CHAPTER XXXIX.THE MYSTERY SOLVED.
Upon the rocky ledge, in front of the cabin, the moonlight streamed with almost noonday brilliancy, and lighted up a strange scene. Lying upon the rock was the hermit chief, his long gray beard and hair shining like silver in the moonlight, and his broad chest heaving with every hard-drawn breath—for the hermit had received his death wound.
Standing near was Kansas King, a bloodstain upon his forehead, from a wound made by the butt of the scout’s pistol.
The face of the hermit was pallid with pain and some inward emotion of bitterness. The face of the man whose deeds had won him the name of Kansas King was still unmoved and reckless.
In front of these men stood Buffalo Bill and Red Hand. Red Hand was slightly in advance, and he was speaking, while his deep voice was stern and almost cruel in tone. He was saying:
“Carter Bainbridge, you have but a short time to live. Before your soul takes its flight, I would have you speak, if the story I am now about to relate is not true in every word.”
After a moment, the hermit replied:
“Hell has certainly aided you, Vincent Vernon, in letting your hand take my life; tell all you wish to, for I care not now—no, not now—ha! here comes Pearl.”
At that moment the girl rushed from the cabin, and, beholding the strange scene and the hermit lyingwounded upon the rock, cried: “Father, my father! Are you dying?”
Quickly Red Hand stepped forward, and, restraining her, said:
“My dear girl, this man is not your father—waste not your pity on him.”
“Not my father! Oh, surely you are——”
“He tells the truth, Pearl; I am not your father. Listen and he will tell you all.”
The hermit spoke with difficulty.
“Yes, I tell the truth, as you shall all hear,” said Red Hand. “Many years ago, in a New England State, I was living with my widowed mother; my father, a naval officer, having died when I was a mere lad. My mother had wealth, and, being youthful and handsome, had many admirers.
“When I was fifteen years of age I first saw this man—Carter Bainbridge—known to you all as the Hermit of the Black Hills. This man became, as I believed, the husband of my mother. She loved him dearly, and so did I; but his was a black heart, for already he had a wife living in a Southern State—the mother of a son whom this man brought to our house after his marriage with my mother, and passed off as his nephew.
“From the day of that son’s arrival, there began a plot for my mother’s and my wealth, for the pretended nephew was as bad as his professed uncle. At length I entered the navy as a midshipman, and after an absence of three years returned to find my mother dead.
“Even then I suspected no evil, but long afterward an investigation proved that this man had cruelly taken my mother’s life. Again I went to sea, and I left thisman and his son at my house, as I believed, but the son, as a common seaman, shipped on my vessel, and as I was pacing the deck one night in a hard blow, I was thrown overboard by a sailor who approached me unawares.
“The vessel went on, for none had seen the act, and I would have been lost had not a schooner picked me up not twenty minutes after I was hurled into the sea. Returning home again, I found the father and son there. Their fright at my appearance I took for surprise and joy, for all believed me lost, and the man who had thrown me into the sea had left the vessel at the first port and returned to report his success.
“Dwelling in the same town where was my home was a physician and his daughter, an only child. That girl I loved with my whole heart, and before I again went to sea she became my wife.
“With perfect trust, I left her at home with my supposed stepfather and his son, while her father, the doctor, accompanied me to sea as my guest, for his health was in a precarious condition, and he believed a sea voyage would benefit him.
“When in Spain, a year after my marriage, word came from my wife of the birth of a little daughter. Then my father-in-law, who was still with me, urged that I should resign and return home. I followed his advice, and together we were to sail for London. The night before we sailed from Spain, when my father-in-law and I were returning to the hotel late in the evening, an assassin sprang from a dark corner and struck him to the heart with a knife.
“Strange to say, I was arrested as his murderer, and sent to America for trial, for he was a man of vastwealth, and my wife was his only heir. For nearly two years I lay in prison, and then was acquitted, for no proof could be found against me.
“And yet, in all that time my wife did not come near me, nor did my stepfather or his son. At last I left my cell, and returned to my home, to find I had no home, no wife, no child. This man, Carter Bainbridge, had sold all my property that he could lay hands on, and my wife had gone off with the son, whose name was Ben Talbot.
“My child, I was told, was dead; and I believed it, especially when I received a letter from my misguided wife, bidding me farewell, and telling me that she intended to die by her own hand. Considerable property, left me by an aunt, I still had, and, with money at my disposal, I started to hunt down Carter Bainbridge and Ben Talbot.
“It was long and tedious work, but I tracked this old man, step by step, for a long time, and discovered much of his evil life—aye, I discovered that he had deceived another woman, who believed she became his wife, and was then cast off by him, after he had robbed her of her wealth, and left her and her boy to starve.
“That woman was the mother of the man known as Kansas King.”
With breathless suspense, all had listened to the story of Red Hand, and yet none were prepared for the sudden and startling assertion he made regarding the parentage of the outlaw chief.
As for Kansas King, he stood amazed and silent—for a moment—and then said bitterly:
“Red Hand, I feel that you speak the truth; tell me, old man, am I your son?”
“Is your right name Leo Randolph?” faintly asked the hermit.
“So men call me; but if my parentage was dishonorable I hold no claim to any name.”
“You are, then, my son.”
“Good God! Well, if I am hung by Captain Archer here, my fate will be the proper thing, I suppose, and yet I prefer hanging to acknowledging you as my father.”
The outlaw spoke with terrible bitterness. Then Red Hand continued, in the same deep tones:
“At length, I tracked this man to his home, and I believed I killed him, for I drove my knife deep into his side. It was the first time my hand was stained with blood, though from my birth I have borne this mark which has given me my name upon the frontier.”
Red Hand held up his hand so that the moonlight revealed its crimson hue. Again he went on:
“But I was only half avenged, for Ben Talbot still lived. What destiny ever led my footsteps into these hills, God only knows; but here, five years ago, I met Ben Talbot—and killed him.”
“Tell me, Vincent Vernon, tell me—is the grave in the Haunted Valley that of my son?” said the old hermit eagerly.
“It is; I killed him, and, for the sake of the happy days we had passed together in boyhood, I buried him, and carved his name upon a tree at the head of his grave.”
“I knew of the grave, but never saw it—never knew that my son lay buried there, for I thought he had gone East,” muttered the old hermit.
“Tell me, Carter Bainbridge,” continued Red Hand, “did Ben Talbot come here with you?”
“Yes; I fled here in fear of my life, for I have been a great sinner, and Ben and Grace came with me; but we had a quarrel, and they left, as I believed, to go East and——”
“And they settled in the Haunted Valley, and there they lived, until I killed Ben Talbot. Then poor Grace still remained, alone, to watch his grave, until last night she fell by her own hand, as this scout knows. Aye, fell by her own hand, and we two buried her there in the valley.
“Then I sought the cabin where they lived, and the papers I found there told me all; yes, that Ben Talbot had slain the father of my wife, and then placed the crime at my door to have me hung, and that, believing the story told her, Grace had fled, a guilty thing, from my love. But I have forgiven her all. Aye, more did I learn, and that is that this girl here, who has heard every word of my story, is my own daughter. Pearl, will you come to your father’s heart?”
Words cannot portray the tenderness with which Red Hand spoke, and, comprehending the whole plot of crime against him, and feeling that he was indeed her father, the girl sprang forward and nestled close in the arms of the man whose life had known so much of misery.
Not a word, not a motion, marred the silent joy of that moment for those two, father and daughter, so cruelly divided through life. Finally Red Hand turned once more to the old hermit, and said:
“Carter Bainbridge, I can now, in my joy, even forgive you.”
No word of reply came, the eyes gazed straight at the moon with a fixed stare, and the voice of Buffalo Bill said quietly:
“He’s gone to another trapping ground, comrade.”
It was indeed true; and Red Hand turned and led poor Pearl into the cabin, to prepare for the return to the stronghold of the miners.