CHAPTER IV.
The sun was within about an hour of setting behind the western ridges of the Green Mountains, as a tall, heavily-built man, with strong, sullen face, sat at the door of a log cabin, within a few miles of the settlement of Derryfield, looking across a lonely valley.
The attire of this individual was that of a farmer, and a little patch, of about half an acre, behind his cabin, showed by its ripening corn, that his occupation was not wholly a fiction. Still, a certain air of neglect about cabin and owner, and the presence of a long rifle that lay across his knees, announced that his farming was at least eked out by hunting, if not subordinated thereto.
Although only a few miles from a settlement, the scene around the seated man was completely wild and lonely, so much so that the people had christened the owner the “Mountain Hermit.” His solitary habits and sullen manner repelled strangers from forming his acquaintance, and even his name was unknown to any one in the country side.
He had first made his appearance there about three years before, had built his own cabin in that solitary place, and resided there ever since. The only occasions he was ever seen away, were when some hunter caught sight of him in the woods on the same errand as himself, and it remained a mystery where he procured powder and lead, for he never entered Derryfield to buy any.
Since the advance of Burgoyne’s army, people ceased to watch him. It was well known that hordes of Indians were prowling about in the vicinity of every settlement, and no one dared to venture away alone. Still, the Mountain Hermit remained in his cabin, as if insensible to danger, although “Indian sign” had been seen more than once near his little clearing.
On the evening in question he sat gazing at the sunset and soliloquizing, according to the habit of most lonely men.
“Let them come,” he muttered. “They cannot do as much harm to the Puritanical hounds as I wish them. Let them scalp the women if they please. There will be so many rebel brats the less, to grow up into boors. Let them abuse me. I can stand the name of renegade, if I get my revenge. Let us see their Washington, that they boast so much of, help them out of this scrape.”
As he spoke, his frown grew dark and gloomy, and he rose to his feet. His manner was fretful and impatient.
“Why don’t the fools come?” he muttered. “When there is no danger, who so bold as an Indian? Let them once get a good scare, and you cannot drive them into battle. It is beyond the chief’s time—no—there he comes. After all, the brutes keep faith.”
At the moment he uttered the last words, the stately form of an Indian chief stepped into the clearing, as if he had issued from the ground, and calmly advanced toward the recluse.
The new-comer was a Mohawk on the war-path, from his paint and other peculiarities. He carried a short rifle over his arm, and saluted the hermit with grave courtesy.
The white man opened the conversation with an air of authority to which the Indian submitted quietly.
“Bearskin is ready? Where are his warriors?”
The chief waved his hand toward the exit of the valley.
“My brothers are in wait by the white road that leads to the town. They await the Night Hawk’s orders.”
“Good. It is new moon. When the moon sinks, I will be there. Let them stop every one that passes by the road; but no firing. Let the arrow do its work silently. Is the town well watched all round?”
“Not a creature will escape. My warriors are like the web of the spider, the white men are like the flies. We shall suck their blood before morning, and the squaws will be tired of counting the scalps.”
“It is good,” said the Mountain Hermit, with a grim smile. “Let Bearskin watch well. Has any one come along the road to-day?”
The Indian answered not for a moment. His quick earhad caught a sound to which the other was insensible, and he stood with his head bent on one side listening intently.
“One comes now,” said the white man, quickly. “Do not kill him on the road, or the sight may deter others. Drag him into the forest, and keep him till I come.”
The Indian nodded silently, and plunged into the forest in a direction that promised to take him toward the road that crossed the foot of the valley almost within sight of the clearing.
The recluse remained a moment listening, and presently caught the sounds which the quicker senses of the chief had first announced. A horseman was evidently galloping along the road toward him, and the clatter of spur and scabbard told the nature of the traveler without words.
The recluse cast his rifle into the hollow of his arm, and struck across the valley to a point where he could intersect the road in its many curves at a much nearer point. He was a little curious to see who the advancing dragoon might be.
There was still plenty of light, although the sun was fast nearing the mountain tops, and the long strides of the Mountain Hermit took him across the stretch of woods that barred him from the road in a very short time.
As he neared it, the sound of horse-hoofs and the clatter of a saber-scabbard were plainly audible, skirting the mountain-side beyond.
At the point which the recluse had reached, the road came round a spur, over the dividing ridge, and dived into the valley beyond. Waiting a few moments, till the sound of hoofs was close by, the Mountain Hermit stalked boldly into the road, just as the young hussar captain dashed around the corner.
At the sight of the stranger’s figure, Adrian Schuyler abruptly halted, throwing his horse on its haunches close to the other, while the sharp click of his pistol-lock enforced the stern command, “Halt!”
The stranger quietly turned, and faced the hussar with a sullen frown, asking:
“Who are you to halt a peaceable farmer? I’ve as much right as you, and more, in this place.”
“Perhaps so,” said the hussar, coolly: “but in war-timewe of the light cavalry take liberties that we support with our weapons. Who are you?”
“A peaceable farmer, as I said before,” answered the other, with a sullen scowl. “Who are you?”
“An officer on duty, my man, who doesn’t care to be trifled with. There are too many Indians and spies loose in these mountains for me to trust strangers. If you’re a peaceable farmer, you’re as sulky a looking one as I have seen. How far is it to Derryfield?”
“Four miles,” said the sullen stranger, gruffly. Then he turned away as if the colloquy was terminated, but the hussar was not going to let him off so easy.
“Halt!” he again cried, in his sharp tones, covering the other with his pistol. “Move another step, and it’s your last.”
The stranger obeyed the order with his usual sullen air, but the hussar’s voice showed that he was in earnest.
“Look here, Mr. Officer,” began the stranger, in a tone of injury, “I don’t see what you have against me to treat me in this way. Let me alone, or by the Lord, we’ll see if my rifle ain’t as good as your pistol.”
The hussar was close to him, as he spoke, and he was already beginning to handle his long rifle, when Adrian’s horse, obedient to his master’s will, made a sudden leap, which brought the soldier’s left hand to the shoulder of the recluse.
In a moment the muzzle of the pistol was at the sullen stranger’s ear, as Adrian sternly ordered him:
“Fire in the air, quick, orIfire here. Not a word. Fire!”
The sullen man cast one savage look up at the hussar’s face, but the menace he met there was so unyielding that he obeyed the order.
The harmless rifle-bullet whistled skywards, and the sharp report waked the echoes for miles around, as the now disarmed man stood glaring defiantly up at the hussar.
“Now drop your gun,” said Adrian, sternly.
The stranger obeyed, still with the same scowl.
“It’s my impression,” pursued the officer, grimly, “that you’re a spy of some sort, or you’d have treated a patriotofficer with more courtesy. Unbuckle your belt, and drop it. I see you have a knife still. No fooling, sir. I shall be fully justified in shooting you if you hesitate.”
The stranger, without a word, did as he was told, still looking up at the hussar with the same defiant scowl as ever. The soldier, still keeping his strange captive under his eye, dived into the gay saber-tasche that dangled beside his sword, and produced therefrom a pair of delicate steel handcuffs.
“Hold up your hands,” he said, quietly, “I’m going to take you into Derryfield, dead or alive.”
Still the stranger spoke not a word. His face wore the same expression of bitter rage, without a trace of fear, though he stood there disarmed and helpless. He held up his hands, and allowed Schuyler to handcuff him, without a struggle. Then, as the officer passed a cord between his manacled wrists, and fastened it to his saddle-bow, he uttered a short laugh of bitter mockery.
The captain did not deign to notice it.
“Go on,” he said, spurring up his horse, “and run your best, or you’ll find yourself dragged.”
He set off at a slow trot, the prisoner running alongside, with surprising power, and took the road to Derryfield.