooping, lifted a little of the contents in his hands and threw it on the bleeding back of the young man. Every drop scorched like a burn- ing coal, for it was a strong brine which he had used in pickling venison. “Yuh!” said Girty, ‘does it feel warm? Oh, we ain’t begun yit; mebbe we will putty soon. Vhen we begin in airnest it will be somethin’ like fun.’’ Harris made no reply. ‘* Don’t turn sullen, now; speak up likea man. Ill own ye bore that lickin’ well; thar ain’t many in this yer kentry thet could beat ye at thet. Now, my friends, ye want a hand in, I s8'pose ? Tae up the cheer an’ carry it out.” They took the prisoner out into the open air, and stationed them- selves some twenty feet away, where they amused themselves by throwing knives and hatchets at his head, which had been left free, so that they might see him dodge when the weapons came too near, But in this they were dis- appointed ; the youth looked them in the face with an unblenching eye, and laughed at them, taunt- ing them in the Shawnee tongue. ‘Birds are picking at me,” he said; ‘‘ wood-peckers have drop- ped from the tree-tops on my head.” ‘My brother is a great brave,” said Black Bear; ‘‘we are proud to torture so great a warrior. Per- haps we may yet do something to hurt him; but he does not fear knives and hatchets.”’ “The long-knives do not fear steel or iron,”’ said Harris, hoping to say something which would put an end to his tortures, ‘‘ The In- dians fear them, and run from them like dogs from s whipping. Why should we fear the Shaw- nees? They were a nation of braves, but none of the chiefs are left; they take a dog for a chief, whom we haye whipped out from among us, like a cur, because he was a thief,’’ A yell of rage broke from the {ndians at this allusion to Girty, who literally foamed at the mouth in his frenzy at the taunt. ‘When other tribes choose & chief,’ said Harris, “they look among their own people, and when they find the man that is bravest in battle, and who has taken many scalps, they hang the wampum upon his shoulders, and make hima ruler. But the Shaw- nees do not so; they take a white man who is scorned by every brave who is not a dog.” “The white man speaks lies of my brother Girty,’’ said Little B Bear, ‘* He dare not deny it,” said Har- ris. ‘‘ Let him speak.’ ‘‘Shet up!” roared Girty, “or I will gag you. Don’t think Pll let ye make me mad enough ter kill ye; [cum pooty nigh it onet—I won’t do it agin. Go on, my brothers ; this man is the one they call among the long-knives ‘the liar;’ and that he is. Harris laughed contemptuously. “ Don’t listen to him,” shouted Girty. “Bring out the knives.” A species of fascination, which she could not resist, had again drawn the wife of Girty to the spot. As the villain issued this last order, she rushed from her place of concealment behind the nouse, and fell at his feet. “Git up,” said Girty; “ didn’t I send you away ? What the cata- mounts are ye doin’ hyar? Git ‘‘Oh, Simon, 1 asked you before to —— him: I beg it again. on my knees. For the sake of tno love you once bore me, even for the sake of the unhallowed past, which I ean not bear to think upon, spare this hier man. He makes me think of—of—’’ ‘“Who, woman?”’ yelled Girty. “My husband—the man who was murdered for my sake.”’ Uttering a savage execration, the brute lifted his right hand, snd struck her down; but she rose and lung about his knees, and even while his blows fell thick and fast upon her head, she plead- ed for the victim before her. Her hair was loose, and floating on her shoulders; the blood was stream- ing down her pallid face, from a cut in the temple. At length, in a transport of rage, he snatched up a hatchet, which lay near, and struck her with the edge. She fell like a log, the blood flowing from a new wound in her head. ‘*Murderer!’’ cried Harris; ‘‘ as God is my judge, if 1 ever escape [ will call you to a bloody account for that blow.” “Who set ye up to interfere atween husband and wife ?”’ shriek- ed Girty. ‘‘Ain’t I got a right to kill her ef I want? Ill do it, too, ef it adds to yer sufferin’ a mite.’”’ ‘*Brutal wretch, she is dead al- ready |’ cried Harris, seeing that she did not move. ‘‘ Raise her up, bring water and lave her face.”’ “ Let her be”? said Girty; “she desarves all she’s got, an’ more, too. TV let ye know thet a wo- man kain’t betray me, an’ not hear of it. Now, then, to make an end of you, sense you like to die.”’ ‘“What are you about to do?” said Harris. “Ye see them kuaives; ther pooty hot, I reckins they’d be apt to burn yea little if they teched e. Now, es I said before, I like lack B’ar’s idee of skinnin’ ye; but Pll improve on his meth —it shill be done with hot knives!” ** Monster !”” ‘1 thort so,’’ chuckled the scoundrel; ‘tye don’t like the idee ; Fei 80, it shall be done.”’ “'What death do you ex- tage to die, Simon Girty? You lack-hearted fiend, do you know that the vengeance of God never slee “God!” said Girty, casting a look at the sky. ‘It’s long sense I hearn His name. My old mother used to pray. Curse you, what d’ye mean by doakin’ me think of her?” ‘Even you had a good mother, then, Simon Girty? What if her spirit is aaah down upon us ,» Witness ng your ernel “You lie!” roared Girty; “it kain’t be; and yit they do say that spirrits walk ‘in the air. h !”? looking apprehensively about him, ““What the devil did ye say that fer? it makes a coward of mie, Sperrits! {s that woman dead, Black B’ar?” “Ugh !’’ said Little Black Bear, “not dead. Hit hard, brother. Take her scalp, eh ?” ‘No, friend Black B’ar, let her lie there. Now, let’s to work. young chap’s hide As IL live, this comes off.’
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“T ask not to do this deed,”’ said Harris; ‘it will be some for you to remember in the coming days, that you treated a human being as such.”’ “No,” yelled Girty, “if ye git on yer knees, I wouldn’t let ye o. No, no; Iknow a trick worth two of that. Come, Black B’ar, in. he Indian advanced with a red- hot knife, and made an incision in the shoulder of ‘the young hunter, at the base of the neck; the muscles shrunk, and the flesh seemed to shrivel up, under the in- fliction. But Harris uttered no cry. ‘* Ugh!” said Little Black Bear again; ‘‘good blood. Big brave.” As he spoke, Girty stooped to take up aknife to begin his fiendish work, when three rifles cracked. Black Bear, with a bullet in his brain, fell dead at the feet of the destined victim. Thesavage next to him dropped with a groan. The ball aimed at Girty would doubt- less have ended his wicked life for- ever, but it was firedas he stoop- ed, and took effect in the arm of the Indian behind him. As Girty started up in surprise and terror, he saw something which did not decrease his uneasiness. Advancing from the thicket ata run, swing- ing their terrible rifles over their heads, came the big hunter, Na- than, and Massajuoit. Girty and the wounded Indian oomade and san for their lives. CHAPTER XXXIV. STILL ON THE TRAIL. NATHAN and Massaquoit halted by the side of the young hunier. and cut his bonds hastily; but the big hunter never hal He saw nothing but the flying Indian, and the two plunged into the woods together, the white man with firm- prt: teeth, and flashing eyes, run- ning with dogged determination, and the savage going with the speed of despair. ‘*T don’t calculate they’ v3 served you right well,’’? said Nathan; ‘you'd better have vamoosed tne ranche the way we did. You in ed to get into trouble. Was that Girty ?”” “Yes; I have a long account to settle with that wretch. “Why; what’n thunder has Le being doing to your back ?” “T have been flogged with hickories and pickled in brine,” said Harris, grimly. I haye only one thing to repent; my rifle was leveled at the infamous wretch avd his wife’s oe saved him. There she is; help her, I can’t.” He sunk back in the chair, ex- hausted. Nathan ran into the house and a moment after emerg- ed, bearing a gourd, which he filled at the spring. and. coming back, bathed the face of the poor woman, and washed the clotted blood from her wounds. She started up with a shudder. “Simon, Simon, don’t kill me!” ‘¢ Be quiet, my poor creature, no- body shall harm you,” said Na- than, kindly. “ White eran good,’’ said the Indian. ‘ Hurt bad; rest do her much good.”’ ** No, no, no!” said the woman, wildly; ‘there is no rest, no quiet forme. Good—I was good once; 1 loved my husband and trusted in him, until the serpent came. Why do ros bells ring ?” Y poor woman,”’ said Ned Harris, “ there are no bells,” ‘My head swims—lights glance before my eyes; I know w y the oe ew ay. ; there is to be aw @ young and true meet at os altar, ro there ex- change vows. I ought to know when the bells ring ; so they rang at my wedding.”’ *“My good woman,” said Har- tis, ‘“‘ you are badly hurt; let me beg of you to goto the hut and te down. Massaquoit, lead her n. “He is redl’? she shrieked alond ; he fs bloody. Take him away!” “Let me take her in, r crea- ture,’ said Nathan; ‘“‘she won’t be afraid of me.” ‘Yes, I will go with you,” she said; ‘‘ you have a it face, but a gentle heart—you will be kind to me. Time was when Simon— even Simon Girty, was kind.” ‘PT kill him yet,” said Nathan ; “T believe the devil helps him; he stooped just as I fired. Come along.” The woman went with him into the hut. He persuaded her to lie down on the rude pallet, and, with rough forest skillin surgery, made a bandage and bound up her bleed- ing heat Just as he did this, the big hunter returned. A fierce smile played over his face, and they knew that another Indian had fal.en when he took a small book from his breast, and, with a pencil, put down another mark by the side of long rows, each one signi fying an Indian’s death. ‘*T swore when I stood by the side of my darling,” said the big hunter, ‘‘ that she should be ter- ribly avenged. I have kept my word so far. I will keep it to the end. What is the matter with that woman? Have the red devils maltreated her ?”’ ‘*No. One worse than any In dian did the work,’’ said Harris. who had followed him in. “ Who ” ** Simon Girty.”’ . The eyes of the hunter flashed fire. ‘‘Do you tell me that the man who ran from here but now was that execrable wretch?’ he said. ‘Ab, if I had only known it! But, I saw only the savage running away. If Ll had known Girty, I would have left the chase even of an Indian to follow him. Did he strike the woman ?” ‘Yes. He beat her with his fist at first and then struck her down with a hatchet.”’ ** For what ?” “She was pleading for my life, and he was jealous.’ “Of her, poor woman ?”’ “Aye. Even of her.” ‘Twas a bad blow,’ said the hunter, bending over her. ‘I wish she woul open her eyes. There.” The woman had been lying back on the pillow, but her eyes flashed wide open, and she looked at him with a gaze from which he shrunk. He drew back and led Harris out of the hut. ‘Did you look at her eye, boy?” he said. ‘*No; why should I?” ‘She is mad.” “ Mad y? “Yes. The contusion of the brain is frightful. As soon as I saw her cye I knew she was mad.” “* Will she recover ?”’ “Never!- Do not think it for moment. She will live, no Conbt. but she never more will be sound in mind.” “Tt is terrible. She received the blow in trying to save my life.’’ **T am sorry for her,’’ said the other; “but, sorrow will never bring back her lost wits. She seems to me a woman who has seen culture, and lived a life differ- ent from this, at some time,”’ “80 I gathered from her con- versation. It appears that Girty killed her husband when he was young, and she has been with bim ever since.” ‘God will not suffer that bloody wretch to cumber the earth for- ever. Let us go on. We waste time. : ‘*How did you come to save me?’ ‘* Massaquoit followed you, and by his means we came hither in time. Let us away. Simon Girty will not rest until he is on our trail, with how many red devils it is impossible to Bay. Nathan, Massaquoit, let us go. The Indian and Yankee came out of the hut. “T hate dreffully to leave that Nat¥an. ae he’s pone hurt, I judge. How it en ?”? Hove related whit bad occur- red. The Big Hunter. Strike a female with a hatch- et!’ roared the Yankee. ‘‘ Dod rot his livin’ picter: What does he mean? Now, look here; if I ever meet that consarned skunk, | ef I don’t make a hole in his hide I hope I may be shot myself. That's all.” “* We have talked long enough,” said the big hunter. ‘‘ Let us be onour way. As for this poor wo- man, we can do nothing with her. She is mad. And no man will harm a woman who is not in her right mind,”’ ‘ Massaquoit is sad at heart,” said the Indian, gravely. ‘The Shawnees have taken a wicked white man for their chief. There are good Indians and there are bad Indiane; but, when a white man is bad, he is worse than a bad in- dian.” “Tt is true,my friend Massaquoit, But, there are no good Shawnees., There is only one Indian man ‘whom I will not kill, and only one woman. Youare the man; Lealli- wah is the woman. And why do Ispare her? Five times I have had my rifle pointed at her heart, and as many times has somethin whispered, ‘pause’. I can no say what it is, but, I have deter- mined that she shall escape.” “T am glad to hear it,’’ said Harris. ‘‘The man who injures that girl will make an enemy of me. t them look to it. You are too sanguinary, sir.”’ “T? You never saw what I saw. I had been married a few delicious months, and I found the wife whom I loved, with whom I was 60 happy, dead, dead! Oh God, the Ruler of all; Thou hast heard my vow. Witness also its redemption.” “Your wrongs are indeed great, said Harris; ‘‘ but, others ave suffered as well as you: I search for some one whom I love, and whom I will find, or die in trying.” “T believe you, young man. And you have the word of a man who never failed in a promise yet, that I will be by your side in every thing that relates to Con- stance Harding. There are others to be saved now, it seems.” “Yes. They have abducted Amy Boone and Edith Calloway.” “The heart of Massaquoit is sad,’’ said the Indian. “He is sorry to see the red-men do such wrongs to their white brothers. If Massaquoit had his way, the red-men and the whites should live in peace. But, the time has come for work. Let us be on our way for the Valley of Cedars.” he night was yet dark. They knew that the morning could not be far off. Massaquoit took the lead, the big hunter marched next, Ned Harris followed, and the irrepressible Nathan brought up the rear. He kept up a running fire of commentaries as they pro- ceed “ Judge, if we keep foolin’ round much longer we'll get our ha’r raised,”’ he declared. ‘‘ How does it strike you, now ?” “J hope you are not afraid?” said the i unter, sternly. “ Afraid! I calculate you orter be the the best judge of that.” ‘“*T believe you to be brave. But, why talk of the danger ?”’ ‘“Dod rabbit it, can’t you leta man talk? [ll tell you what it is; I was born talkin’. I was, by hokey. You'd better believe it, too. Why, darn my buttons, talkin’ is as natural in our family as it is for a sow to drink butter- milk. My mother talked herself to death.’ dao tae was sad,’’ said Harris, ughing, in spite of his aching beck. * F “Sad? I guess it was! And that ain’t all. She lived long enough to do the ee for my father, ae brother, and his brother’s e ’ “Tn what manner?” “Talked ’em into a quick con- sumption, every one of ’em,” said Nathan, nodding, payer. e3 don’t reckin I’d ever been here, if | | the old lady badn’t gone at herself | in the manner described. Bet yer life she was a smart one. T a 21 She’d talk a hole fn an oak log in two minnits, by the clock. Now I took after her a little. So don’t blame me ef I talk, seme.”’ “There are times when men ought to know how to rule their tongues.”’ “Don’t I krow that. big un?” aaid Nathan. ‘‘Now, don’t be hard on me jest now. Ive got to! talk or bust; and as I don’t want to go ap jest yet, let me talk.” + “The Indians may hear you.”” * “Let ’em I reckon I ain’t afeared of no Indian that ever drawed breath. Now, see here; you know me, don’t you? Did I ever flinch in a fight?” “T have already said that I he- lieve you to be a brave man,”’’ said the big hunter. “Thank you. Oh, Jimini, I wonder how fur it is to the Valley of Cedars.” “Tf it were not for the canoe, you would be footsore before you reached the end of the journey,”’ replied the hunter. ‘Massaquoit knows the way,”’ said the Indian. ‘The big river flows by it, so that our path shall be by water.’’ “It is fortunate,” said Harris, “that we have acanoe. Where is it hidden ?”” ‘*Massaquoit knows. It is near at hand.”’ Indeed, the murmur of the river sounded pleasantly in their ears as they came forward. They reached the stream’s bank, and from a mass of rubbish beside a fallen log, the big hunter and Massaquoit exhumed a large canoe, capable of carrying the four men easily. There were four paddles in the boat, and they set to work at once, and were soon spinning down the stream, re by the powerful arms of the adventurers. The cabin of Girty was soon left miles in the rear; then they breathed more freely. As morning came, they drew the canoe under the shelter of the heavy growth of bushes which overhung the river, and there lay secure from observa- tion. ‘* Now that we are at rest,” saic Harris, ‘‘I wish some one would look at my back. It burns as if living coals had been laid upon “Massaquoit will help you, if any one can,’’ said the big hunter “Look at the boy’s back, will you ?”’ , Massaquoit assisted Harris in removing the hunting-shirt whic’ adhered to the raw flesh, and re vealed the bloody work of Girty Nathan uttered a cry of horror. **Mebbe I won’t give that devil particular goss when I git a lick at him,”’ said Nathan. “I say perhaps. But, I rather guess f will, Oh, durn an’ blast a man that kin have the heart to maltreat a feller critter that way. Looks bad, don’t it, Massy ?”” **Got bad lickin’,’’ said the Indian, gravely. ‘Never mind. Massaquoit cure him. You stay here; keep very quiet.” The Indian left the canoe and went into the woods. He was ~ nearly a quarter of an hour. hen he returned he bore in his hands a number of leaves from ee of different kinds, which e proceeded to bruise into a sort of poultice. This was spread upon a piece of soft buckskin and laid upon the back of Harris. At the first touch, he felt the in- fluence of the potent herbs. A sensation of rest and comfort eame over his wounded back, and he knew that Massaquoit under- stood his business. ** How feel now, brother ?”’ said the Indian. ‘Good, eh ?” “The sensation is delightful. I thank P bay Massaquoit.”’ “No thank Catch Girty some day, make something for his back not feel 80 good, eh? You put tt on?” “Tl do it. Did you see any Indian signs while you were nig ‘Plenty, plenty. Good man times I see Indian sigh? : “Where did they go?” “Some go dis way; some go dat
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“Then the route will be full of danger,’ said the big hunter. ‘Tt behooves us to be on our guard.” CHAPTER XXXYV, THE WARNING. KEEPING in the shadow of the hanks, and moving forward with — caution, the canoe advanced hrough theday. The dark foliage on every hand, the silent river, the beautiful fields, formed a pleasant picture. Ned Harris had an eye for the beautiful in nature. His soul was of such a moid that he could take delight in these things. Even the heart of Massaquoit felt the influence. But the face of the big hunter never changed, and Na- than looked at the scenery merely in the light of dollars and cents. ‘‘ Have you any such scenery in the east, friend Nathan ?”’ asked Harris. ‘© Wal, Ican’t say that we have. Pll tell you what it is, Ned; our kentry ain’t so pooty to look at, but we’ve made away with the pi zon reptiles that infested the sile, so that we kin live in peace. It’s a rough sile in the east, I allow, but thar ain’t no Injins.”’ ‘* Where are they ?”’ said Massa quoit. ‘There was a time when eat tribes dwelt by the sea. here are the Pequods and Wam- pamoags? Where the Delawares and Nepmucks? Have they any longer a place and a name ?” “T rather think not! They kinder leaked out, little by little, till hardly a shoot of the old stem remains. I’m thinkin’ they had s ood deal to do with their own ownfall.”’ ‘*Had the white man nothing to do with the work ?” said Massa- quoit, impressively laying a finger upon the arm of the Yankee. “*T won't deny but he had,” said Nathan. ‘*You see Injins ain’t got the ways of the whites. They ain’t so cute, so to speak. They don’t raiilly get the way of handlin’ powder an’ ball, an’ they ain’t got noinvention. Now,when a white man gits ina pizon diffi- kilty, an’ ain’t got no way ready to git out of it, he makes up a way. An Injin follers the same old road, an’ if he’s turned out of that road, he don’t know what to do. ‘* My brother is right, the Indians are very simple, but, they are as the great master of life made them. Is it right, then for our white brothers to come among us, with guns and fire-water, to steal away our hearts and our lives ?”’ “JT judge not,’ said Nathan. “ But, what I think is this: An In- jin ain’t no call to drink unless he has a mind to it.” ‘Listen, my brother,” said Massaquoit. ‘I am the friend of the white man. I love them, and because I love them, I can not re- fuse to see their faults. The In- dian did not know that there was such a thing as strong water, un- ti! our white brothers came, and, when they had tasted it, they were like men bitten by a rattlesnake, Poison spread itself through their veins, and lo! they are undone. Step by step I see them go back- ward. Butthey can nothel; them- selves; the poison isin their veins.” “1 do not deny that the Indians have great wrongs, Massaquoit,”’ said Harris. ‘But us settlers in Kentucky have come amon the Shawnees, wishing to live a peace with them, Theygive us no rest. Our houses are burned, our women made captive, our children are killed, before we have raised a hand against the tribe.” ‘“« That is because the chiefs say : ‘Behold our great tribes in the east. Wherever a white man’s foot is placed, they melt away like soow under the sunrays. Let us drive them out, before we share their fate.’”’ “Tt will only end in one way,” said Harris; ‘‘ white men must conquer.” $f saquoit is nota fool. He knew this long ago, and he be- The Big Hunter. came a friend of the white man. Why-is the nation of the Iroquois the strongest of the east? Be- eause they do not take up the hatchet against their white neigh- bors.’’ “Silenz: ‘said the big hunter *T hear footsteps.”’ A death-like stillness fell upon the scene. The big hunter silent- ly left the bivouac, with a drawn knife in his hand. A slight scuffle was heard, ere long, and when he returned he was leading by the hand the beautiful Indian girl, Le- alliwah. Harris utterca a .ow cry Oo! aa- miration. She seemed more bean- tiful now than ever before. A flush stole into her dusky face as she saw the young hunter. “ Lealliwah!” he cried. ‘*‘ How came you here ?”” ‘“The woods are wide,” said Le alliwah. ‘' Who shall say to me, ‘go here, or go there.’ I com and go as I will.” : ‘Will the queen of the Shawnee maidens listen to the words of the white man?” he said, capsng the style of conversation to whic he knew she had been accustomed. * Will she listen to the man who is willing to lay down his life for her sake ?”’ “ Let the white hunter speak. Lealliwah is ready to listen.” ‘« Has Lealliwah been to the Val- ley of Cedars since I saw her at the Indian village?” ‘‘My brother ran away,’ said the Indian maiden, smiling. ‘‘ Le- alliwah was very glad, for the In- dians would have burned him. But, what does the white man know of the Valley of Cedars ?”’ ‘Let the maiden answer my question.” “ Lealliwah has indeed been to the Valley of Cedars.” ‘Then you have seen the mai- den whom they call Constance ?”’ ‘“Constance!’”’ cried the big hunter. ‘“‘ What does she know about Constance ? I tell you, the child is dead. She must be dead. But, let the girl speak.” Ned glanced at the big hunter in surprise. Large beads of sweat had started out upon his brow. His face worked like that of aman enduring great physical agony. “Constance!”? said Lealliwah. “T can not tell, That name, that name! Why does it ring in my ears like the music of a forgotten song? I can not understand. told you before, there is a maiden at the Valley of Cedars whose name sounds like that. And yet, when they speak her name, it does not affect me as it dees when you speak it,” ‘“‘Tg the maiden white as snow yet at the valley ?” asked Ned. oe Yes ” “Then I must find her. Say maiden; Is your heart all Indian? If we go among your people, dc- siring to shed no blood, but mere- ly to save from captivity one we love, will you betray us ?” ‘“Lealliwah could not do that. Her heart is not as warm to her vee as it should be. When Te- onga comes to her, and whispers words of love in her ear, she does not love to hear them as she used to do. Something has come be- tween her and his heart.” ‘*Then you no longer love the chief?’ said Harris, our, ‘* What is my brother thinking of ?”’ said the Indian girl, proudly. “Has he forgotten what he said to me at the village? When he spoke to me he told me that the maiden with the name which makes me think of the days when I was a little child, was to have been his wife, and that he loved her. Why should he dare tospeak and look at the Indian girl in that way if this is true?” “ But, I have it from your own lips that you no longer love the chief. »” “T did not say that I no longer loved the chief. But, somethin _ has come between my heart an his, like a cloud before the sun. How can I tell what this is? The gun will some day drive away the cloud,” “You are too beautiful to be the wife of a savage,” said Harris, speaking her language with a glib- ness which surprised himself. “You were born for something better, something higher,” ‘‘Telonga is a great chief,” said the girl, quickly, and with a touch of anger in her tones. ‘ But he is a savage.” “So am I. No good has ever come of one of your blood mating with the children of the tribes. Let not the white man speak against Telonga, or he will make Lealliwah angry.” “Let the Queen of the Woods forget that I have spoken so to her. Let her remember that she is very beautiful, and I am young, and that young blood is hot.” Something in her face told the young man that she was not so terribly offended, after all. “Then my white brother must not speak so to her any more,” said she, ‘‘ or she will be very an- gry. Lealliwah is his fricnd—she will aways be his friend. But, let him go not to the Valley of Cedars. There are dangers in the path of which you know nothing. The Shawnees scent blood in fhe air. Telonga has sworn to have your ag ‘*Why is he so furious against me ?”” A smile and blush were the au- swer. ‘* Because I spoke to you in the village ?”’ asked Ned. She nodded and smiled again. “Ahha! Then let the Indian beware of me!” ‘““My brother does not think what he says. Telonga is a great chief. He is very brave in battle. He has taken many scalps.”’ ‘““Have you asked her where Constance is ?”’? demanded the big hunter. ‘You are losing time iv talk. Ask her, and quickly.” ‘““We were speaking of Con- stance,”’ said Ned, looking discon certed. ‘* Where is she!’ ‘*T saw her at the Valley of Ce dars four suns ago. Go not near it. When warriors have taken a prisoner, and he escapes, they are very angry with him when he falls again into their hands. My broth- vrs must be very careful. Promise me that you will not go to the val- ley. “Tecan not do that,” said Ned. ‘To find Constance has been the object of my life. When that life ends, and then only, the search ends. If they have not killed her, I will find her.”’ “The white man is brave,” said the girl, looking at him with a kindling eye. ‘He deserves to find the girl he loves. Telonga is a great chief, but he would not go so far to find Lealliwah, if she were stolen away.”’ “ What does she say?” again asked the big hunter, ‘She says that the girl she takes for Constance is still at the Valley of Cedars.” “That is good news. Though t may not be the one we seek, yet it is some poor girl who is doomed tc a fate worse than death, unless we rescue her. Let us push on. shea is to be done with this irl “ Let her go free.” ‘“Tmpossible. She will be sure to betray us.” * She will not,” said Harris, hot- ly. ‘I will stake my life on her truth.’* “Has she promised not to be- tray us, then?’ said the big hunter. “‘She shall do it,” said Harris; and you shall see her face when she makes the promise again to ou, as she has done it to me. ealliwah, look upon these men. Do you know any one ?” ‘“Massaquoit comes from the shores of the great water, Onturio,”’ said the tae “he is well known in the villages of the Shawnees.” “To you know the others ?” ey have heard of the terrible big hunter of the Kentucky,” re- sponded the girl, “and I see him now. He has killed many of my people; but, will you speak a few words in his ear; yous repeat them for me.” “What can she have to say to ES ueried the hunter, when the “Why me,’’ request was made known. should she speak ?”’ “Will you hear her?” “Tecan not help myself; there is something in her face which I I can not resist.” * Big hunter,”’ said the girl, ina musical voice, which sounded like the ringing of a silver bell, * you have suffered great wrongs at the hands of the Shawnees. Before that time, you were kind to them when they came to your house ; but when the sorrow came you went mad.” The hunter bowed his head. “You made a vow, which was not right in the eyes of the Great Spirit; you said you would not spare man, woman, or child with ae blood in a veins.” is true. id they spare m sweet lambs? Girl, do not viral me mad by the recollection of that gad time; it is hard enough to bear when I am alone with my thoughts.” “You have done wrong,” said Lealliwah; ‘‘a great warrior avenges a wrong upon those who do the deed. hat have the wo- men of the Shawnees and the lit- tle children, done to wrong you? If you have lost a dear one, why rob others of those they love as dearly ?”” “7 never killed any one but war riors. Providence has ordained it that I should never have it in my power to take away the life of a woman or child except yours, and your life I dare not take.”’ “That is well. Then, if you must slay, promise me that only warriors shall feel the power of your rifle,and that the innocent shall go by unharmed.” To the surprise of every one the man bowed his head and made the promise. “Lealliwah is glad,” said the = “If warriors fall, it is the fate of war; but women and children, who can. not fight, should Fo safely on their way. Can Lealliwah go now ?” “po you promise not to betray . ‘*Lealliwah will be true ?” “Then go. You have done a good work in me to-night; I am not the man I was.” With a smile Lealliwah bounded into the woods, and disappeared. CHAPTER XXXVI. THE INDIAN VILLAGE. “You look at me sti ely,” said the big hunter; tye ih not understand how it is that I have made this promise, and made it to an Indian girl. Iam as much at fault as you; I only know that her influence over me is such that I feel I can not resist it. My hate of the red race remains, yet I own to a deference toward Lealliwah which both pains and pleases me.” This was a long speech for the usually taciturn and somewhat sullen man, whose life was a mystery even to himself. “Perhaps you are in love with her, and want to cut out Telonga and Ned,” remarked the Yankee, carlessly, The big hunter made a sud- den bound, and laid an iron hand upon the throat of the speaker, who turned pale as death. The fit of anger left the strange man as quickly as it came, and his arm dro to his side. “While you live, never make a speech of that kind again, Nathan; you very nearly tempted me to do ‘Agr an injury ; I should have done t if my senses had not come back to me in tirme.”’ “I beg pardon, governor,” said Nathan, putting his hand up to his throat, in which there was an uncomfortable sensation. ‘“T didn’t think you'd rile up like that —I didn’t, by gravy. I shan’t joke with you again.”’ “T. am no jester, Nathan; I thought you knew that. Let us gry ce oes iain de ot go yet,’ said Massaquoit; “stay here. Ned and I go % vil- lage over dere.”’
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‘“« Yes,’”’ said Massaquoit, “ big village, good many people. Go dere, find girl, mebbe. Don’t t’ink perhaps Lealliwah know all ‘pout white pris’ner.” “Massaqvoit is right. We must search every large village on the route. Won’t Ned need a little painting before you go ?”’ “Got paint here,’’ said Massa- quoit, opening his pouch ; “ always ready.”’ By the aid of the material he had, the runner quickly trans- formed Ned into an Indian, gro- tesquely painted. “T medicine-man, dis time,’ said Massaquoit. ‘‘ You my man. Go wid me. See now. Me tell you what to do.” In as few words as possible, the runner made Ned acquainted with his plans. Being quick to learn, he readily took the lesson to heart, and soon had it at his finger-ends. Massaquoit put ona sort of hel- met, or pointed cap, much worn by medicine-men, and started to- ward the Indian town, not a mile away, Harris following in his wake. They left the woods behind, and came out upon the slope of the hill, at the foot of which the vil- lage nestled by the river-side, a picturesque scene indeed. The wigwams were planted out in rows, leaving alarge square in the cen- ter. he entire collection num- bered perhaps five hundred lodges, being one of the largest of the In- dian towns. “‘ Now remember,”’ said Massa- quoit. ‘Do as I told you. All know me here,”’ He advanced boldly. Immedi- ately some of the Shawnees loung- ing about in the square and alleys saw him, and came running toward him, some bearing weapons in their hands. But, the moment they recognized him, all fell back in the greatest respect. The pro- fession of medicine-man is as sa- cred as that of the herald in ancient times. As they entered the village, Ned, according to instructions, poor | and performing uncouth antics in the rear, at the same time keeping a sharp lookout among the circle of dark faces on every hand, He saw at a glance that the village was rather barren of warriors. Most of them were on the war-path. An old chief, with snow-white hair falling on his shoulders, advanced to meet them. ““My son is very great medi- cine,”’ said he. ‘ Why has he now come to the Shawnee village? We have looked for him a long time.” “The medicine-man must go where the Great Spirit calls him,” said Massaquoit. ‘How has it been with my father? His hair is white as snow, but his limbs are aye ‘“*Maonah is a broken pine,” said the old chief. ‘‘ Thereis life in his roots, but he is dead at the top. Let my son come forward, until a greater chief greets him. Telonga is here.” Ned, although he never ceased his antics, felt a pang very akin to fear at this intelligence. But, to do him justice, this fear was not for himself, but for his mission. If he was ever detected, farewell his hope of ever finding Constance an! The old chief led the way to the grand square. There, standing near a great fire which had been built in the center, they saw Te- longa. The face of the chief was pert = a months, the Be ad been gettin t- ter of his men in Tear Cinoci counters, and he was ve The ambition of this Het wa t drive the white men, whom he hated so intensely, from the soil of Kentucky. But, he saw to his dismay that the annihilation of block-houses and trading-posts, and even settlements, did not de- ter the settlers from pushing their ts still further west and north. € saw, in spite of all he could do, his tribe decreasing da day, with no hope of wn A eir various en- | by ying | the evil. Tne demon whom he had feared was gradually finding jts way into the tribe—the love of strong drink. At the sight of his somber face, Massaquoit gave a signal to Ned, and he dropped face downward on the sod, and rolled himself up in a heap. “‘Massaquoit is welcome, if he comes as a friend,”’ said Telonga. ‘But, he has been a friend of the white men, Who is this ?” “Touch him not,’’ said Massa- uoit. ‘* The hand of the Great pirit isonhim. He is mad.” Telonga uttered a guttural ex- clamation of pity, and then did not look at him again. Ned lay coiled up at the feet of Massa- quoit, watching every movement of his enemies with a wary eye. Hesaw that every thing was in readiness for a council. Skins had been spread about the fire, and the women and children, to- guar with the warriors who had een left in the village, already formed a deep circle about them. ‘““What is this?’ said Massa- quoit. ‘*Do the chiefs meet in council ?”” “Yes,” said Telonga. ‘I am glad my brother has come. He can tell us what we ought to do. The white men win. The Indians can not stay them. Foot by foot they are driving us away from our pleasant places, and soon the deer will come no more to the licks when they want drink, because they fear the rifles of the white men.”’ ‘““What would you have me do?’ demanded Massaquoit. ‘*T would have you ery aloud to the Great Spirit, that he may put strength into our arms, to drive out: e long-knives from among us. “The Great Spirit will not always be entreated,’’ said Massa- quoit. “When should his children come to him, except in their need,’’ said the chief. ‘‘ Our war- riors grow faint in battle. They are slain often, and not many of the white men fall.” ““Massaquoit will do what he can,’ said the runner. ‘Let Te- longa be sure of that.’’ “It is well,” said Telonga “When the chiefs come, go inte the circle, and call upon the Great Spirit. We willsee if heis angry with us,” At this moment there was a commotion in the lodges, and six men, the heads of the village of that section, came out into the open space. All greeted Massa- quoit by a stately salutation, and took seats upon the skins. Mas- saquoit was assigned a place near Telongs, and the council com- menced. All around them gath- ered a circle of grim faces mingled with those of the women and children, looking on with the leasure which they always take fn any thing out of the ordinary routine of everyday life. The comely faces of the women light- ed up with a smile, as some fa- vored chief or brave took his lacein the circle. But, while he center of admiration was Te- longa, the Great Elk, all looked with awe upon the set face of Massaquoit, who, in his character of medicine-man, or prophet, was regarded as a superior being, to whom was given the power of looking into the future, and of enetrating the secrets which lie eyond the power of ordinary mortals. ‘« Listen,’’ said Telonga. ‘‘ Chiefs and warriors, you see before you Massaquoit, the Mohawk, who will tei! you what you ought to do. Arise then, great prophe and we will attend to thy words.’ “ Ajeno!”? cried Massaquoit, in a voice of thunder. ‘‘Come!” This was the name by which he had chosen to pry cooriny Ned Har- ris. Bounding suddenly to his feet, he pushed aside the savages who impeded his course, and stood in the center of the ring, beside the lazing fire. The foam was drop- ping from his lips, and his glaring eyes ran round the dark circle with an unmeaning stare. “See,” said Massaqnoit; ‘‘ here The Big Hunter. a | stands one who has felt the hand | | | | | | of the Manitou. spect him.” A murmur ran through the as- sembled group. Indians would as soon think of digging up the bones of their fathers, as to lay the weight of a finger in anger upon an insane or foolish person. **Aleno,”’ said Massaquoit, in the same thundering base, “ pro- duce the holy pouch.” From the folds of his huntirg- shirt Ned took out the mee. which had been entrusted to hig care by the runner, and handed it to him. As soon as he had taken it, obedient to the sign, he fell at the feet of Massaquoit, and coiled himself up as before. In the bag Massaquoit, who was a man of Sey. experience in these matters, ad a number of contrivances for inspiring awe in the simple minds of the savages. First he took out a little oblong box of bark, which he laid upon the ground. Then, lighting a pine torch which lay near, he whirled it over his head, and waved it slowly over the box, managing to touch it in the oper- ation. Instantly there was a tre- mendous report, and a stream of flame Jeaped upward. The box was filled with powder, and he had managed to light asmall piece of paper communicating with the contents. Though one of the simplest tricks imaginable, it im- posed upon the credulous savages, who fell back in some alarm, while the women fled, shrieking, though curiosity brought them back again when they found that no one was hurt. Massaquoit crossed his face with his hands and dropped to the ground, mum- bling a strange jumble of words, intelligible to no one. Then he sprun up, and, rocking his body to and fro, began to chant in deep, awe-inspiring voice: * Manitou, Maniton, Great Father, hear me. I call alond, that thy ears may be open ; Listen to the voice of thy child, Thon hast seen the light, Thou hast spoken aloud. Thy voice is heard by the Shawnee. Telonga is here; he calle thee! Elinipsico is here; he calls thee! Massaquoit would hear thy voice again,” He paused, and taking a number of small packages, about the size of the ordinary torpedo, from the poneh, he flung them into the ames. A dozen reports were heard, and the brands were scat- tered. “The Manitou hears,” said Massaquoit. ‘ What would the chiefs know ?” ‘Demand of him, whether the Shawnees will succeed in their battles against the whites,’’ said Telonga. ‘“* Listen,” said Massaquoit, pro- ducing five packages, somewhat larger than the last used, but si- milar in appearance. “When I cast these into the flames, if you hear the voice of the Spirit, you will know whether you are to stand or to fall.”” All looked on in speechless anx- lety, while the speaker cast one of the packages into the fiames. They seized upon it greedily, and though no noise was heard, it was speedily consumed. A look of fear was seen upon the face of every one present, except that of Telonga. His was a nature to oe even the Great Spirit him- self. “Demand of him, whether we must be friends with the white men.” Massaquoit flung another pack- age into the fire, A report, near- ly as loud as that which had des- troyed the box, immediately fol- lowed. Acry of terror broke from the gaping crowd. “It is false!’ cried Telonga, angrily. ‘ A lying Spirit has tak- en the place of the Great Manitou. Listen, sons of the Shawnees! Shall we make friends with those who come among us with poisons, and who would rob us of the land we love, and even steal away the graves of our fathers? What is Kantuckee? Is it not the soil where the Shawnee and the Chickasaw, for many years, have killed game and fought each other. Let all men re- And shall we give ft up to stran- gers? The Great Spirit created it for us to kill our game upon, and no lying Spirit shall turn us from the land.”’ ‘Let Telonga be silent,’”’ said Masaquoit. ‘‘The mouth of the prophet is opened, and the Great Spirit shall fill it with words of fire. If the Shawnees are strong,! is not the white man stronyer? Listen to what the Great Spirit speaks. ‘Be friends with the white man, and you shall still be reat, like the Six Nations of the akes.’ Behold the Tuscaroras. They fought with the white men, and they were driven from their homes and went to dwell with the Iroquois of the lakes, and now they are a great nation, while those who fought the white man are gone from the face of the earth.” “Let dogs and cowards be friends of the white man. Telon- ga will never be their slave.” ‘*Ts Massaquoit a slave? Are the Mohawks slaves? They are friends of the white man.”’ ‘*Massaquoit has listened too long to the smooth tongue of Sir William,” replied Telonga. ‘‘ The white man has sung in his ear like a bird. While the Mohawks and Oneidas, the Senecas and Cayugas, the Onondagas and Tuscaroras fight for the white man, and drink their strong water, they will be safe. But, when there are no more wars to fight, they will fall under the hand of the destroyer.” “Then Massaquoit will go,” said the wily Mohawk, who was by this time satisfied that the ob- ject of their search was not in the village. ‘He will go to a tribe who honor the Great Spirit.” “Let Massaquoit rest,” said Telonga, ‘“‘and listen to the coun- cil of warriors who have never bowed the knee unto the white man.’? “ Massaquoit must go.” “Not so. Let my brother stay, Our brother Girty will soon be here.”’ { Massaquoit had good reasons for’ not wishing to see his ‘‘ brothe' Girty,’’ and ingisted upon leaving. Telonga pressed him to remain, but he would not, and left the village. As they passed-out, they met Leailiwah coming in. No one was near, and she stopped and spoke to them, “Go quickly,” she said, ‘*‘ Gir- vy is near at hand.” Massaquoit took the hint and hurried away. In afew moments the canoe had passed the village which was concealed from the view of those in the boat by the intervening hills, and was on the way down-stream. Lealliwah joined the group about the coun- cil-fire, happy in the conscious- ness that the white men would soon be out of reach of pursuit. CHAPTER XXXVII. MAD ELIZA. Tne party had hardly been — an hour when Simon Girty rode in- to the village, accompanied by the Indian who had been with him in the torture of Ned Harris. The naturally forbidding counte- nance of Girty was black with pas- sion, and Telonga saw at a glance that something had happened to make him furiously angry. ‘““What has been done to m brother Girty ?’ said the chief. “He is angry. Does he scent blood in the air?” “Blood!” said Girty. ‘‘Itshall flow like a river! hat? Kin a sneakin’ thief come into a man’s cabin while he’s gone, and talk to his wife till she forgits she hasa busband? I'll have his blood.” “ Where is Little Black Bear?’ demanded the chief. ‘ Where is Sandoval? Why does Achinga bleed? Have my brothers met the enemy ?”’ Tn as few words as possible the renegade detailed the events of the night at and around his cabin. The countenance of the chief dark- ened as he heard the villain speak of Ned Harris,
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The Big Hunter. ‘* Let my brother listen to me,” will always be a hand to give her said he. ‘This neg, § man was once our prisoner. e looked with eyes of love upon the face of Lealliwah. Telonga will meet him some day, and when they do meet, one of the two shall die. Telonga has sworn it.” ‘* An’ Simon Girty swears it tu. Now understand me, chief. I don’t bar no man in his revenge. If you git him first, down he goes. If I git him, ’11 murder him by inehes. Oh, to think that Ishould have hed him in my hands, an’ waited so long before I give it to him! I orter ’a lost him, cuss me for a fool. I might’a killed him.” As they looked at each other, a strange, wild cry broke out on the clear air of the evening, and they - heard the clatter of horses’ feet. Both looked back in surprise, and Simon uttered a cry of rage as he saw who came. It was his wife, with the bandage still about her head, stained with blood, which oozed through it and beneath it, and ran down her pale cheek. In one hand she held a knife, with which she goaded on the frighten- ed horse. As she dashed up tothe council-fire, the crowd parted right and left, and the panting beast halted, trembling in every limb, close to the renegade. He uttered an appalling oath. “ Eliza, by—” ‘“*Swear not,”’ said the woman. “This is the anniversary of my wedding-day. How the birds sung then! é very trees seemed to blossom more beautifully, because Iwas happy. I am happy again to-day.”’ ** Air ye mad?” hissed Simon. ‘*Mad,” said the woman, in a wandering way, puttin her hand to her head. ‘Mad? I never thought. My head aches.’”? She ut up her hand, and took it own, covered with blood. A shrill, half-pleased, half-scared ery broke from her. “Bloud ?” she said. ‘Blood? How came it here? I saw it once before, when he died. Simon Gir- ty killed him. Simon, do you never think that, though the ven- ees of God is sometimes slow, tis always sure? You will have cause to remember it some day; and, when you are dead, I will make mea gown red as blood, and wear it at your burial. There is « young man in the woods, look- ing for his sweetheart. Perhaps he will find her, If he knew what I knew, he wouldn’t go so far. I know where he og 0 search for wets but Iwon’t tell you. Ha, ha, al’ Her weird, unearthly ‘ughter ary n on the still air. ‘*Eliza,” said Simon, hoarsely, ‘do you want me to kill you?” ‘‘Do you want more blood, my pet? 0, no; there is blood tnough and to spare. My head is not very clear to-day. But, I don’t think I have been so happy since the day you talked to me in the orchard. Whydid you come? I was happy before. The birds sung no more after that, Simon. You stopped them. You could oe any music, Simon.’’ e raised his hand to strike her, but Telonga laid his hand on his arm, and kept back the descend- ing blow. _“ My brother Girty forgets,’’ he said. ‘* The Indians do not suffer a wrong to be done to one whose mind is gone. She is mad.” “Tl brain her,’ roared Girty. ‘ Ef it had not been fer her, Ned Harris couldn’t’a got away. She kep’ me back.” ‘Then my brother struck her. fhat was right. A wicked wife deserves to be punished. I am glad my brother taught her not to come in the way of a chief. But, now it is done and she no longer knows what she does. Simon must do her no harm.” ‘Then let her go away,”’ he re- plied, ‘‘ or I will kill her.” “My brother Girty is mad. He bas been badly trea’ When he feels better, he will not wish to do harm to this poor woman. Let her stay in the village, if my brother is tired of her. There eS food, because she is the wife of Girty, and because he loved her.” ‘“Was he going to strike me?” asked the madwoman, dismount- ing quickly. ‘‘He ought not to strike me. It is unjust. I gave up all for him, before my head felt so light and strange. Did your head ever feel like this, chief ?”’ She caused her hands to revolve quickly about each other, indica- ting the confusion in her brain. “Let my sister go into the lodge and rest,” said the chief, kindly. ‘‘ She is tired.” “Rest? Norest! Ishall never have any rest except when I die! and, when the time comes, I shall lie down under the trees, and the little birds shall come and cover me with leayes. Then I shall be happy again, and, in the world to come, there will be no wars. There the weary are forever at rest.”’ ‘* Git away,’’ said the renegade angrily. ‘Chief, are we to stand all day to listen to her palaver ? It ain’t the way to lick the long- knives.”’ ‘* My sister must go away,” said the chief, kindly. ‘* Lealliwah, lead her to your lodge.” The girl came forward and took the hand of the poor crazed crea- ture. At the touch of that soft hand, the poor woman turned a look of extreme bewilderment upon the beautiful face upturned to hers, asif it awakened strange memories, even in that crazed brain. ‘* Will you come ?”’ said the In- dian girl, softly. ‘* You are hurt. Let me tend you.” ** Yes, I will go with you, for you speak sweetly, and your eyes are like an angels. ut, what have I to do with them? Girl,I once was like you, apure woman ;_ then I was a wife, first true, then false.’ “Do not think of it any more,”’ aid Lealliwah. ‘*Let me lead you to the lodge.” Eliza obeyed the touch of that entle hand, and was led into the nt, where Lealliwah washed the clotted blood from her wounds and bound a new bandage about her head. Eliza sat quietly du- ring the operation, only showin < a low moaning that she fe n. ‘““How was this done?” asked Lealliwah. The blood ?’ “ Yes.”’ ‘Simon did that. I used to love him. But he iifts his hand against those who do him good. A young man came to the cabin ond asked for food and shelter. He was looking for his sweef- heart.” “Was he tall as da pine, with eyes of fire, and a foot as swift as the red deer?’ asked Lealliwah. “Yes. He made me think of the time when Simon was not with me. It was so far back I can not well remember. Ah, my head ! my head !”’ ‘* And did Girty strike you ?” “ Yes.”’ “With a hatchet ?” “Yes; and, since then, my brain whirls. I can not understand any thing. I want to bein the woods. I want to find the young man, and tell hin where to find his sweet- heart. Jknow.” “You! Where is she ?”’ ‘Ha, ha, ha! As if I wonld must follow the young man. I heard them talk. He is oing to the Valley of Cedars, is fe? As if he would find her there! But, they shall not go. I will follow. I will tell them what they ought to do.” “Where is this girl white as snow,” said Lealliwah—“ the one he seeks? I do not like her.” The mad woman fairly screamed with laughter. “Never mind. I will make it right. He sball find her. He shall be happy. Simon will be very , but what do I care for that? I used to care, for I was afraid of him. 1am not afraid of him now.”’ ** He isa dog,’’ said Lealliwah, angrily. ‘I hope he will be killed. If he strikes you again, I will kill him, myself.’ “You? Simon is _ strong. When I was afraid of Simon he could turn me about between his thumb and finger. for him any more. I am going to find the boy with the black eyes, and 9, him to find his sweet- heart. Will you be glad when I find her ?”’ ‘*Yes,’’ said Lealliwah. ‘He will be happy then, but, he will o away, and I shall never see his ace again, He speaks kindly to Lealliwah, and his words make her blush. I wish he would go away, and then, when he is gone, I wish he would come back again.” This innocent confession brought a second peal of laughter from Eliza. “You shall see him again. Would you like to go away, and never again see the village? To live among people who speak to each other softly, whose men work in the fields, while the women si: in the lodge?” The face of Lealliwah showed a deep interest. ‘The white men are very kind to their women,” she said. “If the Indians were 80, we should love the braves bet- ter. ‘““Would you like a life like that ?”” ‘““Whydo youask me? I aman Indian. When the time comes, I must £0 into the lodge of Te- longa. “I won’t let you,’’ said Eliza, “Pll tell you something. No, I won't! Some day you will know all about it.” “Tell me now,” pleaded Lealli- wah, with womanly curiosity, in- saitioly excited. ‘“ You must not keep it from me. I love you. You will speak to me; yor will tell me what you mean.’ **No,’’ said Eliza, with a cun- ning look. ‘‘ You shall not know any thing aboutitnow. I am go- ing to tell yon some day. Don’t ask me. know something. Won’t Simon and Telonga rave! They don’t think Iknow. I used to know it before my head got su light.’’ ** Tell me now,” said Lealliwah. “You do not love me. You say things, and then you keep me in suspense. You are not kind to me.” **T do love you, for you washed my wounds and spoke to me softly.’’ “Then you will tell me.’’ “ No ” ’ “Then I shall be ry. * J will not tell vou maw? Lealliwah pouted and turned away herhead. They were sitting in a little curtained recess where Lealliwah slept, and did not see that a part of the curtain was thrust aside, and that the dark, forbidding face of Simon Girty looked in. ** Ain’t afraid of me now, eh? We'll see about that,” were his thoughts. **Donot be angry. My brain is not right, or I should not have spoken, But, I will tell you some day.’’ “Yer will, will ye, ye mad- brained loon,” muttered Girty. “ Not if [ kin git a chance to knife ye. Ye won't live to see another sun rise.” Muttering imprecations on the head of the unfortunate woman, and upon that of Lealliwah, whom he fervently hated, he withdrew and returned to the council-fire, which he had left on some pretext. The council ended, as did all such meetings where Telonga and ge yresided, in a determination at azards, to drive out the encroach- ing white men. By ten o'clock the village was silent, and at that hour, Simon Girty left his lodge with stealthy steps and moved toward that of Lealliwah. He was only partially clothed, and carried in his hand a murderous-lookin knife. The brute had determined to kill Eliza. He knew that she had a secret which it was his in- terest to conceal, and in her mad- | mess she would be sure to betray I don’t care * him. There was nothing for ft but to kill her. Dead women, as well as dead men, he argued, tell no tales. With him, to meditate such a deed was to perform it. He was so constituted that murder was not repulsive. His guilty sou), steeped in crime, could not com- Nein the enormity of his guilt. lis only thought was: this woman has placed herself in my way. To aman less guilty the thought must have come home, this woman has loved me. For me she gave up all, her good name, a happy home, every thing, and has been through all true as the steel to the scabbard. No such thought as this entered the brain of Girty, if he thought at all. His impulses were those of a brute. Crawling forward, prone, like snake, with his white teeth glis tening like those of a panther, he aside the lodge-curtain and ooked in. The scene before him might have made any man pause, There lay Lealliwah, one wounded arm thrown over the covering of bear-skin, showing her shoulder and her beautiful neck, her lips, just parted by their breathing, her teeth, white and even as pearls, just disclosed. ‘*T'd like to pay the little devil for her scorn of me,”’ he muttered. “*T would sarve her right. But I'd only make an inemy of Telon a On another couch of skins with- in the recess where Lealliwah usually slept, lay something which he supposed was the victim of whom he was in search, The moonlight, streaming in through the curtain, directed his course. As he crawled forward, and passed Lealliwah, she started, and raised her head. He thought she had awakened, and fell to the ground waiting for events. But sie only threw her arm over her head and was silent. She had not awakened but was dreaming of one whom Telonga would have hated with greet intensity than ever, if he ad known the object of her’ dreams. Simon grinned savagely as he heard the name she whisper- ed in her dreams. ‘‘ Him, eh? That’s rich, that is! But, I wouldn’t dare to tell Telonga, ’cause I couldn’t tell him whar I heard it. Now for my dear |”” CHAPTER XXXVIIL, FOILED. A DEATHLIKE stillness reigned in thelodge. The villain, strange- ly for him, felt a sense of oppres- sion, and a choking ir his throat, as he thought of doing murder in the ae rng of so much youth and beauty. For some moments he lay panting, irresolute as to the course he ought to take; but his brutal instincts eventually got the mastery, and he crawled to- ward the bed upon which lay the victim. He could just make out the outline of her form in the ob- scurity of the place, and raising the knife above his head, he plunged it yon and again into the sleeping form. Not acry, not &@ moan, was heard. “The fust blow went home, | reckon,’’ thought the _ guilty wretch. Onething’s tol’able sar- tin. She won’t blab.” He mare the covering aside ex g to see a bloody corpse. t was it that caused him to ring to his feet and glide from the lodge, and then wake the echoes by his an cries? All was in confusion. Braves, half- dressed, and armed with any weapon they could pick up in the excitement of the moment,crowd- - ed out of the lodges. Women with disheveled bair,children halt naked, uttering cries of . Telonga was out among the first. “My wife is gone,” shouted Girty. ‘‘ Come with me.” “Telonga followed him into the todge of I mner space where Eliza should nave rested. There lay a bearskin, rolled into something like resem- blance of a human form, pierced lliwah, and into the
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in half a dozen places by the knife of Girty. The cunning of the madwoman showed itself in the ruse. Conscious that Lealliwah might wake and look toward her sleeping-place, she had _ rolled up the skin and laid it under the covering. It had served another purpose. Telonga turned, and looked the renegade in the face. There was something in his eye which Girty - did not like. “Listen, my brother Girty. You knew of this before. How did you find that she was gone ?”’ Girty betrayed confusion. “* My brother hag been her® ?” “Wal, chief—” “When one warrior asks an- other a question, it is better for him to answer it without wasting time. My brother can say yes or no, “Yes, then.’ ‘““My brother has been here. What did he come for ?” ‘“T came to kill her.’’ “ Why 2”? “Because she was goin’ to re veal a secret you nor I don’t want told.” “‘ And what was the secret? I have none.’’ Girty stooped, and whispered in his ear. Telonga stared at him a moment in anger and amazement, and then took his arm and led him from the lodge. Lealliwah, who had thrown a blanket over herself and risen on their entrance, went into the curtained recess and drew the curtain after her. When they were in the open air, and apart from others, Telonga again spoke, ‘Let me understand, my broth- er. Did she say that she would tell this to the long-knife, whom they call Harris ?”’ “Tos.” “Then let her die. She must be found. Let us see if she has taken her horse.”’ “No need to go. I know she tock him. He’d foller her like a hound all day, she’s got him train- ed so. But I'll ketch her. Dll } teach her what's what.”’ - ‘“*My brother is right. She is no longer fit to live, since she knows the secrets of chiefs. I was very angry at my brother, be- cause he went into the lodge of Lealliwah. But, he has given a good reason, and I am satisfied.” “Shall we foller the woman to- night.” “No. the moon will soon go uway and the night will be dark. In the morning we will take swift horses and follow her. She must not escape.”’ “She shall not,’’ said the rene- gade. ‘You won’t find me afraid to killher when Isee her. Ihearn something to-night I’d like to tell yer, ef thort ye wouldn’t git Di. **Let my brother speak.”’ “Ye won’t be angry at me?” “J can not tell.” “Wal, I'll resk it. As I went by the bed of Lealliwah to-night, she was torkin’ in her sleep. An who dye think she were torkin’ about?” “T can not know until I am told. Lealliwah is to be the wife of Telonga.”’ “Tt was Harris.” An expression of savage rage ed over the face of Telonga. e raised his hand on high, hold- ing « hatchet, shaking it at the 8 “Stay, dog of a pale-face,” he shou “Why will you not linger, when a son of the Shaw- nees calls,” be Why, chief, what does ye mean ?’ “Thus is it ever with the pale- tsces. They are not satisfied to steal away our lands, but they will take our women also, See.” Ue drew his knife and maie an incision in his right arm, from which the blood flowed. Hestain- ed the handle of the hatchet and of the knife, in the flowing tide. “This blood shall not be washed away,’’ he said, until both have drunk deep from the heart of Har. ris. “You can’t hate him wuss then Ido, Itstands to natur’ that the } gal should like him. He’s a han sum young feller, ye see, an he’ talked soft nonsents to the ga! tii; she don’t rightly know what te think. It’s more nat’ral in her than the other gals, tu.’ ‘*Fwill kill him,” shouted Te longa, shaking hatchet and knife in the air. “That's right, chtef! Du_ it, that’s all! He’s a mighty strong young feller. I reckon ye’ll hev an all-fired tussle when ye put him on his back. He got away from us onct when he had a broken arm, and kerried off a feller on his back that was shot thru both legs. I kinder think that was pooty good. §8o, don’t be sure of him till ye hey his skulp.” ‘*“Telonga is a chief!’’ cried the savage, fiercely. “That's true,” said Girty. “But, ef I must say it, that don’t make much diffrence, It’s the solid bone an’ muscle thet tells in the end when ye hey it with a man, nip an’ tuck. No, chief don’t ye go ter trustin’ yerself with him inastand-up fight. Ten to one he licks ye.” ‘“‘ There is no white man who is the equal of Telonga in battle,” said the chief, still more angrily. “Where is the man that dares stand before him? Not Boone himself; not Harrod; not the Big Hunter.” “Never put yourself in his way, ef ye vally yer life a farden’s worth,”’ earnestly replied the rene- de. ‘Ez sure ez ye do, yer a ead man. I seen him that night, an’ I don’t want to see him # “Ts my brother afraid 2” ‘““No more ner ye air. Stands to reason a man can’t hold out ‘in the devil. He is nothin’ else. ou should hey seen him on the trail of Achinga, who ran like a deer. He left the body in the woods for the crows to feed on.”’ “T will meet him some day. The Big Elk of the Shawnees fears not the face of mortal man.” “This ain’t no mortal,’ said Simon. ‘Don’t ye believe it. But, come; let’s get some rest. We must be on the trail arly in the mornin’. An’ ef Eliza ain’t buried to-morrer night, believe me, Pll eat my huntin’-shirt.”’ ‘““My brother shall be success- ful; and when this work is done, let the white settlements in Kan- tuckee tremble, for Telonga will be a scourge to them.” “They know me now, pooty well,” said Simon. ‘A man like me kain’t very well git along without it. verybody knows that I am a friend of the Injins. J always mean to be, ’cause they’ve been friends to me, all thru.” “We have tried to do right by our good brother Girty,”’ answered the Todian “So ye hev, chief; so ye hey. An’ I ain’t been unfriendly to ye. Good-night!” At early morning they started on the trail. Only five of the warriors accompanied them, for they never dreamed that the party of scouts and hunters were in the woods. They only thought to pursue Eliza, and in some way to take away her life. Whatever the secret of which they knew her to be possessed, they con- sidered it of suflicient importance to put her life in awful cee i iwah came out of the lodge as they prepared to ride away, looking more beautiful than ever, Telonga looked at her fiercely, and taking her hand, led her back the lodge. * a Did re dream last ni ht, daughter of the wicked heart? id. pe What does = chief a said, a guilty flush coming in a face, for she remembered of whom she had dreanzed. “Lie not to me, false-hearted one,’”’ he said. “Listen to the words of Telonga. <A great chief heyer lies. He has said that you shall come into his lodge and it shall be done. Neither shall you have so long to wait. When two moons are gone, you must come into Telonga’s lodge.” * Leallivala has promised to be ae ae the wife of Telonga,’’ said the girl, in a low voice, ‘‘and when the time comes, she will keep her word. But, she will not marry him before.”’ ““Who has given Lealliwah the right to say what she will do, and what she will not do?’ demanded the chief. ‘““Who has taken from her the right to do so,” replied Lealliwah, boldly. “You have called me false, aud have said | must marty you before the time. I say, I wil! not.” “Last night in your dreains, you murmured the name of the white hunter. Dare you deny it?” ‘*} will speak no more,’’ replied the giri, taking immediate refuge behind her womanly obstinacy. “Do not ask me.” ‘*Lealliwah may yet meet one, by whom she can be made to speak,” said the chief, his face blanching with anger. ‘But, let that rest now. My brother Girty and myself go ont to do some work which must be done. When we return, the houses of settlers shall again light up the border.” ‘“ Where is Eliza?’ demanded the girl, boldly. ““How should I know. She has fled.” ‘You go to seek her. Beware what you do, Telonga! If harm comes to that poor woman, and you are the cause, I will never come into your lodge. Bring her back safe to the village or I will think she has been killed, and you will be the cause.” “Is Telonga a dog?’ cried the chief, ‘ that he should come and ge at @ womau’s bidding? You ave most cause to beware, for this hand, which loves you now, might lay you dead at my feet, ag Girty struck down the false wo- man who was his wife.’ “Tf Simon Girty is a brute, and threatens and strikes the woman who loves him, it is mete that Telonga should follow so good an exampte, and be cruel to Lealli- wah.,”’ “The blame rests not with Te- longa. He has loved Lealliwah long, and has seen her grow up as a flower. He has always thought to make her his wife. But, if she is wicked, and dreams of another, of course the blame can not be oF upon Telonga’s shoulders. hey are broad, but they are not broad enough to bear it.” Lealliwah turned from him in anger and he left the lodge, mounted, and rode out upon the trail. Before half an hour had passed Lealliwah was also in the saddle, following on their trail. No one attempted to stop her. She was always free to come and go as she pleased. They rode ata rapid pace along the broad trail the madwoman left behind her, and evidently gained upon her in every mile. But, as the morning advanced, the madwoman began to push the horse she rode, at a pace far beyond the power of any animal in the party. She was a splendid horsewomen, while the Shawnees, proverbially bad riders, made but little progress, which caused the irrascible Simon to growl and fume. Hour after hour sed, and the trail grew no esher than before.” “Tell you what it is, chief, ’'m afraid we are dished. She’s got the best hoss in the kentry, I reckon—a real out-an’-outer. e kin keep up that pace for forty days an’ forty nights, ef she’s a mind to push him tu it.” “Then we can not catch her,” gait the chief. “ Why should we ride further ?” “She may stop,” said Girty, “or she may get picked er | some of the men. This t would take her straight tu the Valley of Cedars ef she kep’-on it long enough.” ‘‘No white man’s foot, except a prisoner’s, ever presses the soil of the Valley of Cedars, while Te- longa lives,” said the chief. “Jest ez ye say. It ain’t safe tu let on thet the valley is a good deal nigher than people s’pose it is. I never hearn a ranger speak of it ez less than a thousand miles PTD TEES FSS SS RT OSS TR es SES a 25 long, when, fn reality, it’s ’bout four hundred. But, that’s a good- ish stretch of kentry tu travel. Seems tu me this trail begins te freshen.”’ “TI think we are coming nearer to her,” said the chief. “ Let us hasten On Our way.” They pushed their horses to the best speed of which they were capable, and going wherever they went, turning where they turned, halting when they did, a white pony, tireless as the trained steed of the desert, followed on their trail. About sunset ®uey came up with the object of their search. She had dismounted upon the brink of the river, and had seated herself by the running stream, plaiting and smoothing the hair which had once been a glory to her, and singing in a mournful voice, a plaintive ditty which she had sung in happier days. She did not look surprised or frighten- ed as the Indians rushed in and seized her, and Simon grasped her roughly by the throat. She put up her hands, and by an exercise of strength which seemed hardly possible in her, removed his grasp. ‘‘Keep away, man,’ she said, “What do you want here ?” “T want you, my joy,’’ said Si- mon, with a savage grin. “A sabe chase ye’ve led us, ain’t ye? nee yer got tu say before T kill ye “*Go away, man,’’ she replied, “T don’t know you. Tell these red fellows to go away too. I don’t like them.’ “We have come to kill you,’’ said her husband. “To kill me? what that means. band killed ?” I don’t know Was my hus- With a brutal oath, he lifted his hand and struck her to the éarth. She rose laughing, and brushed the dirt from her disordered dress. “Tm Mistress of the Woods now,” she said, showing a garland of flowers she had been wearing. “You have insulted me. I banis you from my presence, man, on pain of death.” ‘°Tain’t no use to dally with her,” said Simon. ‘Shall I shoot her. That’s the easiest way.” Telonga bowed. But, as’ the villain cocked and leveled his weapon, & mounted figure sudden- ly burst in between, and a short rifle was pointed at the renegade’s head. Lealliwah was before him! Girty fell back in confusion, and Telonga uttered a surprised excla- mation. The face of the young ee oe flushed, and indicated a resolve tosave the poor crea- ture at any sacrifice. “Stand back,” she cried. “I will shoot you if you come near her, Girty.’ “This won’t do,” growled the wretch. ‘‘Iain’t goin’ to stand it, Telonga. What business hez this gal to interfere in men’s busi- ness ?”? “What brought you here, then, Girty?” said the girl, angrily. “ Have you ridden so fast and far to killa woman? You shall not do it while Lealliwah lives.” pl ebo hn 18° back,”’ Ba elonga. he nothi to do hare” wae “Let the chief reflect,” said the girl, keeping her eye on Girty, and speaking hurried! shy is awoman. Telonga is not the man to killa woman. The hand of the Great Spirit is heavy on her. Has Telonga forgotten the tradi- tions of the tribe? Can he haye the heart to kill a woman who has never done him harm ?”’ “T am not afraid of Simon,” said Eli laughing. ‘* What does he aa to a i have never been so happy as I am to-day.” “Down with her!’ roared Gir- ty. ‘Tie her hands, and throw her into the river.”’ ‘“No, no,” pleaded Lealliwah, * She can do no harm,”? “ Lealliwah does not know of what she speaks,” said Telonga. “The woman must die, It is spoken,” 7 ‘“* Telonga has said that he loves Lealliwah. He has asked her to come into his lodge. Would he take her with red hands ?”
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' Girty. | 26 The Big Hunter. was silent. “Lealliwah will make a pro- mise, Give me the life of this woman, and let her be taken to the Valley of Cedars. From that she can not escape. Once there, and if Srey promises that she shall not be harmed, Telonga will have a wife, for Lealliwah will go into his lodge when two moons are past.’’ ‘* Don’t listen to her,” growled “Think what ye do It’s only a trap.” ‘If Lealliwah will give her pro- mise to do this,’’ said Telonga “the word of a great chief wi be passed, and Eliza shall be safe.”’ “ All right chief,’ said Girty, angrily. ‘Ef thet’s the way ye use a man, it will sarve ye right ef ye du git tricked out of the gal, ez I know ye will be.” “Let the chief give me his hand, and say that Eliza shall be safe, and that she shall go to the Valley of Cedars, and I will give i) 8 cg elonga gave her his hand, From that moment Eliza was safe. Girty stormed and swore, but his anger had no effect upon the chief. Eliza was mounted upon her own horse, and the par- ty set out together for the Valley of Cedars, now only five days’ journey from the spot where they stood, to those as well acquainted with the way as they. Lealliwab rode by the side of the chief. Telo CHAPTER XXXIX, THE VALLEY OF CEDARS. For days they rode on over the long trail As river after river was forded, and mile upon mile was placed between her and the settlements, the heart of Lealli- wah sunk. She had done.a noble deed, had saved the life of a fel- low-creature, but, at what a sacri- fice! She had never thought be- fore how terrible it would be to be united with the dread chief. ‘Indeed, before the coming of Har- “was proud of ris, she had been proud of her conquest, and of having, by her beauty and grace, won the heart of the bravest chief of all. Since she had seen Harris in danger, and witnessed his gallant bearing, she had recognized the difference between the brayery which arises from bravado, and that which comes from a noble sense of honor. She had passed many a sleepless night, drawing mental comparisons between the two men, and was forced to ac- knowledge to her own heart that the comparison was fatal to Telon- ga. The die was cast. She had giv- en her promise, that, if the life of Eliza was spared, she would be the bride of Telonga. -He stood before her, and her heart cried out against him, for, in this extremity, she could see his failings, the re- sult of a savage education. Telonga cast frequent glances at her as they rode along. He was uot certain of his prize. The sly ints of Girty annoyed him more than he eared to confess. He thought, in his heart, of the whispered name which Girty had heard, and his heart was full of vitterness against the young white ‘aan. How he hoped for the time when they could meet upon the vreensward, insome silent glade foot to foot, point to point, and ‘ight the battle out to the death! the words of Girty had stung him ‘9 the quick, when he said that ‘larrit, was his equal, if not his su- oerior, in strength and skill. His lark brow contracted with rage at he thought. Girty was boiling over with rage. The only thing which re- ~trained him from shooting his wife through the head was the an- ver of Telonga. He knew—none +o well as he—the influence of Le- «lliwah over the great chief. It was even sufficient, in his estima- tion, to drive the renegade from the tribe, if she chose to exert it to the utmost; and the scoundrel his terrible fame. | Chief,” said he, ‘I'd like tu a ye, ef ye kin spare the ime. They fell to the rear together. Lealliwah rode to the side of Eliza, and placed her hand on hers, in a soothing way. The tears started into her poor, worn eyes at the womanly action. ** It is so long since any one was kind to me,” she said. ‘I love you. Some day I will tell you what I know.’’ Girty laid his hand upon the saddle of the chief. “T want tu speak with ye ’bout somethin’. Is’pose ye know thet them two gals thet was taken the other day, an’ ar’ now at the val- ley, are the darters of leadin’ set- tlers ?”’ “T have heard it so said,” re- plied thechief. ‘‘ Does my broth- er know them ?”’ “Yes. Ye’ve hearn tell of Dan’) Boone, I reckon? Wal, one of them gals is his darter. I know her well enough. The other is Calloway’s darter. Hearn of him, too. Now, I want one ov them gals fer a wife.’’ ‘*My brother has a wife.” “She ain’t nothin’ tu me. I turn her out of the lodge from this day. I want a wife. I may ez well tell ye thet it’s more out ov reyenge on Boone an’ the rest, than any thin’ else, thet makes me want to marryher. She’sa proud ‘un, that Amy Boone, a desp’rut’ proud ’un. It'll bring her down a peg, mebbe, when she knows she’s got to be my wife. I want her. ““My brother Girty shall have | an opportunity. If he can buy her from Mengue, who took her, it is well. She will then be his, and he can do with her as he pleas- ‘** Tt’s only fa’r thet I should hey her,”’ growled Girty. ‘‘ I told thet young whelp of satan I’d a mind tu du it, an’ he offered me every thin’ in the world ef I wouldn’t. It would be a pull back on him when he hearn tell of it. I’d take mighty good keer he should hear of it, tu.’ “Let it be as Girty chooses, If he kin buy her from Mengue, he shall have her. She will then be his slave.’ After days of constant travel the party reached the summit of a mountain-path, and from this elevated perch looked down upon that famed retreat of which the hunters and scouts told such wild tales, by the light of the blazing camp-fires. There it lay, nestling among the hills, as fair a sight as ever greeted the eye of mortal man. <A nearly circular yalley, walled in on every side by moun- tain ridges, whose summits, in the distance, rose blue against the sky. A beautiful prospect, in- deed. Close at their feet lay the Indian village, by the side of the pleasant river. As the cavalcade rode down the ety slope of the mountain, co elow them announced that hey were seen, and nearly the en- tire population of the village came pouring out to meet them, uttering shrill cries of welcome, The party rode on, looking nei- ther to the right hand nor the left, and, after picketing their horses, entered the lodges prepar- ed for them. Wherever Telonga went, a lodge was always in readi- ness for Lealliwah by the side of his. But, as this was a village where sbe spent a great part of the year, her own .odge received her. Simon Girty, with his heart fall of evil thoughts, sought out the lodge of Mengue, the captor of Aniy Boone and Edith Calloway. The Indian was seated at the doorway of his rude house, look- ing rather sullen, The tribe had not paid him the honor which he thought his due as the captor of - the two girls. ‘*Girty is welcome,’’ he said. “He has been on a long trail.’’ ‘Yes, yer right, Mengue, But, Tm hyar on a little matter o business. I hearn ye hed taken a couple of white prisoner,” “* Mengue te oe ee two wo- men, beautiful as stars in the evening sky,” said the Indian. “‘P ve come to make a purchase, ef we kin come tuterms. Ez tu ther bein’ any sech great shakes ez ye try tu make ’em ont, thet n’tno use, Mengue. Ther good enough, an’ as I hev turned my wife out of my lodge, Id like to take one of these in.”’ “Which one did my brother want. The dark-hair, with eyes like stars in the pleasant weather, or the maiden with hair like the sunshine ?”” “T’d ruther hey the fust, ef it’s all the same to ye. That’s Am B—no, never mind her name. don’t seem to keer much for either, but, bein’ I’m a white man I'd like a white wife, ye see.” “What will my brother Girty give for the dark-hair?” —- “Let Mengue name his price.”’ ‘‘Mengue does not care to sell,”’ said the Indian, in the genuine spirit of trade. ‘My brother does not want them very much. Mengue is willing to keep them. My brother can take an Indian wife.” ‘*Name yer price,” said Girty. “Mengue must have the horse my brother Girty rode to-day, and two new blankets. And he must have the fire-bow my brother car. ries in his belt.” He referred to Simon’s pistols. “Don’t be bashful,” sneered Girty. ‘‘Wouldn’t ye hke the rest of my hosses? Or perhaps ye would like my rifle ?”’ ‘*T see my brother does not want to buy,’’ said the Indian. “Tt is just that he should do as he pleases. Mengue will keep the dark-hair.”’ ‘Now, be r’asonable, Méngue. Name a fa’r price. I wouldn’t mind it, so fur ez to give ye a good hoss fer her. That’s more then any ’uman is railly wuth but, Pll give ye thet. e shill hey the sorrel pony I ride some- times.”’ “Two blankets,” said Mengue, sturdily. ‘Small fire-bow.”’ ‘* But, it ain’t fa’r,” said Girty. ‘* Blame my cats, ef I think a man hadn’t orter be r’asonable in any thin’. Say I give ye the hoss an’ one blanket.” ‘* Two blankets,’’ repeated Men- ue. ‘ Fire-bow. not, keep k-hair.”’ # PO give ye the hoss an’ the five-bow.”’ ‘« Two blankets,’’ said Mengue, holding up two fingers. ‘Wal, 1 s’pose it must be done, Mengue. Ill give it, but blame me ef it ain’t extortion. I never id so much fer a wife in all my orn days.”’ “Got good wife dis time, Girty.”’ ** Whar is she?”’ “In lodge,’’ said Mengue. ‘You give me fire-bow, now. I o get hoss an’ blankets. Yougo ke her.” Amy Boone and Edith Calloway sat clasped in each other’s arms as the ruflian entered the lodge. Both started up in alarm at the grizzly and ferocious face which entered. Edith uttered a shriek, and held tighter to Amy. “Keep still, gal,” said Girty, in a rough tone. ‘ What yer yellin’ about, say? Ill give yer somethin’ ter shet yer mouth in about half a minnit, ef ye don’t take keer. Does yer know me ?”’ ‘*No, sir,” said Amy. ‘I only see that you are a white man, and as such, must have some pity on one of your race in distress.’’ “Ye kain’t tell ’bout thet,’’ said Girty. ‘Anyhow, I kain’t help ye a great deal. I s’pose ye don’t know me. Then Pl tell ye my name, an’ ye’ll know how much tu expect. I’m Simon Gir- ty. Does yer know me now ?”’ A cry of terror broke from the lips of both girls. Heard of him? ho had not heard of that exe- crable wretch, upon the borders of Kentucky. e women scared their children to sleep with the name. Even strong men blenched when it was mentioned. That ery of repulsion roused all that was cruel and base in the heart of the ren e. «Row what yer yellin’ about?” ~ — be cried, fiercery. ** What’s ther in a felier’s name I should like tu know? Don’t either of ye yell that way ag'in, or Pll give yo somethin’ remember me by. Mind thet.” They were silent then. ‘‘ Now, Lask ye, take me all in all what does yer think of me? I ain’t speakin’ to ye now, Edith yore Abs ‘* Why need youask my opinion of you,’”’ said Tar. si Joe hitow it already.” ‘*Give it mouth, then.” “IT should only make you angry to no pu e. I will not give you my opinion.”" “T thort mebbe ye mout, seein’ we've got ter be togethera good while. I jest kum in tu tell ye thet ’'d bought ye from Mengue. I s’pose ye know what et means? Ye must be my wife.” “Your wife, Simon Girty !’" shrieked the girl. ‘Do you know that I would die any lingering death of torment which savage in- geuuity could heap upon me, per- ish by piecem rether than marry you!” “Jest 80. Now, does yer know thet I expected some sech ans’er ez thet? What do I keer? Yer: my slave ; does yer hearme? My: slave! What save ye? Noth- in’ kin keep ye out of my lodge.” “T would kill myself first.” “Perhaps ye would, an’ per- ha e wouldn’t. I kain’t tell. Only don’t mean to give ye an sech chaince ez thet. I guees know which side my b is but- ei Spare me,” sald Amy, fall m y on benktbosm his feet. Kne with me, Edith. Beg him to spare me. Put me to any pain ou choose, let me labor bare- Leaded and with naked feet under the scorching sun,any thing rather than this.” ; “Thet’s right,” chuckled Gir- ty. ‘‘I like tusee yer pride hum- bled in the dust. When yer my wife, Pll send a runner to Boone- ville tu lec ’em know about it. Ha, ha! This is somethin’ like revenge ag’in the men that whip- ped me like a dog, till the blood run off my naked back. Yes, yes; somethin’ like revenge.” “Oh, spare her,” pleaded Edith. “You ain’t got no call tu crow over this zal a bit, little ’un. Yell be an Injin’s wife within three days. Mind what I tell ye. Pll bring down yer pride, the pair on ye.” Raith dropped at his feet in a dead faint. “Tt works; it works,’’ he mut- terred. ‘Ah, ef I only hed Ned Harris here now, how I’d make him howl.” ‘‘Remember we have friends,. Simon Girty,” cried Amy, lifting the head of Edith on her knee. * Dread the vengeance of Danie’ Boone, of Harrod, of Harris! Ah, they will make you weep tears of blood for this.” “T guess not. Dan’l Boone is in Chillicothe. I don’t see how he’s goin’ tu hurt anybody; and ez for the rest, 1 don’t vally ’em. @ farthin’.”’ “Sy zen dread the ve ce of an offended God,” said Amy, sol- emnly, raising one hand on high. Girty laughed hoarsely. “I “don’t have nothin’ to say ter Him. I’ve got the devil himself on my side, an’ I reckon I kin manage tu worry along somehow.”’ “When you were a child, and: innocent, and prayed at your mother’s knee, would any one be- leive that any thing so villainous could rise from such a root.’ ‘That's twice ve bin twitted ~ —~ of my mother,’’ said Girty, in a- ; hoarse, strained voice. ‘‘ You ain’t no call to dig her out’n her grave. She don’t know about what I’m doin’. That was a lie of Harris. What did hesay ’bout a sperrit? Sperrit! Idon’t believe: it. Why kain’t they lie quiet in. their graves.” “Since that innocent time, Simon Girty, how many murders have you committed? How the: blood, the innocent blood of your many victims will cry out net you in the day of judgment !” war a
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a — “K villain. ‘+ What atongue ye keep in yer head. Don’t speak ag’in *bout thet, or it will be all the wuss for ye.”’ ‘*Make up ew mind to one thing, Simon Girty. I will never be your slave.’’ Ye kain’t help yerself,” re- plied the ruffian. ‘I give ye two days; at the end of that time ye wust be my wife.” As heleft the lodge the Queen ot the Woods entered, ns upon him any thing but a pleasan glance as she passed. “T don’t keer fer yer black looks,’”’ he mutterred. ‘““Never forget that Lealliwah has power, if she chooses to use it. Beware what you do.” She entered the lodge. Amy still sat with Edith’s head upon her knees, bathing her upturned face with tears. The gentle heart of Lealliwah melted at the sigh and she ran out hastily an brought in a Sir of water, with which she bathed the face of the fainting girl. Edith recovered her senses with a start anda gasp. “Ah, Amy; that dreadful man! Is he gone?” “Yes, dear; you have nothing to fear from him now. But, in two days, I must find some way Lealliwah had ‘earned to speak English, in a very broken and pretty manner, from the officers’ wives at the British garison towns, and from a priest who had spenta year among the Shawnees. ‘**Poor girl,” said she, softly. ‘See iwah is very sorry.’’ “Thank you,’? said Edith, “Oh, if you could help us!’ “Like to, great much, ”’ said Lealliwah. ‘ But, how can help, when no got any way? Try much, sometime,” 4 ‘You are very beautiful,’’ said Amy, ‘‘and ion have not an In- dian heart. hether you aid us or nut, I shall love you.” ‘* Lealliwah very glad,’’ said the Indian girl, softly. ‘‘Like to be loved. Love white girl much. What name?” “My name is Amy Boone.” ‘*Know Boone, my own self. Great hunter, big brave; kill too many Shawnee. One time Telonga catch him at Blue Licks, but him git tae g Teco much big hunter, oone! What name, her?” She pointed to Edith. “Edith Calloway.” “ Know young hunter, tall, like pine, beautiful hair, eyes that ask questions. Harris, long-knives call him ?”’ ‘* Yes, yes!” cried Amy; ‘‘ dear Ned. Is he safe—is he well ?”’ ‘Love him ?”’ asked Lealliwah, quickly, a slight cloud passing over her beautiful face. “Every one loves him.” “Yes; know dat; but love him to marry. Go in lodge ?” “Oh, no,” said Amy, blushing ; “he will not look at any of us that way; but weall like him; he is handsome, brave and noble. Have you seen him ?” “Yes, Looks for some one he ‘ost. No love him to marry, eh?’ “Certainly not,’ said Amy. To her surprise the Indian girl sprung up, threw her arms @ pe geil om gga Fae fervent- y on both cheeks. en she hug- ged Edith. o ‘Love you, too, much; save ou, ifcan; but how can do unless arris come ?”” “Does he dream of it? Oh, I shall never forget the days and nights we spent on the water and on the march hither. Night fol. lowed day, day followed ht, until I was weary and heart-sick, for every mile was a new bar between me and my home and friends.” “Poor Boone,” said Lealliwah, who had forgotten the first name. « Lealliwah very sorry. Mebbe Har- ris come, mebbe not; pathos 43 git killed, good many Shawnee on long trail. ra hope he will not come,” said still, gal,” roared the | Amy, with a sigh of sorrow; “he could aid us but little, even if he didcome. They do not even take the trouble to watch us; they know that we can not escape.” ‘*Pool’em,mebbe. Massaquoit come; he very sharp. Fool all chief at village. Harris dere, all paint, like Indian; Lealliwah | know him, Boone.” “Call me Amy,” said the other. ‘* Ami,” said Lealliwah, in her pretty way. ‘What her name again 2” “ Edith.” ‘Edit. Now remember. Ami— Edit, nice name; sound sweet in ear of young white warrior; got warrior, I know.”’ Both the girls blushed and Leal- liwah laughed merrily, as she took a hand of each, and peeped into their eyes. When at length she left them and they lay down to- ether upon their couch of skins, they felt more at ease than at any time since their capture, in spite of the fear of Girty which hung over Amy. CHAPTER XL. GREAT MEDICINE. Two days passed, and the town was thrown into excitement by the sudden appearance of Massa- quoit, who entered the village in his costume of a medicine -man, accompanied by his henchman, Ned Harris, in the droll atfire which he had worn upon his first entrance into the Shawnee town. The face of the Indian did not give any evidence of the fatigue which would seem to be. the natural consequence of so long a journey as that he had just under- taken. Indeed, the strength and endurance of the man were won- derful. There is no race of men on the face of the earth gifted with dpe powers of endurance than he red runner of the American forests, and Massaquoit was a noble type of his class. He enter- ed by the same mountain-pass as that followed by Telonga and Girty, moying ata pace which tried even the fine physical powers of Ned Harris. All the village turned out to meet them; indeed, it takes but little to rouse a crowd in an In- dian town. All looked with enriosity at the new-comers in their fantastic attire, and especial- ly at the supposed madman who followed Massaquoit about as a dog follows his master, dropping at his feet the moment he paused, and leaping up to join him the mo- ment he moved, Telonga greeted Massaquoit warmly, for the great chief had never given up the idea of joinin the tribes in a concentrated effo to drive out the invaders. More- over, he had some qualms of conscience in regard to the man- ner in which he had treated the medicine-man in the other vil- e. ‘My brother is welcome again. The trail is long from the great river; he will need food and drink. Let him follow Telonga.” As Massaquoit turned to follow, his pupil was at his heels. Telonga looked at him in a questioning manner, and the runner spoke: ** Aleno follows in the steps of Massaquoit. Wherever the medi- cine-man goes, there Aleno goes also.”’ ; Telonga inclined his head, and the disguised man was allowed to proceed. Linas 2 entered the chief's lodge; Telonga gave an order in a low tone fo some wo- men, who were near the entrance and they disappeared. Ina short time they returned, bearing food in large wooden dishes, which they set before Massaquoit, and the chief. The food consisted of boil- ed corn and yenison. A similar dish wes given to Aleno; he took it with low mutterings of pleasure, and, sitting down in a corner, speedily disposed of it. The long trail had not been one upon _ which they could hunt with | Safety and both Massaquoit and e Big Hunter, _ his friend were hungry, thougn the former took his meal in asedate manner, as becoming a great chief, and the representative of the tribe of the Mohawks. The other chief took but a slight repast, and looked on with pleasure while Massaquoit finished his meal. This done, pipes were ee in, and a man was sent to ask Girty to join them. He came in, flushed with anger, from a visit to the lodge in which the two girls were confined. They had treated him in avery cavalier manner, especial- ly annoying to him. Massaquoit looked up on his entrance, and it was with difficulty that Ned re- strained himself from laying hands upon the monster.* “Where has my brother Girty been? Is the dark-hair more wil- ling to keep the lodge-fire bright for him than she was last sun?” asked Telonga. “ Noshe ain’t, chief,” said Girty, ‘an’, what’s more, I don’t believe she means to be.”’ ‘Let my brother have patience. When I said to him, do not make her come into your lodge unwil- tingly if by any means you can win her to come by kindness, Te- lon meant to give his white brother good advice.” “7 ain’t goin’ ter wait much longer nuther,’’ said Girty, sullen- ly; ‘* now mind that.” It was through the agency of Lealliwah that Edith had obtained a respite. She had begged of Telongathat he would use his in- fluence with Girty to get a longer period of probation for the white prisoner, and he had asked Girty to wait. Indeed, there was little which the great chief would not doat her bidding ; he was like wax in her hands, by reason of his great love. ‘““My brother must not forget that I am a brave,” said Telonga, “Cand that I could force Lealliwah to go into my lodge before the time; but a great chief keeps his word. In two moons, and no sooner, the Queen of the Woods will be the bride of Telonga.”’ His swarthy face flushed with pleasure at the thought. There was a movement in the corner in which Ned Harris was sitting, and Girty glanced toward him. ‘* Whois thet?’ he demanded. “It is the friend of Massaquoit. Touch him not ; he is mad.” “What is he doin’ yer?” “He will not leave the side of his master; he is faithful to him. Let him remain.” The movement was caused by Ned Harris thrusting his hand into his bosom to seize the hilt of a knife. The desire was strong within him to sp upon Girty and stab him to the heart; but a warning gesture from the runner restrained him. ‘Will my brother Girty take a vhite wife, then?’ asked Massa- quoit. “Yes; I ‘don’t mind tellin’ ye who it is, though, ef the truth must be told, ye consort tu much with white men for my likin’. It’s Boone’s darter.” “Daniel Boone’s ?”” “Yes; she’s got tu be my wife before a week.” Again the hand of Aleno stole to his breast, and again a wa look from Massaquoit kept down his anger. “‘ Boone is a great hunter,” said Massaquoit. “We've got him fast enough; it’s lucky for him I hadn’t my way, or he’d never hey’ got alive to Chillicothe. I don’t see what our men gave him up to the British fer; he’d killed enough Shawnees, I reckon. Anyhow I've got my opinion, an’ I don’t believe he’ll stay there a week.” ‘““Have my red brothers taken many prisoners from the settlers ?”” asked Massaquoit. “* More’n they orter. I don’t like this pris’ner ‘bizness; I like t« finish ‘em right off. Ther’s three men in these woods I’m jest ach- ing ter git my hands on. Ib git em, too, some day, or my name ain’t Simon Girty.’ a? — “Of whom does my brother speak ?”? “Fast an’ foremost, thar’s Ned Harris; Pll give it ter him, hot and heavy, #1 ever ketch him ag’in. Then, there’s a long Yan- kee that calls hisself athan Hicks, the trader and spy; he’s a real sneak, blast his picter ; Tu fix his flint, tu. Last, an’ not -east, is the big hunter. “Who has ever seen the big hunter?” asked Telonga. ‘‘ Why does he hate Indians so? All red-men who come in his way die.” “* My brother Girty has met the big hunter ?” said Massaquoit, ina ou tone. *Onct; I don’t want tu meet him face tu face neither; but Pd like tu shoot him from a bush— I'll du it, some time.’’ “My brother must be carefal. The fame of the big hunter ranges far and wide a the border ; not even that of Telonga or of Girty is heard so often. Let not my brother come in his way, if he can help it; he is swifter than the eagle, he is stronger than the buf- falo ; all fall before his hand.” “I fear not the big hunter,” said Telonga, proudly; ‘let him come forth and face me.” ‘*My brother is very brave; but has he faced the lightning and struggled with the waterfall in its foree? Then, let him think to meet the big hunter of the red- men.”’ The conversation branched off upon matters relating to the tribes, and Massaquoit listened quietly to the sophistry of the chief, as he showed the advantages of the tribes, in a rising which should reach from Florida to the great lakes. Although Massaquoit realized the impossibility of car- rying out such a scheme, he knew better than to interpose any ob- jection. He was waitin for am * opportunity to find out who were | the prisoners in the camp, and what likelihood there was of get- ting them free. ithdrew from the lodge to per- form some duty, and Simon andi ~ Massaquoit were left alone together, while Aleno crouched in a corner. ““Thet’s a strange lad ye’ve got: with yer,” said Simon; ‘ whar did. ye pick him up ?”’ “Je came tome in the woods,” said Massaquoit, ‘‘and he would go: with me; I never saw him be- fore.” “Why do you trust him ?” i “Ts he not mad ?” “So is my wife; an’ I wouldh’t trust her out of the reach of my hand for that very reason. Ef they know any secrets, a mad pus- s0n, an’ ’specially a woman, is sure to blab.” “ Aleno knows none of the secrets of Massaquoit, Massaquoit knows none of his. I donot even know from whence he sprung. That is nothing tome; the Great Spirit sent him to me in the woods.” Simon gave an audible snuff of disapprobation. He did not believe: ‘ir fts of th- Great Spirit. Moreover, he did not like the ex- pression of the eye of the idiot, as it fell upon him. “T don’t like the look of the feller’s eye,” said Simon. ‘ Any- how, I wouldn’t trust him, ef ye du. But say: du ye know Boone’s darter?” ‘‘T have seen her at Booneville,” said the Indian. At last, Telonga © “Jess so. I allus said ye hed’ ~ tu much tu du with the durned white men. I say it now; don’t duitnomore. ’Tain’t right fur a- man thet ain’t good enough te stay with the settlers at Boone- ville, stayin’ with ’em at all. I ain’t goin’ tu duit for one. They ain’t used me right, an’ I'll pay ’em, one of these days.” ““My brother has done some- — to the whites,”’ said the In- an “T ain’t done enuff. I ain’t nov ways satisfied. Come along. want ye ter see this gal.” As they walked toward the lodge in which the girls were con- | | |
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a ee 28 r he Big Hunter. fined, Aleno rose and followed them. ““What’s he comin’ fur?” de- manded Simon, angrily. “He never leaves me,’’ replied Massaquoit. ‘‘He can do no harm.”’ Simon looked as if he did not like the arrangement, but he said no more, The girls were sitting ona pile of skins, conversing in an eager manner with Lealliwah. They received the visit in consid- erable anger at first, and then, re- cognizing Massaquoit, both spran to his side, clung to his hand, an entreated him to aid them. ““Massaquoit will de what he ean,” said the chief, quietly. ‘** But, let the daughter of Boone remember that these are not my peouten nor the Shawnee my tribe. am a Mohawk.”’ ' “Thar,’”? said Girty. ‘‘Now I hope yer satisfied. Ye can’t git no ne hyar, Du be r’asonable, gal. ake up yer mind I’m dead sure tu hey ye, so don’t bother me any more.’’ ‘*Your very presence nere is an insult,” cried Amy. ‘Leave us !”” “Simon better go some other place to get wife,” said Lealliwah. **No wife here.’’ ‘“Cuss ye, who told ye to jine in? I’d’a hed her long ago ef it wa'n’t fer ye. Didn’t ye tell the chief not tu let me hey her? Say now, didn’t ye ?”’ is Yes,” said Lealliwah. ‘‘ Do it again ; no good man, Girty.” ‘‘P'm good enough tu make ye sorry ef ye don’t stop thwartin’ me, gal. I’ve stood all the non- sense from ye I’m goin’ tu. So don’t let’s hear no more from ye. Du ye hear ?” ‘Simon Girty has forgotten to whom he speaks,’’ said Lealliwah, rising in great anger. ‘I will go to the chief and ask him if the woman he has chosen for his wife is to be insulted by every white dog which chooses to bark at her. 11 will go to him.” | “No. Hold on. I don’t want ye tu du thet. The chief an’ I ain’t so friendly ez we hey bin. Don’t speak about it.” “Then why does Girty dare to threaten Lealliwah?’ demanded the girl, in a shrill voice, ‘“T take it back, then. Ain’t that fair enuff? I don’t want tu quarrel with ye,’’ added the rene- gade, in a fawning tone. ‘“ Then why do you come here ?”” asked the Indian girl, still far from mollified. ‘Don’t like you, Gir- ty. Lily-faced girl don’t like you either §S’pose you go away, let us alone, then we like you better.” “T ain’t goin’ away, then,’ re- lied Girty, sullenly. ‘* This gal 8s mine. bought her, an’ I’m goin’ tu keep her. Don’t say nothin’ ag’in’ that, ’cause I ain’t goin’ tu stand it. Nuther the chief, nor yourself, nor any man in the Shawnce nation, hez got any right tu her. I paid enuff fer her, I guess.” A strange sound, half-way be- tween a groan and an exclamation, drew their attention toward the door. Aleno sat there, with his head buried on his knees, his frame agitated by a strange tremor. Massaquoit eyed him closely, fear- ing that the impulsive young man might break through his disguise, and, by some rash act, peril the safety of the enterprise. It was agony for the young man to hear the villain speak of that innocent irl as his wife. With the utmost ifficulty he restrained the im- pulse to bury a knife to the hilt in his black heart, and then die, if die he must, destroying every foe he could, The Indian, more cool than he, had thus far restrained him by the magnetism of his eye but he felt that if he remaine much longer in the presence of Girty, he would find it impossible to restrain his companion. ' Girty, angry at the opposition he was receiving on every hand, became more angry each moment. He cast fearful looks at the captive girls, and at Lealliwah. «What's that chap growlin’ about thar in the corner?” he ask- ed, ‘Better keep still, Any per- son wud think he was a-dyin’. Durfi him, I don’t like him. He’s got a pizon, snaky kind of eye. I on’t like him.”’ The liking in this case was cer- tainly mutual. The wish in the heart of Harris was, ‘‘ How I would like to kill the black dog!’ He thought of the fearful scourgin he had received, of the heate knives, of the hatchets and ar- rows, and his hands were conyul- sively clinched. At this moment they heard a fragment of a wild song. Every one looked up in surprise. Only Lealliwah and 8i- mon recognized the voice, ‘Curse her,’? muttered Simon, © Pl kill her yit.’’ : ** You never dare touch her, Gir- ty,’”’ said Lealliwah. ‘You do, I kill you.” **She’d do it,’’ said the villain, “She’s got it in her heart tu mur- der me. “* Yes, do it sure, s’pose youhurt Eliza.”’ said the girl. CHAPTER XLI. THE BIRDS FLOWN! Tue weird song never ceased ; the curtain of the lodge was sud- denly pushed aside, ahd the wife of Girty entered. She had never looked more like a maniac. Her hair, before this rugged and un- kempt, now hung ih a tangled mass about her face. Every linea- ment of her countenance was sharpened by pain and exposure. Yet, in spite of all, there was a happy smile upon her face, such as is often seen in those who suffer from diseases of the brain. The song she sung was an old ditty, such as they sung in the olden time. “ He is dead and gone, my darling, He is dead and gone, They laid him in the cold, cold ground, At his head a stone, “ Oh, but your face was bonnie, darling, Brown was your curling hair. And your lips were red when they pressed my cheek, And your face was passing fair. “They found you dead on the earth, my darling, Dead by the purling stream ; As they drew the knife from your wounded breast, I caught its flashing sheen. “ Why should I weep for thee, darling, Why should I weep for thee! I have seen thee laid in the cold, cold grave, Yet live when I'd die for thee.” The pathos with which she sung this rough melody was wonder- ful. Every heart was touched, except that of Girty. Every tone of her voice, every look of the wild eyes, filled him with rage. He made a stride toward her, and would bave seized her by the arm, but her old protector was at hand. Lealliwah darted between them, and gave him a look which sent him to the other side of the lodge. ‘She’s my wife,” he roared. ‘I kin du what I like with her, I reckon.” ‘* No,” said Lealliwah. ‘You let Eliza alone. Mine now, you turn her outof your lodge. Leal- liwah will take care of her.” ‘* Ha, ha,’’ laughed the meaiac, “That is Simon. I used to know Simon. He has blood cu his hands always. Simon likes blood. I don’t; it smells of mortality too much. Paugh! Did you ever go into a slaughter-house? The ca- bin where we lived used to smell like that, because Simon killed so many. Yes, Simon liked to kill.’’ AS a her still, can’t ye?” fiercely shouted the renegade; ‘ye claim her, don’t ye? Take keer of her, I say; I ain’t goin’ tu hey’ her talkin’ about me all the time,”’ “ Bliza,”’ said Lealliwah, softly, Ps 7 must come away, or Simon will be angry.” “T like tomake him angry now; ITused to be afraid to talk with him; I am not afraid any more ; don’t think Iam. Imean to beat him some day, a8 he used to beat me; I don’t feel blows now; Iam not hungry or cold now, as used to be before my hedd was s0 light. Oh, yes, it’s pleasant to have onl a few brains. Your servant, sir. know you; you are called Massa- 7 ’ raised her mi quoit, the Mohawk. Find the young man Harris, and even a madwoman can show him where to find what he seeks. I know where Constance is.’’ “Tell me,’’ said Lealliwah. . “Tell you! Ha, ha, ha! Tell you! That would be good! Do you know that is the funniest thing I ever heard in all my life; funny, funny, funny—oh, let me laugh! I never laughed when I was with Simon, you know; so I must laugh a little now.”’ Massaquoit again exchanged looks with the disguised young man. That single sentence from the madwoman’s lips had done mors to quiet his raging brain than any thing else could have done. Even the atrocities of Girty could not exe‘te him now. The re 28 of his life, the one soli- ry hope which had sustained him during his years of perilous ad- venture by flood and field, seemed to be near fruition. The mad- woman, in her wild speech, had given him hope of the dawning of a brighter morning. From the days of his youth he had invested Constance Harding with attributes like those of no other woman. She was to be his, the wife of his bosem, the woman he could cherish, even to the end. Such thoughts as these passed like the lightning - flash through the brain of Ned, as he crouched on the floor and bit pieces of straw which he picked up, in simulated madness. Girty was in an agony of fear and rage. The secret, for the safety of which he would have killed his wife, now trembled on her lips. Only one thing kept him from breaking through the feeble guard of Lealliwah, and shooting down Eliza on the spot and that was that she had sai she would tell no one but Ned Harris. He never dreamed that the young man would make the attempt to penetrate the Valley of Cedars, and if he did, he had strong hopes that the terrible trial would overcome him. Little did he dream that the painted idiot, crouching so near at hand, was the man he hated “ Onet fer all, Lealliwah,” said the renegade, ‘‘this can’t go on nohow; don’t askit. Ye kin see with half an eye that thar ain’t no chaince for me, ef I give up to the whim of every woman thet comes in my way. ow, this is my wife, and she’s talkin’ things she ain’t no business ter—things thet I want tu keep secret.” “Eliza shall not tell your secrets,”’ said Lealliwah ; ‘‘ that is only right; but yon shall not harm her.’ Simon shook a threatening finger at the maniac, and went slowly out of the lodge, followed by Massaquoit. Lealliwah had stationed herself near the deor, and, as Aleno passed out, she whispered in his ear: “ Be careful ; I know you.” No start betrayed the surprise of the young man, and he follow- ed Massaquoit as if nothing had been said. Lealliwah turned to her white friend with a smiling face : ‘Hope now, good hope; some one come dis night, set you free, mebbe.”’ Edith sm, her hands, and d eyes toward hea- ven. Amy’s face flushed, and her dark orbs sparkled with joy. ‘“ Who is it ?” she whispered. “You no mine dat; good enough, dey come. Ain’t Massa- quoit here, friend to white man? Course he help you! S’pose you hear some one make noisein lodge to-night, no be scare; some one help you, mebbe.”’ = i know who it is,’’ said Edith ; ‘‘she can not deceive me. It is Ned, brave Ned Harris ; there is no other man at the settlement who would peril so much for his friends.”’ “Ts it Ned?” asked Amy; “« come, be good, tellus about it. “You think Harris brave asked Lealliwah; ‘Show you no loye him, den ? When Indian gir. see brave young man, want him for herself. Telonga very brave, but not young. Like young chief best.” Amy laughed at this naive con- fession, and Lealliwah, taking the infection, also laughed heartily, with an abandon which was in it- self a charming sight; her laugh rung out clear as the music of a silver bell, and even Edith caught the infection and begun to laugh too. Lealliwah stopped sud- denly. ‘“What you laugh at dere?” she said, in her charming broken English, knitting her pretty brows, and giving harself an ap: pearance of intense anger; “s’pose you laugh at me, I be very mad! How can you do s0, youso wicked girls ?” aan only laughed the more heartily, and the three sat down together, and, winding their arma about each other’s waists, they laid their heads together unti! the moon came out in the sky. The village was now quiet. Not a sound broke the stillness of the pleasant valley. A sort of silver haze rested over all, show- ing in the distance the lofty mountain-ranges to the west, and near at hand, the peaks through whose defiles the valley was entered from the east. The pale rays of the moon fell on the silent village as serenely asif no thought of murder or bloodshed dwelt in the hearts of any who slept below. There were some who did not sleep that night; one of these was Ned Harris. They had heen lodged in the abode of Simon Girty, and, when Massaquoit lay down to rest, Ned coiled himself up like a faithful dog, at the feet of the chief. Girty cast a look slightly savoring of fear at him before he lay down to rest; but, thrusting away such shallow fore- bodings, he too lay down to sleep. Once he had looked toward the couch upon which his guests lay, and had seen the glittering eyes of Aleno, beaming in the darkness, fixed full upon him. He fell asleep at last, muttering invectives against those he hated. As his loud snore fell upon their ears Massaquoit stirred slightly, an touched Ned Harris with his foot, The time for action had come. Harris touched the foot of the other to signify that he was ready, but beyond that made no sign, and waited to assure him- self that the sleep of Girty was not feigned. Being assured of this he rose slowly to his knee, and Massaquoit did the same. Each had drawn his knife, and heldit in his mouth for conyeni- ence, as they crawled along the ground toward the sleeping man. A single ray of moonlight, stream- ing throug a hole in the top of the lodge, fell upon his upturned face, and showed it, sullen, savage. dark. and full of venom, Harris almost shuddered, as his glance fell upon that face. Some writer says truly, that, in sleep, the countenance of a man is an index of his character. In_ hia waking moments he may mask hia feelings well; but when sleep touches the eyelids, the world] man too falls asleep, and the r man is there. There was something terribly re- ulsive in the countenance of imon Girty; nature seldom stamped the image of Satan more pisiply on a human face and orm. In sleep he was simpy hideous. His mouth was open showing his protruding teeth, His bristling hair fell upon the bearskin which he used for a bolster. His great hand clutched the hilt of a knife, for, even as he slept, he thought of murder. Ned hesitated. ‘- Should he kill him?’ He thought of the words of Othello to Desdemona, ‘‘ I would not kill thy soul”? lad this wretch a soul to be saved? Was it not surely damned, marked for the pit, distorted, demon-like ? He raised the knife on high. As he did so, the man awoke. Quick as thought, the hand of Massa-
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quoit fell! upon his mouth, and the other hand upon his throat, hold- ing it in a vice-like grasp. ‘Speak above a whisper,”’ said Harris, ‘‘and the knife is in your heart.’ The villain was shivering with terror, and he made a sign to Mas- saquoit to take his hand from his throat. The Mohawk loceened his hold slightly, while Ned trees- ed the blade of his knife against the breast, so that he could feel the point. “Take away your hand, Massa- quoit,” said Ned. ‘He will not dare to speak.’’ ‘Ts that you, Ned Harris 2’ de- manded the renegade. ‘“* Never mind who it is,’ said Ned. “Here, Massaquoit, take the knife, and if he moves, give it to him.” Ned hastily prepared a gag, which he thrust into the mouth of the renegade, who dared make no resistance. After this, ‘they tied him firmly to the center-pole of tre lodge, ore him in the manner kuown in the army as “backing.” “J think he is safe,” said the young man. ‘ Now, chief, let us iO,” Securing such arms and ammu- nition from the outlaw’s full store as they required, they left the lodge and passed out into the open air. No one was in sight. assaquoit proceeded to the lodge of Lealliwah and looked in. he did so, some one took his hand and pulled him in. Harris follow- ed. It was Lealliwah. She was fully dressed and evidently pre- pared for some enterprise. Her dark eyes sparkled with enthu- siasm. ‘“« Constance not here,” she said. ‘Only Edit and Ami. ‘Love them both. Wish I could keep dem always, dey so good. You come to save ’em, Harris ?”” ‘* Yes,’ said he, sadly. ‘I had hoped, however, from what the wife of Girty said, that I might be able to save the woman I seek, my never-forgotten Constance Harding. Alas that I seek in yain.”’ He spoke in the Indian tongue. “Not speak Shawnee, Harris, Lealliwah white girl, dis one day. Not know white talk she'd well, but talk it good deal. know him by and by. Why you talk of Constance? She dead, mebbe! Eliza say no; but, Eliza mad. Poor Eliza.” Ah yes; poor Eliza! Better that you had never been born than to have fallen into the hands of Simon Girty. Driven to drink by utter wretchedness, she had sunk lower and lower in the moral scale, until only in moments when the iron entered into her soul she remembered what she had been and what she was. For her, it seemed there coull never come the dawning of a brighter and a better morning. “Where is Eliza now ?”’ whis- ered the young man, with his fips unnecessari y close to the shell-like ear of Lealliwah. If it had been light enough, he would have seen the color mount into her cheek at the action. A half sigh escaped her. ““Come,” she said. ‘‘ You will o away. You will take go dit and Ami. Perhaps you wi ‘find Constance and be happy, and poor Lealliwah will forget that she has been white giri for a day. and go into the lodge of Telonga.” ‘* Nonsense,”’ Ned. “Don’t do that.’’ “TLealliwah promised, if he would spare the life of Eliza, she would go into his lodge after two moons. An Indian girl never breaks her word.” ‘‘Be a white girl then! Do not o with him! Rather follow us the settlements, turn your back upon this people, and live the life you are best fitted for. Edith and Amy would be your friends. There would be no more painful marches, no more sleeping under the trees within sound of the anther, no fighting, no work, save that of home.” The eyes of Lealliwah sparkled, The Big Hunter. | as if pleased at the thought of such a home, but Massaquoit broke in on their conference. “Won't do,” he said. “No time for it. Work to do. Mus’ take keer.”’ ‘“*Lealliwah goes wid you,’’ she said. ‘You go out of village, quick as you can. I come to you soon, bring Edit and Ami. t all pris’ners dey got here.” hey left her and walked quick- ly out on the trail toward the mountains. They had not been there ten minutes when the girl appeared, bringing with her the captive women. The horse-corral was on their way, and Lealliwah aided them in selecting seven of the fleetest and strongest animals in the inclosure. She then took out her own horse and rode with them up the slope. As they came on at a quick pace and entered the defiles of the mountain, Harris began to sing in a low voice, a song which he had often used asa yo It brought a response; a dark form glided from the thicket and confronted them. It was the big hunter! “Ts that you, Ned ?” he asked. “All right,” replied the young man. ‘I am here and we have got Edith Calloway and Amy oone. As for Constance, alas! she is not here !”’ The big hunter came forward and looked closely in the faces of the two rescued girls. ‘‘ Young and comely,” he said. ‘‘So was she. But the wretches did not spare her for that. Do not shrink from me, girls. I am a man whose life has not all been spent on the border. I once lived a civilized life, with home and loved ones around me; but those bless- ings were taken from me, and it would be a pleasure to me to lie down and rest in the silence of the grave.” ‘* Who are # hen strange man?’ said Edith Calloway, in a wonder- ing tone. “Iam sorry for your woes,”’ “Like her, like her!’’ he mur- mured, as he turned to the Indian irl. ‘*Come here; you, at least, o not fear me. Ah, how often have I let you pass by unharmed, not knowing why. Speak to me, sweet one. Tell me why I can not resist you, and why I am softened when I see your face ?” “T can not tell,” said Lealliwah, giving him herhand. ‘‘ Have you remembered the words I spoke to you that day, by the river. Have you lifted your rifle against a wo- man ?”’ “No,” said he. “You had my promise, I have kept that promise, as I will keep any given to you. But, let us be on our way. Many a weary mile must be passed, and ov. will all be weary enough be- (o.¢ We reach our journey’s end.”’ “TLealliwah will go with you, and show a better way,’’ she said. “The trail is not so long when an Indian shows it.” ““The Indians will miss you,” said the big hunter. ‘‘ They be reyenged on you.” ‘* pose they catch us? I your pris’ner, ’member,’”’ said Lealli- wah, laughing. ‘‘ Now, come, Dere horse for you, big hunter. Dere nudder for you friend.” “Here Nathan,’ called the hun- ter. ‘‘Come out.” The down-easter emerged from the bushes. ‘‘ How air ye gal?” he exclaimed, as he mounted the horse assigned to him, and the arty moved away at a brisk pace. Rathan’s horse, evidently unused to a civilized rider, showed its displeasure by sundry efforts to dislodge the Yankee which threat- ened to arouse the slumbering ‘““Whoa, ye brute!’’— “sit up, ye Shawnee!’ united with the rider’s peculiar tact in keeping his seat, soon subdued the restive animal, and all moved on. The Indian girl rode in front. Just behind her came Ned Harris, next Amy, then Nathan, thev Edith, then the big hunter, while Massaquoit, on foot, brought uf the rear. On the levels the generally left the runner behind, ut, on the upland, and in the | Ride on, every one. long road before us yet.’ heavy flats, he again caught them. Lealliwah pushed the march all night. She knew well that the Indians would pursue them at early morning. Every thing de- ended on the time gained before elonga discovered the escape of thesprisoners. The gee moved on. Little was said. Indeed, it was not a time for many words. Morning came, and found them still upon the trail. They halted long enough to eat a hasty meal, and then once more hurried on. CHAPTER XLII. A RIFT OF LIGHT. On the third day of the hurried journey a new member was added to the party. Massaquoit, linger- ing in the rear, became satisfied that some one was following. He Ce no alarm, but at a turn in he path through a thick grove, lay down in the bushes, rifle in hand, to wait for the spy. Whoever it was, came on rapid- ly; he could hear the bushes crack as the heavy body of a horse pass- ed through. A moment after, the rider camein sight. It was Eliza! “ Ah-ha,” she said. ‘They thought to run away from me because their heads were heavier than mine. But, I was too sharp for them after all—too sharp.” ““Why you here, Eliza?’ de- mandedtherunner. ‘Go back.” ““No,” she replied, shaking her head. “TI am going with you. Don’t trouble mé, Indian. I am going to find Harris. When I find him, I will whisper something in his ear which will make him wonder.” Massaquoit saw that it would be useless to attempt to drive her back, so he released his hold of the bridle, and ran by the side of the horse until they caught up with the party. Every one was surprised, but Eliza only laughed loudly, and kissed the Indian girl. **T could not stay away from you,”’ she said. ““How did you know we were mort You were asleep when we eft the village.” “T had one eye open,”’ she re- plied, with the cunning of madness. ‘I saw you go. I followed and caught my korse. I did not catch ap with you before, because you might have made me go back. Nowyoucan’t.. Iam not afraid of anybody here. I loye everybody. {love myhorse. He can go faster ‘han any horse here.”’ ‘““Was there any noise in the village when you came away?” Mee Ned. ‘“*No,” she answered. ‘They were asleep. Simon wasn’t asleep, for I looked into his lodge, and he was standing up against the stake chewing a stick. What was he doing that for? He didn’t seem to like it much, either.’’ Ned ne heartily at this speech. He was pleased to learn that Simon gnawed a stick all night. ‘What is this ?” demanded the big hunter. “I thought we left this woman in the cabin ?”’ “She went away from that,” said Ned, “and found her way to the Valley of Cedars.” **None but a madwoman would have attempted it. Poor creature. Her’s has been asad life. I know something of her history. She was the wife of a man who loved her dearly, when Simon Girty was young, and the villain won her heart away from her husband, and afterward killed him.” “Do you taunt me with what ‘Ihave been and what I am 2” she half screamed. “Don’t speak to me, then. I know that Simon be- trayed me, but I loved the wretch. I could tear his heart out now. Don’t make me madder than I am. Ha—ha! When I think of the days when I was young, how my brain whirls! Yet, I laugh at it. I will be happy !” ‘Don’t speak of it,’? said Ned, hurriedly. “She can not bear that. Becalm, my poor woman. We have a Night and day they pressed for- ward on the trail. They allowed themselves no rest. Whennearan Indian village, the knowledge which Lealliwah and Massaquoit possessed enabled them to make a wide circuit and leave it behind. Through the deep woods, over the grassy meadows, by the ‘licks’, where the deer came cown to/ drink, through mountain passes,* beside silent streams—on they’ went. The women were pale and weary. Only Lealliwah showed no fatigue. he iron-limbed hunt ers felt it but slightly. The horses showed it more. The speed with which they had march- ed had thus far left pursuit be- hind, though they expected each day to hear the yells of the Shaw- nees in pursuit. Many Indians had passed near them, engaged in hunting, but they had thus far managed to kcep out of sight. On the morning of the sixth day they broke through a deep under- brush, and ariver lay before them, known even to the women. A cry of joy broke from every lip. “The Green river!’ cried Ned Harris. “By the help of God, we shall yet reach home.” The words had scarcely left his lips when a sudden chorus of yells, such as only Indians can utter, warned them that the enemy was at hand. A grim determina- tion showed itself in every face at the cry. Ned grasped his rifle more firmly; the girls turned pale; Lealliwah only remained unmoved. Upon her beautiful face an expression of innate bravery, which few women show, seemed to settle and condense. She grasped the little weapon which she always carried, and shouted to the whites : ‘* Follow me!”? They did not hesitate. They knew well that, in her wandering life, she had learned more of the passes in those woods and hills, and of the secret hiding-places, than any one in the party. Turn- ing her horse’s head to the right, she darted along the bank of the river, followed by all. The cries which came from the forest deep- ened as they advanced, and, though Edith and Amy trembled, they kept the saddle nobly, and rode as they never rode before. As they dashed into a pass be- tween the hills, a volley was pour- ed in from the pursuing savages. The big hunter glanced hurriedly from face to face, but no one seemed hurt. They had passed through the first line of foemen, and were now among the hich hills which were there broken ine to irregular masses by some migh- ty convulsion of Nature. “Dismount"’ cried Lealliwah. They obeyed without question, and each gave his horse a eut to drive him forward. As they did so, Eliza dropped suddenly to the earth, and they saw that the blood was flowing from a ghastly wound in her breast. No one could re- ceive a wound there and live an hour. “Take her up,” said Lealliwah, speaking to the big hunter. He obeyed, and the Indian girl pushed aside a mass of leaves and underbrush and revealed an open- ing in the side of the hill. This all entered, one by one, the guide going first, the big hunter follow- ing with Eliza, and the white irls next. The bushes closed ehind them, hiding the entrance from the view of those outside. A gloom like that of Egypt fell over the place, but they followed on, guided by the footsteps of Lealliwah. After walking for about ten minutes they halted, and producing a flint and steel, and some tinder, the guide soon suc- ceeded in getting a light. Before them lay a number of prepared pine-knot torches, showing that others had been there before. No questions were asked, but all felt a sense of relief, for the gloom was frightful. She lighted one of these torches, and ordering the men to bear the others for future use, the girl led the way —_. They saw now that they had en- tered one of those remarkable -_ | | |
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30 ~- — _ caves for which Kentucky fs so famous. The passage through which they were walking was per- haps ten feet in hight and as man wide, the floor being strewn wi fragments of limestone which had fallen from the roof. She knew her way well, and at length they came into a large room, the roof of which was hung with stalactites of great beauty, which caught and reflected the light from thousands of dazzling points. As they entered this room the big hunter called on them to stop, and look to Eliza. Her face, as he laid her down and took her head upon his knee, assumed a ghastly pallor. o man knew the signs of dis- solution better than Ned Harris. “Hats off, boys,’’ he said, in a mournfultone. ‘*The poor crea- ture has got to her journey’s end.” , The girls fell on their knees and covered their faces, weeping. Lealliwah tried to staunch the flowing blood, but the effort was in vain. As Eliza felt her touch she opened her eyes, anu they knew that her madness was gone. Often in the presence of death, mad people become sane, “It?s of no use,” said the dying woman. ‘*My time has come, and Iam not sorry it is so. My life for the last twenty years has been full of bitterness, but it is sed. The crime I committed as been atoned for, I hope, on the earth. I pray my merciful Judge will remember my years of pun- ishment and take me to His rest.” *“My good woman,’’ said Harris, ‘do not distress yourself by such thoughts.” “Good? There is none good but one. But, even I can dosome ood before I die. Is it a phan- y of my crazed brain, or did you really come in search of a girl called Constance Harding, who was lost years ago, when a child ?” ‘* My life is devoted to that ob- ject.” “Then, thank heaven, I can aid you. Look at Lealliwah! Child, you have lived so long in the woods that it will be hard even ~* pd to are i raped wa. Queen © you see Constance Harding!” d A cry of surprise broke from the lips of all. Lealliwah trem- bled and looked from face to face jn a sort of dumb surprise. She did not fully comprehend. Eliza felt, the strong arm which had sus- tained her up to this time Biving way. The big hunter laid her head in the lap of Edith, and staggered to his feet, reeling like a drunken man. ‘““Woman!’”’? he cried, “you are dying. As you hope to be saved, speak the truth. Stand back, Ned Harris. If you dare to touch the girl before I am answer- ed, I will kill you.” ‘As God is my judge,”’ said the dying woman, solemnly, “ yonder rl is the daughter of John Hard- g, who has not been seen since that fatal day, when—” “The wife he loved lay dead in his arms and his daughter was one—where, he could not tell. —J am John Harding! Girl, I understand all now! I know what it is that saved you from m rifle. Come to my arms, child o my dead Julia!” “ Julial’’? shricked Lealliwah. “My mother; my mother!’’ The next moment she lay weep- nee the arms of her father. hat name had broken the spell which long years had laid upon her memory. She remembered all now—the beautiful home, the mother who loved her, the terrible end of all, John Harding was nearly mad with joy. He kissed her passionately, again and again, upon brow, cheek and lip, calling her by every tender name by which she had been known in childhood, and which seemed fa- to her eyen as if she had h ed it above the elbow. ey saw that the skin, though darkened by ex- posure to the sun, was not that of an Indian, and, near the right shoulder, marked in India ¥nk, they saw the letters, ‘‘C. H.”’ in the center of a five-pointed star. ‘*“Ned Harris,” said Harding, “Constance is found! Now you know why I listened to you, and why I agreed to go with you tothe Valley of Cedars.”’ Ned advanced, showing little of his ordinary boldness. Her cheeks were in a flame, but she put her little hand in his with a — pressure which completed he conquest her beauty had be- gun. “You came to find Constance,”’ she said. ‘‘Are you glad you have found her?” “T will lay down my life to save yours,” he said, hotly. She smiled. At this moment, they heard a groan from_ Eliza. All turned toward her. She had raised herself upon one elbow and was looking at the young couple with an expression of perfect hap- piness upon her face. “Stoop down,” she whispered, ‘Both of you.” They kneeled beside her, and she took the hand of Constance— Lealliwah no longer—and placed it in that of Ned. Then raisin her dying hands above her head, she murmured: “Heaven bless and protect you.” And, with that aspiration on her lips, fell back and died. “Amen!” said John Harding, fervently; “this poor woman has endured much, in her stay on earth. May this good deed be counted for her in the great day of the Lord. What shall we do with her body ?”’ “Compose her limbs and let her izhere,’”’ said Amy Boone; ‘‘ what grander place of burial could she possibly have ?”’ “No,” said Constance; ‘‘ take her up and come with me,” The men lifted the body in silence and followed the torch. Constance led the way to a niche in the wall of the cavern, which was raised a foot or two above the levelof thefloor. The stalactites, falling from the sides of this na- tural couch, gave it the ‘gs 9a ance of a bed with drapery. They laid her down to rest— the woman of many sorrows, It was a strange burial, worthy of the sleeper. No hand would ever dis- turb her remains. A reverent silence fell on every one, and kiss- ing for the last time that marble brow, Constance led the way back. “Cur danger is great,’ said Ned. ‘How are we to escepe ?”’ “T have no fears,’’ said John Harding, whose face had lost the expression of suffering for which it had been distinguished, ‘“T haye recovered all 1 care for on earth. Do you love me, Con- stance? Can you forget the wild life you have led, for my sake?” Ske kissed him. “T give you this kiss,” she said, ‘to answer your ques- tion. The last was answered when you spoke the name of my mother; then I remembered all— I knew that I was the Constance for whom Harris oonget and I —" many things I ad forgot- — CHAPTER XLIIL THE LOG LIFE-PRESERVER. ‘“ HEAVENS, where is Massa- quoit ?”’ All turned in surprise and dis- mey. Thechief was indeed gone! Constance remembered that when they dismounted at the entrance to the cave the Mohawk was not there. Had the brave man fallen a victim to the volley which had been so fatal to Eliza ? “ll tell you what,” said Na- than, ‘‘ef Massy has gone under, it’s the end of the best Injin that ever tramped the woods,’’ ‘*T hope he safe,’ said John Harding, uneasily ; ‘‘ he is a brave man, and to him, as much as any other, Iowe the pw A my daughter. I am afraid t, in The Big Hunter. trytng to work out some scheme for our safety, he has lost his life.” ‘‘Let us hope for the best,’ said Ned, ‘‘Constance, how pang besides yourself are acquain with the entrance to this place ?” “ Only two.” ‘* And who are they ?” *: One is Simon Girty, the other fs Telonga.”’ “‘ Your Indian lover ?”” Constance laughed and nod- ded. “Then, if they know the entrance, we must prepare to fight, for they will surely come.” ‘“Not come here,” said Con- stance, who had not lost the eculiarities of speech which she had learned among the Indians ; “afraid to do dat. Only two can come at a time; a tribe can’t drive us out.’ ‘ That is true,” said Ned; ‘* but is there no way of escape open for us ‘* Yes,” said Constance. ‘‘ Not stay here; come!”’ hey again took up their line ef march. After traveling over half a mile in the bowels of the earth, they went up an inclined ‘plane, and crawling one by one \hrough a narrow opening, found themselves in the open air, upon the bank of the river. Constance fed the way ata quick pace along the bank, keeping as much as possible in the shadow of the trees. After going about two miles, they came to a place where a pile of weeds and brushwood were thrown over a log.”’ ‘* Look under the bushes,”’ said Constance; ‘*two canoe dere.” “Harris threw off the brush, and showed two ight canoes hid- den there, with paddles and every thing complete. Ned, Constance and John Hard- ing entered one of the canoes, Nathan and the two redeemed captives took the other, and they pushed out from the bank. As they did so, savage yells an- nounced that they were discover- ed. They must now work for their lives, for there, in three canoes, they saw a large party of savages. In the foremost, dis- tinguished by his great stature and his commanding air, they re- cognized Telonga. In the next, working at the Barong like a gal- ley-slave, came Simon Girty. It was no time to dally. Every girl took a dle and went to work. They knew that the heayi- ly-manned canoes behind them must a | overtake them ; but they hoped for help—from what source they could not tell. Not a shot was fired; Telonga feared to hazard the life of Con- stance, and Simon Girty was equally loth to injure any of the risoners, all of whom he was Notermined to recapture, and then to have his fill of revenge. “Push on for your lives!” cried the big hunter; ‘ they gain upon us.”’ The light canoe fairly leaped under the strong arms of the speaker and Ned Harris. They were leaving the other canoe be- hind; doubtless they might have escaped by leaving Nathan and the two girls to the mercy of the savages. Such a thought never entered their minds, and they traveled no faster than was neces- sary to keep them side by side with their friends. Suddenly the face of John Harding lighted up, and, with a ringing cheer, he turned the head of the canoe in to the bank. Nathan followed his example, and gle: J the frail barks upon the bank, the party darted into the woods. hey heard the astonished yells of the savages and the oaths of Girty, as they dashed aside the water in their mad efforts to reach the shore in turn, They knew for what John Harding was running. As their canoes touched the shore, a stentorian shout from Harding announced that he had gained his point. What was it? A ruined block-house. Some pioneer had built it for the safety of himself and his family; but In- dian craft had triumphed over him, and his fate had been to die by the hatchet of the Shawnee. The house had been left in nearly the same condition as when built, the door still swung by one hinge, but four stout bars re- genes with which to fasten “In! in!’ cried John Harding ; ** they are close at hand.” All hurried in, and the men hastily put up the bars. They had hardly done so when the Indians appeared. Ned and Nathan dis- charged their rifles, and two Shawnees fell to rise no more, This action intimidated the rest, and they contented themselves by yelling in the bushes until the ar rival of Telonga. He came up soon with Girty by his side. “ What does this yer mean?” demanded the renegade, ‘‘ They’ ve got away.” ‘* Not so, my brother; they ara in the big house.” “Yes; an’ thar they’re sikely to stay until Boone comes up from Booneville to help’em. It sarvea us right. We orter lose ’em. Why didn’t we fire at’em?”’ ““My brother Girty must re- member that we must save the lives of the daughter of Boone and of Lealliwah. Whatis it to me if she has forgotten the people who have reared her and made her happy? She must be mine. The daughter of the Shaw- nees must always remain s0, no matter what she may think. When the young white man’s scalp hangs at my belt, then she will forget him, and remember only the great chief Telonga, the head of his powerful nation.’ “She ain’t goin’ to forgit; don’t you go to b’lieve it, Shaw- nee. She’s got her durned head sot on him, an’ she’ll hey him tu. Don’t say I didn’t tell ye.” ‘““My brother is very kind,” said Telonga, ‘‘ One might almost say he spoke of these things to make me angry. If this is true let him beware what he does, for | a great chief knows how to! avenge an insult well—let him look to it.” **T meant no insult,’’ said Girty, cowering before the angry glance of thechief. ‘ Nat y enough, { don’t like it that they are likely tugit away. We mustgit’em out of that somehow.” “T will go to him said Telonga; “J will speak with Lealliwah ! Du it, chief; itmout du some good, though I don’t think it. Go along.”’ The chief threw his blanket over his shoulder and advanced boldly into the open space in front of the hut, careless of the fact that three deadly rifles were aimed at his heart. As he ad- vanced he raised his right hand and showed a belt of white wam- pum. He knew enough of the usages of war among the whites to be sure they would respect this symbol. He was right. eé mo- ment they saw the belt Ay | rifle was lowered, and the chie was suffered to advance. He came forward until he stood with- in ten feet of the block, when he was halted by Harding. ‘““ What do you seek here?’ the big hunter asked, in the Indian tongue. “Telonga is chief of the Shaw- nees. He would have a talk with his white brothers,” The door was thrown open and Harding appeared upon the thres- hold. Telo started slightly as he saw his face. *“Do you know me?” demanded Harding. ‘“Who does not know the bi hunter of the Shawnees?” sai the chief. ‘‘I speak to a brave man. I also speak to one who is jest to the red-man, even though e slays them. Telonga has only come for his own.” ‘¢ What does the chief claim ?”’ “He has come for his wife, Lealliwah, Queen of the W is the promised wife of the chi Some one has come among us and stolen away the heart of the maiden from her people,” ‘“Who are her people?” de-
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~oumeee — manded looking the chief fall in the fave. ‘The Shawnees,” said the chief, turning away his head. “Tet the chief look back over twelye years and se if he can re- member. A man lived near Har- risville. He was happy. He had a wife whom he loved, and a child which headored. But, the Indians rose and chased him from his home. His wife was killed as he held her in his arms. Where did the child go ?” “How should Telonga know ? Elenipsico was in the woods then. But, that chief roams no more.”’ “Stop,” said Harding. ‘“ That man went out into the woods with his heart set like a flin against the Indians. He killed them wherever they were found. He had only one thought, and that was to find the child he had lost, if she was above the sod.”’ “He was right,” said the chief. ‘se has found her!’’ shouted Harding. ‘*Red-skin, only the white wampum protects you. Lealliwah is that child, and I, her father, have a higher claim upon her than you can ever have.”’ The head of Telonga sunk upon his breast. The blow was a terri- ble one to him. He had waited for. years for the time to come when Lealliwah should come into his wigwam. The dream was over! ‘‘T have a little to say,” he said at last, in a hollow voice. ‘‘ Since the child was taken from the dead arms of the black woman, Telon- ahas seen her grow up like a ower. He has taught her to love the Shawnee and hate the white man. He can not think his teaching has all been in vain. Let her come out and speak to me, and. if she loves the white man best, Telonga will go.” “Constance,” said Harding, “ will you come out?” Telonga started at the vision which appeared at the open door. Under the instructions of the | other girls she had washed every vestige of paint from her face, and en the arrows from her hair. The luxuriant mass fell half way to her feet, forming a vort of goalden-brown mantle, She clasped her hands about her father’s arm and stood looking the chief in the fuce. “ Lealliwah!’ the Shawnee cried. She made no answer. “Speak tome,” he plead. ‘‘ You who have been so long Queen of the Woods, let me hear your voice. Have you forgotten what the Shawnees have been to you ?” “T no longer answer to the name of Lealliwah, chief. As Constance Harding, 1 will hear our words—as Constance Hard- H I will answer them,” she said. The chief bowed his head sadly, as she said this. He evidently gave up all hope. “Then Lealliwah is dead,’’ he said, ‘‘and I am again Telon chief of the Shawnees. here are my enemies. I go, but I will come again.”’ “Stop, chief,” said Constance, speaking in a harried tone. “ Be. fore you go let me thank you for the kindness 7 have always shown me while [ was a Shawnee. Ican never forget that. I have no enemy among the Shawnees, unless. it is that wretch, Girty. When I came to you, I was a lit- tle child. You reared me tender- ly. You taught the tribe to re- — me, and they have always one 80. I should be ungrateful if I did not thank you, for with- out your aid, my fate might have been terrible. Give me the wam- um belt, and I will keep it always memory of the great chief, Te- n lon, e chief took off the belt and threw it over her neck. At the same time he shook a threatening hand at Harris, as he stood in the doorway. “Look to yourself, dog,” he shouted. ‘Before many hours our scalp shall hang in my belt. ou have done this thing. Had you never come smong us, Le- alliwah would still be the daugh- The Big Hunter. ter and Queen of the Shawnees.” “*T care little for your threats,”’ said Harris, haugh‘ily. “Then meet me where we stand with knife and hatchet, to prove which is the better man’”’ Harris half drew his knife and made a spring at the speaker, but poe | caught him with his dis- engaged hand and threw him back, saying : es Respect the symbol of peace.’’ “T beg pardon, Harding,’’ said the young man. ‘‘I forgot. He taunted me, or I should not have done it.”’ “‘Let him come on,” cried Te- longa, ‘‘ and try the strength of aShawnee arm. My knife is sharp. It wiil drink the blood of a white villain.”’ “‘ Be quiet,’”’ said Harding. ‘Is this a time or place for brawling ? You have made your demand and been refused. Now go about your business, and remember this: we shall fight while a man of us can lift a hand, and your men have al- ready felt the power of our rifles.” The chief only answered by a look of hatred as he strode away, never delgning to look back, nor doubting the faith of the men he was leaving, who might have shot him in the back as he walked slowly away. “Telonga is very angry,” said Constance j “Harris must not fight him.’ “Don’t call me Harris; my name is Ned,’ said the young man. ‘* Net,’? said Constance, clip- ping the name up in the prettiest manner possible, “you must not fight him.” “T hope he will only give me a chance,’’ was the He of “Thope you do not think [am afraid of any one Indiar ? That is not the way. of the border.” * Telonga will kill you.” ** Nota bit of it,’’ rejoined Ned, piqued by the intimation that he was not a match for the savage “T will try him some day; then see if Iam not right.”’ The girl hung herhead. It was fear for the safety of Ned which prompted her to oppose a combat with the chief. Harris took her hand and led her to a place a lit- tle apart from the rest, and sat down at her feet, where he re- mained talking to her »n a manner which brought the telltale blood to her cheeks. CHAPTER XLIV. TO THE RESCUER! Tue sudden crack of the rifle of the big hunter interrupted the young folks’ talk and announced hat the enemy was again in sight. Harris sprung to a loop-hole and immediately perceived that the enemy were about to make an attack. Numbers of the painted rascals could be seen at various ints in the underbrush about he clearing, and it was 3 ome that they had been reénforced by those who were on foot during the chase on the river. The rifles of the be- sieged began to speak out now, and yells of rage and anguish from the outlying savages told with what effect. “Give it to ’em,’’ yelled Na- than. ‘‘ That’s right. Who-0-0-o-p! Take that, you painted riptile. That’s fer Massachewsetts. Oh, it eout.” “Mark that big fellow crawling up under the pine,” cried Harding, in a cheerful voice. ‘‘Oh, if we only had Massaquoit to keep the other side of the house we could whip a tribe of them. How lon did old Boone keep them 0 alone?” ‘Seventeen days,” said Harris, as he discharged his rifle at the man indicate by Harding. “I don’t think that Indian lope about in the woods any more.”’ “T want to see Girty,” said Harding. “If I once draw bead on him, his knell is tolled. Id pay him for his abuse of that poor woman.” “Eliza is at rest,’? said Con- stance, ‘‘No hand will disturb | another word. her now. She very kind to me, Love me very much.”’ “Who could help that?” said Ned. ‘‘Zcan’t, for one.” ““Make him stop, father,” said the girl, flushing with pleasure. **He too bad.”’ “Keep out of range!’’ cried Harding. ‘‘The lad won’t hurt you by talking, little one. Do ou see that fellow in the tree, athan ?”’ ‘*Sartainly I do.” ‘Ask him out of that.” The down-easter was a good shot. An Indian had climbed into the top of a tree, nearly in the center of the open ground, from which he was dropping arrows into the loop-holes of the block- house. One of these had passed ee erry near Harding’s head. Nathan raised his rifle. The savage, unconscious of his danger, was fitting another arrow to the bow when the rifle cracked. The leaden messenger sped upward and struck Lim in the middle of the forehead, directly above the nose. They saw him bound up- ward and fall across the limb, where he remained swaying in the breeze, in the sight of his comrades. Yells of deadly hatred greeted the awful sight, to which the be- sieged only answered with their rifles. At length they heard the signal for assault. he savages leaped to their feet, and charged with an impetuosity rarely seen in savage warfare. But, the fire of the rifles was too deadly. They could not stand it, and broke be- fore they reached the house. As they retreated, there came upon their ears a ringing border cheer, and the inmates of the. block- house knew that succor was at hand. The Indians only needed that to complete their confusion. They broke and fled in disorder, while the riflemen bounded for- ward on the trail, holding their terrible weapons ready for use. Girty escaped to the other bank of the river, in company with Telonga. But, few of the others ever saw their native villages ain. The hunters came trooping back, with Boone striding ahead. By his side was Harrod, the silent hunter, his rifle smoking in his hand. Boone suffered his rifle to drop from his grasp, and looked with humid eyes at the face of Harris, Harding, and Nathan. The girls kept out of sight. ‘“Have you seen Massaquoit ?” was the first question of Harris. “Oh, yes. The old feller is -_ off on a hot trail. He jest rought me word a party of you were bein’ chased into a hole in the ground, t’other side of the river. We got so fur on the way up, when we hearn yer rifles. Ye ain’t seen nothin’ of the gals? Massy wouldn’t tell me.” “Do you mean of Amy ?” “Tn course I do. An’ Edith Calloway. Come, don’t make me wait; a father is a father. You ain’t one now.” “Tell him, quickly,” said Hard- ing. ‘I know what it is to suffer a loss like that. Don’t keep him in suspense.”’ “My is gone too,” said Colonel Calloway, who stood near Boone. ‘Speak it out, Harris. We air men, an’ kin b’ar the worst.”’ “Then Pll tell you. Here; I want you,” cried Harris. The girls heard the signal and sprung from their hiding-places. The next moment each was in her father’s arms, alternately sobbing and laughing as they recounted the perils of that terrible time in which they had been captives among the Shawnees. “That scoundrel, Massy. He never told me,’ said Boone, ‘No, I won’t call him that. Ef it hadn’t been fur him, the girls mout never ’a come back at all. Harris, don’t ask me to say much, but, ef the time ever comes when I kin act, I’m the man.” “All rigat, squire. Don’t say confess that my | motive in going into the Indian = village was to find the lost child of John Harding.” “T don’t s’pose you’ve had any luck. You deserve it though,” said Boone. “T have, though, had the best or suck. Ihave found the object of my search. Constance, come here.’ The girl came quietly out of | the block-house at the call. Boone started back in surprise. He re- eognized her at once. * Ain’t that the gal that gave us water when we was in the hitch that day ?”’ “ac Yes.” “*Durn me ef I didn’t think she was too hansum fur an Injin,” said Buone. ‘‘This beats every thing. Who is this man?” “This is the man whom you have known as the big hunter of the Shawnee. He is John Hard- ing, whose daughter I hold by the hand. We saved her together, and she shall be ours through life. Mr. Harding, this is Daniel Boone.” The two border men clasped nands, and looked at each other with beaming eyes. Each was the beau-ideal of a _ borderer. Boone, tall, muscular, and full of muscle, saw that Harding rose above him. “Pm glad you’ve found your darter, Harding. I am, by gra- cious. I know what it is to lose a darter, and find her ag’in. Here’s Amy, now, I want to hug her ag’in. Nathan Hicks, I'll remem- ber this ag’in’ you. It was you that helped to git my darter out of the hands of the red-skins.”° ‘oTwas me, by gravy,’’ said Nat; ‘‘and as sure as you live, that darter of yours has got about the pootiest pair of eyes in her head I ever seen.” “Mr. Hicks?’ said Amy, in a deprecating tone. “It’s so. I don’t give it up. The darnedest pair of twinklers in the world. [ll maintain it, with knife or rifle, ag’in’ any man that dare to say they ain’t.” ‘ “Nat Hicks,” said Boone, “‘vou’ve been a sort of vagabond for years, partly through bad luck. Now, you quit that, and take up asection of land near Boone- ville. You had better do 80, too, Harding.”’ “TI can not be sure of what I will do,” said Harding. ‘My aim in life heneeforth is to make my daughter happy. But for her, oung as I still am, I should pray or death, as a happy relief from the torments of life. Half that life has come back to me. I can never be a truly happy man. That hope went from me when Julia lay dead in these arms.”’ He paused, and his voice broke. Constance laid her hand upon his shoulder, and passed her arm about his neck. “Don’t Harding, don’t,” said Boone. ‘I can’t b’ar it, nohow. Come. We've all lost friends, fust and last. Mebbe not many of us such a friend as you have, unless it’s Harrod. Yes, the silent hun- ter has suffered as great a loss as ou. “Harrod drew near and silently extended his hand. He, too, had lost a dear wife by the bloody hands of the sayages. Harding grasped his hand. either spoke a word, but they understood each other.’ “Sich is life,” said Boone. “Some air to die and some air to live. My wife is safe so fur along the ro You nor I can’t say how long that safety will last for either of us. Come along.” “‘ Where now ?” said Harding. “To Booneville. There you may all find homes. The hearts of the people are open. Most of you have money, but, if you have not, a beautiful land lies open be- fore you, and you ean all claim your share. uch of suffering, much of privation must be borne, before we can make Kentucky what we would have it. But the end will be glorious.’ The party set out on their /™march and in a few hours were at Booneville,
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32 CHAPTER XLV. CONCLUSION. THE remaining events of this tale belong to history. It would be idle to tell of the days of probation Ned Harris had to pass through, before Constance would consent to be his wife. And, when he was once established as, her ac- cepted lover, she used often to threaten him with a return to her Indian lover, Telonga. It was wonderful how quickly she improved among the whites. The language she had learned in childhood came back to her quickly, and, in a few months nothing remained of her peculiar- ities of pronunciation except an occasional ““d” where ‘“‘th” should have been used. Har- ris used to rally her on the persistency with which she clung to this method of pronuncia- tion; and, though she tried hard to correct it, yet it was over a year before she could fully accomplish the desired reform. All things must have an end, and so did the courtship of Ned Harris. A year passed. Ned had cleared a farm and built a house, and was ready to receive his bride. And, one pleasant day in the summer weather, under the shadow of a mighty tree, the young people stood up in the presence of the people of Booneville, and ai Boone, as justice of the peace, spoke the solemn words which joined these hearts togeth- er. Harris looked noble in his hunting-shirt of green, for they aped no fashions on the borders of Kentucky. Constance, in her simple dress, was gloriously beautiful. Her beauty did not need the aid of ornament—at least, so Harris thought, as he printed the first kiss of a hus- band upon her brow. And, who is this in a gorgeous coat of green homespun, with big horn buttons, who, with Amy Boone, “stands up” with the young couple? Who but our worthy friend Nathan, now the owner of a well-stocked farm near the settlement. His ragged clothing had not been a good indicator of the man’s real worldly condition, and they found, when the time care, that he had various golden coins stored away, enough to stock his farm and buy a house. Re- port says, Amy Boone and the Yankee propose to follow suit and get spliced, and that Squire Boone is agreed. The words are spoken, and the Queen of the Woods ceases to be other than Ned Harris’ wife. John Harding stepped forward to congratulate the young couple. As his eye rested upon his child clad in her simple wreath of field-flowers, and her hair falling in waving brown masses to her waist, the sight was too much for the strong man. It reminded him too strongly of his own happy bridal morning, and of the terrible end- ing which came. Constance saw him falter, and knew the cause. Springing to his side, she threw her arms about his neck, and laid her head upon his breast. The men cheered madly. The women wept. . And, in the confusion Nathan Hicks got ‘‘ round on t’other side” and kissed Amy Boone, to the delight of that por- tion of the audience who witnessed the occur- rence. But, when order was restored, and the other friends were advancing to salute the bride and groom, Nat was again in his proper place, bolt upright, looking as innocent of any attempt at fraud as it was possible for a man to look in a ee ea collar; ‘‘an Israelite indeed.” Even Massaquoit grinned as he beheld him. A barbecue followed, and people came from far and near, armed to the teeth, to witness the weddinz. The festivities were kept up far into the night, long after the young couple had dis- appeared... Nat Hicks was the happiest man among them, and led the dance which followed the barbecue ina manner which he, as well as his prey partner, considered highly creditable. And they kept it up until the fires went out, and morning was near at hand. . Step by step the Shawnees had receded before the white men in spite of the stubborn efforts of Telonga. But, the brave chief never faltered. At length the contest was brought to a final trial, and the Indians and white men met upon the banks of the Kentucky. It was a desperate fray, continuing from sun- rise to sunset. The day’s close witnessed the whites’ triumph, though at a fearful loss. he sun was going down, and the Indians, dis- pirited by repeated repulses, began to retreat. At. this generate, Telonga rushed to the front, waving his hatchet, red with the blood of the white men ke had met. His dark eyes blazed. A look of sullen hate showed itself in his face. ‘Sons of the Shawnee,” he eried, ‘ will you give up your hunting-ground_ to the spoiler? Behold, they are before you. Rush upon them like the whirlwind in its fury, and sweep them from your path. Do you give back? Follow Telonga; and, if you see him go backward, let the warrior who’ stands next strike him dead at his feet.” * Charge!” shouted Ned Harris, suddenly ap- pearing at the head of the white line. “At ’’em!” roared Boone. With one impulse, Indian and white man leaped at each other’s throat. All through that day Ned Harris had been striving to reach Te- longa or Girty; but the renegade wisely kept outof his sight. John Harding was there, rag- ing like a lion, striking down a savage at every Two years The Big Hunter, — blow. He stood in front with a hatchet in his hand such as few could swing, and the red-men shrunk before his mighty arms. At last, with a thrill of joy at each heart, Ned and Telonga met. **Ah-ha! son of the pale-face woman,” cried the Indian; ‘“ we meet in the front of battle. I am Telonga, the Shawnee. No white man can stand before my arm. I will take your scalp, and then I will go to Lealliwah and take her again to the lodges of the Shawnees.”’ ** Don’t stop to brag; red-skin,” said Ned. ‘If you are ready, so am I.” Telonga uttered a furious yell, and madea sudden rush at him. Each of the combatants holding a knife in his left hand, and a hatchet in his right, made a double stroke as'they closed. The hatchet of Ned glanced from the frontal bone of the Indian, while his knife was employ- ed in warding off the blow of Telonga’s ax. He received in return a slight wound from the knife in the shoulder. The blow which Telonga had received was a heavy one, and staggered him for a moment; but he recovered himself, and, with a bound like a tiger, leaped at the throat of Harris. Each eg his hatchet as they clasped, and they fell to the ground together locked in each other’s arms. By superior skill Harris maintained the vantage by falling on his foe—his knees planted on the arms of the In- dian, and his knife at his throat. 4 “Yield, you red dog!” cried Ned, “or you ie! ‘*Telonga does not know how to yield,” re- lied the chief; ‘‘he has seen the last hope of is people pass away, and he no longer cares to live. Strike!” But the blow fell not. ‘You are a brave man,” said Harris; “ [ll not strike your death-blow. Stand up chief.” As Telonga rose to his feet, disarmed and at the mercy of Ned, Simon Girty suddenly a red at the rear of the Indian line and fired. e unfortunate chief was the salvation of Har- ris. The ball struck him just behind the shoul- der, and passed through his lungs in a diagonal course. He dropped at the feet of his conquer- or with a set, stony face. The young man bent over him. ‘“Who shoot?” whispered the wounded man, “Girty,” replied the white man. ‘ He fired me “Bad heart,” said the chief. ‘‘No good to take white man into wigwam. I die, and as I go, I see the ruin of my people. The Shawnees will stand up no more before the warriors of , Boone. Telonga is ready to die.” The blood in his throat choked his utterance. He rose on his elbow with an effort and looked back. The Shawnees were again in full retreat, the foresters pressing on their rear, striking them down without mercy. A cry of almost mortal anguish broke from the lips of the chief. ““My people—my. people!” he cried, covering his face with his hands. Harris could not help commiserating the grand sorrow of the savage, who again choked, as more blood rushed to his throat. ““T die,” he said; ‘‘say to the woman who is now your wife, and who was and is Lealliwah, ueen of the Woods, that I loved her well. he is yours now; but if Telonga had lived, she should have been one of the Shawnees again.” A yell from the Shawnees, as they made a momentary stand against the men of Boone, brought a brief gleam to the chief’s eyes, which left them as the feeble cry was drowned by the stentorian cries of the white men. He dropped to the earth again, and was dead, : Of Simon Girty little more is to be said. Protected by the master whom he served, he escaped many dangers, living a miserable life, and died a horrible death. It is stated that, at times, in the solemn night, the figure of the wronged and murdered Eliza eupenten. a ghastly presence, near his bed, sending terror to his wretched soul. : John Harding learned to be a happy man in the home of his son-in-law. Children n to grow up about him—merry laughter made the house ring. He could not be content to remain at home, and made frequent excursions into the woods accompanied sometimes by Nat Hicks or Ned; but more often by M uoit, who had made so many friends in this vicinity that he loved to pass his time there. The Indian was hele and hardy, and many a fat buck, with branching antlers, the two friends brought to the village. Constance forgot her former habits almost entirely; but she still loved the woods, and was fond of rambling in them. 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