CHAPTER II.

“Come, haste to the wedding!”

On the third of February, 1809, an act of Congress was passed, defining the boundaries of Illinois, and establishing the “First Grade” of Territorial Government. The population of the whole territory did not then exceed twelve thousand; and, with the exception of Chicago, and a few settlements on the Wabash, was confined to a narrow strip of country along the Mississippi. But, upon the organization of the new government, (under Governor Edwards,) the current of emigration received an impulse in this direction; and the fertile prairies, lying nearer to the centre of the state, began to attract more attention. Kaskaskia was the seat of territorial authority, as well as the nucleus of population; and it was northward, along the banks of the river of that name, that the stream of emigrants naturally took its way.

Among those who pushed adventurously forward in that direction, was a certain Thomas Fielding, who migrated from Virginia in the autumn of 1811; his family consisting of a wife, two sons and one daughter. Passing by the settlements in St. Clair county, he pressed on across the prairies, with a world of fertile acres spread before him, until he reached the banks of Shoal Creek, in the county of Bond. A few miles south-west of the point, where the town of Greenville has since been built, he found a tract of land which combined all the advantages of which he was in search. A prairie, several miles in width, was bounded by high and valuable timber along the creek, and stretched away toward the north and west, in all the rich, unbroken beauty of primeval nature. Elevated, but well watered, undulating, though not rugged; that portion of which, with the freedom of the wilderness, he took immediate possession, was easily converted into a beautiful and productive farm. Just within the skirt of the timber, protected by a grove of stately oaks, he erected a spacious, though primitive, mansion; and here, in the grand solitude of wood and plain, he prepared, with his family, to spend the remainder of his life.

It was chiefly with a view to the welfare of that family that he had left the older and more thickly-peopled state of Virginia, to seek a home in the Far West. He was growing old; his sons were approaching manhood: and, after assisting their father in providing for his age, it was natural that they should be solicitous about their own future. Each, accordingly, with the concurrence of the father, selected for himself a sufficient domain; and such was the energy with which they prosecuted their “improvements,” that, by the spring of 1813, there were three separate farms, immediately contiguous, under active cultivation.

Both the sons were married in the course of the following summer—for other emigrants had followed Fielding’s “trail,” until, at this time, there were, perhaps, twenty families within a circle of ten miles diameter. Jane, the daughter, still remained with her parents; but the frequent visits of a certain John Edgar, who lived some eight miles down the river, seemed to give color to the rumor, now rife in the settlement, that she was soon to exchange her maiden name, for that of the young Ranger Captain.

And, without implying any license to dispute about tastes—which, from time immemorial, have been considered out of the pale of controversy—Edgar’s choice was well justified by her qualities, both of mind and person. She was considerably above the medium height, with the free carriage, which health and elastic spirits always give. Even now, though nearly forty years have passed, and she has borne and nurtured a numerous family, her bearing is more erect and graceful than that of many a girl within her ’teens. Dark hair and eyes, with a well arched brow—cheeks a little embrowned by exposure to the sun and wind—a nose ratheraquiline than straight—a pleasant mouth, with red lips, which were never known to tremble, save in talking to the Ranger; a round, full chin, surmounting, like an Ionic capital, the marble column of her neck, and a figure, which united the freedom of rural life with the elegance of city cultivation; these were her attractions. Captain Edgar was a lucky fellow—for she loved him with all the fervor of the wilderness; and by nothing in her education had she learned to act as if ashamed of her affection.

He was well worthy of such a bride. Tall, elegantly formed, active, and graceful, he was the very type of a youngfrontiersman. Gait, carriage, voice, and countenance, were all in unison with the open, manly spirit of his class. Preëminently brave among a people noted for courage; able as a leader, where, in order to lead, superiority must be plainly seen and deeply felt; he was already, though scarcely five-and-twenty, the captain of a company of rangers, whose arduous task it was to protect a frontier of nearly an hundred miles from the depredations of the Indians. The latter, stirred up, as is universally believed in this country, by British agents, since the opening of the war, were gathering, in unprecedented numbers, along the lakes and on the Upper Mississippi; and, like bolts from a thunder-cloud, war parties were moving rapidly in all directions—falling, with the suddenness of Indian strategy, when their descent was least expected, and vanishing among theshadows of the forest, ere their blows could be returned. If the settlements on Shoal Creek had, as yet, escaped incursion, it was chiefly owing to the vigilance and activity of Edgar’s Rangers, and, in circumstances like these, it may well be supposed, that nothing, save the utmost confidence, would have induced the pioneers to trust so young a man with a responsibility so heavy.

But neither war, nor rumors of war, could exclude from the mind of the youthful captain, thoughts of love and anticipations of domestic bliss. In the midst of these alarms, a day was appointed for his marriage with Jane Fielding. It was the 10th of September, 1813—a day memorable in the annals of our country, as that on which Perry achieved his famous victory over Barclay; and though they, of course, knew nothing of the approaching event, it is probable that even so brilliant an anticipation would not wholly have withdrawn their attention from that which so much more nearly concerned them.

A wedding on the frontier, in those days, was a far heartier affair than it now is in the same country. People seem to be somewhat ashamed of getting married of late, and seek to avoid observation, very much as if they were about some act only allowable because not positively prohibited by statutory enactments. The first that the neighborhood learns in these modest times, of a matrimonial union, is the stealthy departure of a close carriage, in which the guilty parties are privately withdrawing, to hide their culprit faces among careless strangers. The public feeling of the olden time was somewhat different. The consummation, in fact, of an union which was already complete in affection, was then deemed an occasion of social congratulation, and sometimes of noisy enjoyment. The neighbors—husbands, wives, sons, and daughters—were all called in, to take part in the hilarity; and each felt that, if the event was, as it should be, a happy one to the parties directly interested, it would be wrong to detract from that happiness, by gloom, reserve, or ceremony.

The pioneers cared little for scented notes of invitation, embossed cards, or emblematic turtle-doves—no more than for the unsubstantial trickeries which now make up a wedding feast. As the day approached, though yet perhaps a week remained, the children of the bride’s family were sent forth to “warn the neighbors in,” or, not unfrequently, the parties took advantage of some other merry-making, to announce the auspicious event, and deliver invitations; and, without other formality, all who lived within a day’s ride of the place, considered themselves invited, and arranged their affairs accordingly. Some inconvenience to the host and hostess might result from the uncertainty about the number of their guests; but the art of providing mathematically for the precise number expected, was not then cultivated; if there wasenough, it was not material how muchmorethere might be—for that meanness which combines a sordid calculation with the rites of hospitality, was not one of the pioneer’s vices. Preparation was made to receive all who were near enough to reach the place—a profusion of substantial things, such as hearty men and natural women liked, adorned the rude tables; and no grand flourishes of white-aproned waiters, no sham dignity of form or ceremony, encumbered or oppressed the feast. And, though the early backwoodsman might not be the most polished of hosts, yet, tried by the standard of genuine hospitality, he was the most perfect of gentlemen.

Thomas Fielding was a true representative of his class; and those who have been in the West will need no further description. For two weeks before the appointed day, he had invited everybody he met to witness the marriage of his daughter, and take part in the rejoicings; and by those whom he saw, he had sent notice to others; so that at least a week before the eventful tenth, everyone within twenty miles was not only notified, but asked to attend. Preparations were then made upon a corresponding scale; and fervent wishes were expressed that the weather might be fine, that none might fail to come. One of the sons was sent express to Kaskaskia for Jane’s wedding garments—for even in those primitive days woman was true to the tastes of her sex. And, beside, Jane had grown almost to womanhood in the precincts of the Old Dominion; and, in her new home, was as well known for the superior neatness of her dress, as for other advantages of mind and person.

At length the eventful morning came—one of those magnificent autumn days in which the warmth of summer lingers on the hazy landscape of the waning year. They say Italian skies are beautiful throughout the seasons; but it seems to me the autumn must be the glory of the months in all climes, as full manhood is the ultimate bloom of life to all men; and existence, in a country where the climate gives no special beauty to the year’s decline, would seem but little better than working in a tread-mill. We must have variety; the perpetual smile of even a beautiful face would weary us in time; and six months of unbroken sunshine would make us long for a Scotch mist. There is no such monotony in the land of prairies; nor has any country in the world a season of more rich and mellow glories than the western autumn.

——“The fading, many colored woods,Shade deep’ning over shade, the country round,Embrown; crowded umbrage, dusk and dun,Of every hue, from wan declining green,To sooty dark;”

——“The fading, many colored woods,

Shade deep’ning over shade, the country round,

Embrown; crowded umbrage, dusk and dun,

Of every hue, from wan declining green,

To sooty dark;”

and waving wide savannas, luxuriant as oriental gardens, over which the shadows chase each other statelily, or linger lovingly, like shady islets in a “sea of green.” And then the tempered sunlight, all shorn of summer’s fierceness, by the hazy, dream-like air; and, over all, the arching sky, not laughing, as in April, and not glowing, like July, but full of deep repose, the holy calm of spirit-land. Who that loves beauty would not live in a variable clime?

But it was little that the wedding-guests cared for the glories of September. The sun had scarcely began to decline toward the west, ere they first were seen approaching. From all directions along the narrow road, over prairie pathways, emerging fromthe timber, or riding slowly along its outskirts, the whole country seemed in motion. Thomas Fielding, with his two sons, all in their holyday suits, stood at the gate, and welcomed all comers with a hearty shake of the hand; while at the front door the younger matrons, with their smiling mother, received the females of each party. The bride-elect was not yet visible; the ceremony was not to take place till evening. The bridegroom had appointed a rendezvous for his company of rangers; and it was at the head of these trusty guardians of the settlement, that he was to approach the scene of his happiness. In the meantime, the guests employed the vacant hours, each according to his fancy, the men in talking over the prospects of the country, the danger of Indian incursions, the plenty of the crops, etc.; while the women were either assisting in the final preparations for the feast, or readjusting their disordered dress—either gossiping with the mother, or teasing the daughter, who still kept her bridal chamber.

Four o’clock in the afternoon arrived; and now the happy captain, with his rangers, might soon be expected; when Jane, her preparations all complete, at last issued from her chamber, and announced her intention to walk out upon the prairie and gather some wild flowers. Several of the younger girls proposed to accompany her, but with a smile and a blush she declined their companionship. It was not pressed upon her, for each had a suspicion of her object. Themothers called their daughters aside, and whispered—

“She is going to meet the captain—let her go alone.”

And, in confirmation of the suspicion, she passed out to the southward and took a path which led in the direction of the road along which the captain was to come. Somewhat more than half a mile from the house stood a little grove, within which she had often met Edgar on his visits to her father’s, and from this point her parents usually saw them approaching the house together. It was to this grove that she went—by a circuitous route, however, so as to justify her excuse for leaving the house, by gathering a few late flowers.

She had been absent from the house little more than an hour, when, rounding a “point” of timber, which puts out from the creek about two miles below the farm, a cavalcade of twenty horsemen was seen, and at once recognized as Edgar’s company of rangers. Another body, about equal in number, was seen at the same time several miles to the west, but all attention was now directed toward the south, in expectation of the appearance of the rangers. The elder ladies smiled sedately, in memory of their own youthful days, and prophesied—

“He’ll not come with the company—you’ll see Jane and him coming up that path, after awhile.”

And the event justified the prediction—at least in part; for, on arriving opposite the little grove Edgar turned off, and directing his companions to ride on, put his horse to a gallop, and was soon within the shadows of the rendezvous.

A vine and a fallen tree, together, formed a pleasant seat; and here, when the skies were clear and the sunlight warm, he had often found her awaiting his approach. He sought the old place now, but she was not there!

“She must be out soon,” he muttered to himself; and springing to the ground, he assumed the seat which he had expected to find occupied. He was disappointed, and both his face and attitude betrayed it. He leaned his rifle against a tree and threw himself back to wait, patiently as he might, for what was not likely to come had he waited till morning! His eyes wandered vacantly over the scene for some minutes, when, suddenly springing up, he exclaimed—

“She has been here and gone away!”

A narrow strip of white muslin was hanging upon a thorn very near him—evidently torn from some article of female dress! It could not be a signal for him; only accident could have placed it there. She must have retreated in haste—and why? Such were the reasonings of the experienced ranger. He reached forward and took it off the briar; but, as he did so, his eye fell upon a far more ominous object! The same bush had retained a piece of red calico, fringed with green, and Edgar at once observed that it had come from the cape of a hunting-shirt such as the northern Indians wore!

It was enough! And yet, with the coolness characteristic of his race, the ranger stooped to the ground and calmly examined the records of a struggle. On each side of the rustic seat there was a single footstep, deeply indented among the leaves, as if two men had sprung suddenly from opposite directions to a common point. Then, in front of the seat, the twigs were broken and the ground was trampled—though but little, as if the struggle had been brief and feeble!

“Nomancould have been overpowered so soon,” he said; “and it must have been as I expected—she was alone.”

But even this conviction did not hurry him away. He carefully examined the ground in the neighborhood, and then, returning to the scene of the struggle, followed the trail, by those slight indications which none but a backwoodsman could have discovered, for several hundred yards to the westward. He thus ascertained these facts: That the actual captors were but two in number; that they had concealed their horses in a small thicket, some distance above the grove where the capture was made; that they had retreated in great haste, keeping within a ravine which drained the prairie; and that, at or near the thicket they had rejoined the main body of marauders, consisting of half-a-score of horsemen.

“They have been frightened away by the gathering atFielding’s,” thought the ranger.

He hastened back to the grove, and springing upon his horse, galloped away toward the house. He had still a lingering hope, though faint, that he might find his bride at home; but this vanished at once when he rode furiously to the gate and was met by her father.

“Indians!” he shouted, in the loud, full notes of avoice like a trumpet. “Ho! rangers! Mount and follow!”

——

THE CHASE COMMENCED.

The cause of the alarm scarcely needed to be explained—the word “Indians” was enough.

All was immediately in confusion—men were rushing in every direction for their arms and horses, women were hastily preparing to set out homeward, and, save the rangers, who had picketed their horses together as usual, no one seemed to retain the least coolness. Nor was the consternation unnatural; for many fathers and mothers were there who had left their homes in charge of their children—some of the younger guests had left aged parents—and even those who had closed their houses, leaving no one behind, though they apprehended no bereavement of relatives, expected no less than to find the labor of years a heap of smoking ruins. People less accustomed to alarms would have made more clamor; but the pale faces and rigid features of these stern backwoodsmen, were as eloquent of feeling as the wildest gestures or most extravagant cries.

It was in scenes like this, that the superiority of such a man as John Edgar became evident. He was terribly excited—as the blazing eye and ashy lips might testify; yet his orders were given with the same clearness as if there had been no cause of agitation; and, without betraying any signs of impatience, he sat upon his horse at the gate quietly awaiting their execution. But few moments sufficed for his ready soldiery to assemble. They numbered only twenty in all; but they were soon joined by half-a-score of young men, who had no pressing call homeward. From these he selected ten, among whom were the two younger Fieldings, and placing the company under the command of his lieutenant, he directed them to establish patrols over the district and protect the settlements.

“You’ll bring Jane back to us, John?” said Mrs. Fielding, coming to the gate, with dry eyes, but trembling lips.

“Yes,” he replied sternly, “if I have to follow her to the Rocky Mountains!”

And the mother turned away sorrowing, but hopeful. The character of Edgar was too well known to admit a doubt of his untiring perseverance.

Ten minutes sufficed to make all the provisions necessary to a long chase; at the end of that time Edgar turned his horse’s head toward the prairie, and followed by the ten men of his choice, set out at a long gallop to the west and north. The band had been selected with a thorough knowledge of every man’s qualities; they were all young, hardy, resolute and untiring. Each was equipped with rifle and knife, and each rode a powerful and well-tried horse. Beside the hatred which every ranger bore to the “redskin”—a motive in itself strong enough to bear them forward for many days—they were all warmly attached to Edgar. The latter expected a long chase; for, from certain signs, minute and unmeaning to the inexperienced, but trumpet-tongued to him, he was impressed with the belief that Jane’s captors were not merely a marauding party, making an incursion into this settlement, but a retreating band falling back from some other enterprise, either on account of defeat or division. Their numbers were too great; the character of the dress from which he had found a fragment, and the direction of their movement, all combined to this conclusion. Had he heard of the gallant defense of Fort Stephenson, a few weeks before,[5]his opinion might have been confirmed.

The sun was rapidly declining toward the horizon as they cleared the inclosures of Fielding’s farm and struck at once into the open prairie.

Edgar had followed the trail far enough from the grove, where the capture was made, to be satisfied that he would strike it again in half an hour’s riding, in the direction he had taken, and by following it while daylight remained, he had no doubt of being able to determine the point to which it tended. He would thus be enabled to continue the chase with some certainty after nightfall, while his enemies were probably asleep. This, of course, included the hazard of missing the trail during the hours of darkness: but Edgar’s knowledge of the country was so perfect that he had little fear of this misfortune, and the fact that they could not be more than three hours behind, was a strong incentive to take the risk.

Having halted for a moment, to explain his plan of pursuit, which his men at once approved, he turned again to the north-west and swept away at a rapid gallop. The farms were soon left out of sight, and the view was bounded only by the wavy horizon; but the sun was an all-sufficient guide, and without swerving for a moment to the right or the left the party maintained its direction for nearly an hour. Edgar began then toslacken his pace and to observe the ground more closely, halting from time to time, and waiting for the failing evening breeze to sweep along the prairie; and anon, galloping away again for a few moments, still in the same direction.

He was evidently growing anxious, for his halts became more frequent, and his speed, when in motion, greater. He verged a little toward the west, until the woods in that quarter became partially visible in the haze about the setting sun. He halted once more and gazed up and down the tranquil prairie for a long time. A light breeze swept up from the lower lands, and bending the rank grass, at last revealed the object of his search! A line of broken blades, their under sides glistening in the waning sunlight, was defined by the bending wave, extending as far as the eye could reach toward the north. It was the Indian “trail!”

He sprang from his horse and carefully examined the ground, while his followers, careful not to deface the trail, halted at some distance, and without dismounting, awaited the result of his scrutiny. It was rapid but minute. He turned aside the long grass and inspected the foot prints of the horses inthe soil. There were, of course, no shod animals in their possession, yet the hoofs of these had deeply indented the ground, and the tracks were much more distinct at the point than at the heel.

“They were going at full speed,” muttered Edgar; “and,” he continued, gazing along the trail toward the north, where it stretched away, perfectly straight, through sloughs and over mounds as far as the eye could reach, “they are evidently driving for some definite point. What can it be?”

“It must be Colton’s Grove,” said one of the rangers, the most experienced among them, who had approached during the examination. “They would scarcely halt nearer than that, and in the line of this trail there is no other landmark.”

“But that is nearly thirty miles from this spot,” said Edgar; “they’ll not be able to reach there to-night, and besides, it takes them ten miles out of their way.”

“You think they are making for thePortage?”[6]said White.

“Yes—they will cross the river as soon as possible, no doubt; and they cannot have canoes on both that and the Illinois. However,” he added, springing again to the saddle, “we must follow the trail as long as we have light, and by nightfall we shall be better able to determine.”

He look the lead again as he spoke, and set off in the same swinging gallop, to the northward, along the trail.

The sun was by this time nearly set, and the air was growing chill and damp. Their horses traveled better, however, and throughout the long twilight of that latitude they could follow the trail as well as at noon. But at the end of an hour the shadows began to creep closer to them, the timber on the left could no longer be distinguished, they could see the broken grass-blades but a few yards before them, and they were at length compelled to slacken their speed. A few stars came out in the heavens, the fleecy clouds in the north disappeared in the gloom, the breeze fell suddenly to a dead calm, the lingering rays in the west went out, and the curtain of night was dropped to the earth. The pursuers were in the middle of a wide prairie, more than thirty miles from the settlement, upon a trail which was no longer visible!

Edgar halted, and the whole party dismounted.

“Here is water, boys,” said the captain, leading his horse to a small stream which trickled through the grass: “we had better let our horses drink and graze for an hour, else they will be too much blown for to-morrow’s march. I think we had then better strike for Colton’s Grove, direct; it cannot be more than twenty miles, and we can reach it before midnight. I hope to find the Redskins there.”

It did not seem to prove Edgar’s ardor in the pursuit, that he thus ordered a halt in the very opening of the chase; but there was not a man in the company who did not know that this was the wisest course. The hearts of the brothers grew heavy, however; for, notwithstanding Edgar’s hope of finding the Indian’s at the grove, it could not escape them, that he expected a long pursuit.

In truth, he was too well acquainted with the Indian character, to have full faith in his own expectations. “If,” he reasoned, “they had designed to spend the night at Colton’s Grove, they would have been at some pains to baffle us on our trail—they would have gone into the timber, or—at least—swerved from the direct course. But, here, they have traveled for thirty miles, straight as the bird flies, for the point where we would naturally expect to find them. They must be deceiving us!”

The thought was by no means a pleasant one; for, calm as he appeared, his impatience almost amounted to agony. And, when he briefly stated the argument to White, the ranger before mentioned, in whose judgment he had much confidence, the weight which it seemed to have with him, only deepened his misgiving.

“There is no choice, however,” said the ranger: “we must go on now to the grove; for—at least—we shall be nearer to the Portage there, than here.”

And this was the course resolved upon.

The hour of rest passed slowly away; and, at its end, the captain again gave the word, to mount and follow. There was now no trail to guide them; but their course was due North, and—led by the stars—Edgar once more put himself in the advance, and galloped away. The prairie was as silent as night and a profound calm could make it; and rolling away down the lowlands, and reverberating along the ridges, the sound of their horses’ footsteps seemed like the rumble of an earthquake. The voices of those who spoke sounded hollow and echoless; and the jingling of spurs, and rattling of accoutrements, seemed smothered by the stillness. The men of that time were taciturn and earnest; and the scene through which they were riding was no bad type of their stern characteristics. They were in pursuit of Indian marauders; and hatred of the savage—which was natural to every Western man—gave depth even to their bearing. Each carried his rifle in his right hand; and, while he governed and assisted his horse over the inequalities of the ground with the left, kept his face steadily directed to the front.

They had been riding thus, a little more than two hours, when Edgar suddenly drew up to a walk.

“We must take it slowly now, boys,” said he, turning in the saddle, as his men followed his example; “for, at a gallop, our horses could be heard five miles.”

“Captain,” said White, riding forward, “isn’t that a light yonder, to the north—here, just above the ground?”

“It is, indeed!” exclaimed Edgar; “in the grove, too!”

“Rather too far to the right, isn’t it?” said the ranger.

“We have been following the Pointers,[7]and their wheeling to the West must have taken us a little outof our course,” Edgar replied. “It must be in the grove.”

He turned a little to the right as he spoke; and, urging his horse to his swiftest walk, struck directly for the light.

“They must suppose there are no men in the country,” he said thoughtfully; “or else this is only a stratagem to take us out of our way, and gain time.”

“They could scarcely have ridden farther than this,” said White; “and if they are not yonder, we are entirely off the trail.”

“They must be there,” Edgar replied, decidedly: even as experienced a ranger as he could not butbelievewhat hewished.

The advance continued—not swiftly, but steadily; for they were now less than two miles from the light, and the tall trees of the grove could be distinguished like shadows against the northern sky. The fire was evidently built within the skirts of the wood, and was now burning brightly, as if replenished with fuel since they had discovered it. Occasionally, it was hid from view—when they descended a slope and entered a hollow; and, sometimes shadows passed across it, as if persons were moving about it.

“They are certainly there,” thought Edgar, “and they must have built the fire on Jane’s account. Nothing else could induce them to be so incautious.” Bitter as was his hatred of the savage, this idea rather softened him; and, in the fight which he expected, he resolved to spare as many of them as possible.

He had now advanced within half a mile of the grove; and—though the fire itself was not visible—he could plainly see the reflection on the branches of the trees above. It grew brighter while he gazed, and they could almost imagine that they heard the crackling of dry branches in the blaze. The captain drew his rein, and called a halt.

“There should be a little clump of trees near here,” he said, gazing about in the gloom.

“It lies here, to the right,” said one of the rangers—and, riding a few rods in that direction, they found a small grove of stunted oaks, where they again halted and dismounted. Here they tied their horses, and having examined their arms, marched out upon the open prairie. Edgar briefly explained his plan of attack, and the advance was resumed.

His men were deployed—or spread out—to the right and left, at intervals of twelve or fifteen paces; the captain himself remaining in the centre, and moving directly upon the fire. By this means, he covered a wide extent of ground, and yet kept his men within supporting distance of each other. The flanks were to move a little faster than the centre, gradually converging, when within the grove, but awaiting a signal from the captain, before opening the attack. Each, on making any discovery, was to communicate it to the next, and thus pass it up the line to the captain; and his orders were conveyed in the same way. His immediate object was to discover the Indians’ horses, and thus preclude the carrying off of their prisoner by a portion of the savages, during his fight with the remainder.

He could not have been more impatient to reach the point—on which he was advancing—had it been the rustic bower where he might expect to meet his mistress alone; yet the movement was as slow as the stealthy pace of the tiger, while he is yet too distant to spring upon his victim. And it had all the tiger’s deadliness: for even the keen senses of the Indian could not have detected his enemy’s approach—the first signal could be but the crack of the rifle, the fierce onset, and the gleaming knife.

It seemed an hour, after they left their horses, before they entered the outskirts of the grove, and many minutes were consumed in cautiously and silently pushing their way through the tangled briars and hazel bushes. Within this belt, the ground was more open; but it was covered with dry branches and withered twigs, the breaking of any one of which—under the foot—would have been more than sufficient to alarm the watchfulness of the Indian. They could not yet see the fire; but it was scarcely an hundred yards from them, and concealed only by a thicket, within which it was kindled. The horses had not yet been discovered, nor did the least sound break the profound stillness of the scene. The fire seemed burning low; and the shadows began to creep down from the tree-tops, whither it had driven them. Now and then, a flash—as if the blaze had caught a dry twig—shot arrowy beams out through the thicket, and then fell flickering back within the encroaching darkness. The fire was evidently neglected.

“They are all asleep,” thought Edgar.

The flanks had gradually converged, according to the plan laid down; and they were so thrown forward as to form a half-circle, covering three sides of the little thicket, and all about equally distant from the fire. The captain gave the signal for a halt, and the word passed in whispers either way: the dusky forms stood still, and—unaware of their presence—one could not have distinguished them from the trees among which they were standing. Edgar passed slowly from one end of the line to the other, whispering his orders to each man, and endeavoring to see through the thicket to thebivouac. It was too dense to allow a fair view; but he could see deep shadows on the ground, like sleeping men, and—between two of these—there seemed one clothed in white, as if the wedding dress of his stolen bride.

He returned, without further delay, to his post in the centre; and, silently, slowly, the advance commenced. It was like the grasp of a deadly hand, closing fatally; for none within that charmed circle, might escape its implacable gripe.

No sound—not even the breaking of a twig—invaded the stillness, for a space of time which, in the intensity of expectation, seemed an hour. The fire had rapidly fallen to mere cinders, and its light faded to a faint glow, upon the adjacent thicket. The rangers flitted silently from tree to tree, like moving shadows. Each carried his gun poised low, in readiness for immediate action; and each placed his handupon his knife, for the conflict—man to man. They gradually closed in, until the flanks met upon the farther side, and a cordon was drawn around the thicket, less than twenty paces across. The fate of the slumbering savages seemed sealed; for these were men who never spared an enemy, and never shrank from battle.

Not the stirring of a leaf betrayed their presence, as they paused for the last time, awaiting the signal from their leader. The click of a rifle-lock was heard—clearly audible in the midnight stillness: a rush, a bound, a crashing through the brittle undergrowth, and the whole band, as if moved by one spring, stood round the smouldering fire, gazing wildly into each other’s faces.

There was no one there! They had been creeping—with the deadly stealth of their craft—upon a desertedbivouac. Even Edgar’s keen and practiced eyes had been deceived by the reposing shadows; and the white ashes of a log, which had burnt calmly down where it lay, had been conjured by his imagination into the bridal dress of the captive.

The fire had evidently been burning, without being replenished, for many hours.

“We have nothing for it now, boys,” said Edgar, when they had a little recovered from the surprise, “but to wait for daybreak, and then endeavor to recover the trail.”

Within ten minutes, the whole party was asleep.

[5]

That brilliant action took place on the 31st of July, 1813.

[6]

“Portage de Sioux,” a crossing of theMississippi, above the mouth of the Missouri.

[7]

Two stars in the constellation ofUrsa Major, much better known to prairie travelers than the Polar star itself.

——

THE CHASE ENDED.

No more than the first gray streaks of dawn had shot up from the eastern horizon, when the disappointed rangers were again astir. Their horses—which had been picketed upon the prairie, each with a long rope, after the ranger fashion of feeding—were first taken to a little stream to drink, and then moved to a fresh place, to graze until their riders were prepared to mount. Such provision as they had made against their own hunger was then dispatched, without delay, and with little preparation. Fortunately, however, the wedding feast had furnished viands enough for more than ten times their number; and with the readiness of the women of those days, each had been provided by wife, sister, or sweetheart—with supplies, ample and well selected.

It was now plain, that the chase before them was a long one; and it was no equivocal augury of their resolution to follow it to the end, that they thus set out with systematic prudence.

By the time they had finished a hasty breakfast, and each taken a deep draught from the stream where they had watered their horses, the gray of the dawn had deepened into red, and the dew-drops upon the bending grass were sparkling like diamonds in the opening light. The birds within the grove were fluttering, full of matin songs, from branch to branch, or floating off—in long and graceful flights—far over the verdant plain: the grouse came out upon the knolls, where the herbage was short and green, and strutting pompously from side to side, clumsily plumed themselves in the morning beams: on the ridges, farther off, the deer stalked out from sheltering hollows, and stamping daintily upon the ground, or tossing proudly up their antlered heads, snuffed vainly at the rising wind. A low, faint sigh, as of a passing spirit, floated—scarcely audible—along the jeweled grass, and shook the jewels gently from the blades. The stars went slowly out, or blended in the brightening hue of heaven; the shadows—that still lingered round the groves—were fading rapidly, or deepening into shade; the red in the east grew yellow, and an arc of white announced the sun’s approach. The day had taken full possession of the earth and sky.

“There is light enough now, boys,” said Edgar, rising to his feet, “to begin the search for the trail. Let us saddle up and be off.”

Time was never wasted by these men: within five minutes all were in the saddle, and extended along the northern and western skirts of the grove, in search of indications left by the enemy. A signal was given by one at the extreme north—the trail was found, and the whole company at once galloped to the place. Edgar sprang to the ground, and examined the track.

“Just as I suspected, boys,” said he, remounting. “There has been but one Red-skin here, and he has been sent this way, to build that fire and attract us from the pursuit.”

“Indian like,” said White; “they have used our own vigilance to circumvent us. But we’ll never give it up so, captain.”

“Never,” was Edgar’s decided answer. “But we have lost the trail, and must recover it. We must separate into small parties, and continue the chase. We are pretty nearly due east from thePortage, for which, I think, they are making—at all events, they will not go south of it. We will meet—in the evening—there; or, if the trail should turn northward, we may come together sooner. Let no one linger on the way—we have lost too much time already.”

The company was soon divided into squads of two and three; Edgar took with him White and George Fielding; and—repeating the injunction not to linger—rode away to the north-west. The three other divisions set out at the same time, upon diverging lines; but allmaintaining the same general direction.

For an hour, those in the centre kept all the rest in view; but, at the end of that time, the undulations of the prairie, and the rapidity with which they traveled, had completely separated them. Edgar, and the two companions—whom he had chosen as well for the excellence of their horses, as for their well-known courage and coolness—were upon the extreme right, or northern flank—a post which the young captain had selected, both on account of its danger, and for the advantage it gave him, should the Indians turn to the north. It is with him, that we must continue the chase.

Several hours passed away, during which they had crossed the belts of timber which grew upon thebanks of two or three prairie streams; when, on approaching one of the branches of the Cahokia, they suddenly found themselves upon the trail of a single horseman. Keeping away from the timber, it stretched toward the north, parallel with the course of the stream, disdaining the concealment which might have been found in the wood. The three drew up, and Edgar dismounted.

“It is the same Indian who kindled the fire,” he said, after a short scrutiny of the track. “What think you?”

“That if we follow him,” White replied, “we shall be led away from the chase. He takes too much pains to show us which way he has gone.”

“You are right,” said Edgar; “for he has passed here since sunrise, and his horse was as fresh as when he left the grove. The water is all brushed from his tracks, but is not disturbed between. We’ll not follow him.”

And, without further consultation, he sprang again to the saddle, and resumed his original direction—verging, indeed, rather from, than toward, the solitary trail. Those little indications—like circumstantial evidence—more convincing than positive declarations, or more apparent signs, satisfied him that this was an attempt to draw him off. He smiled at the shallowness of the deceit, and rode away. His companions understood his reasoning almost instinctively. [The fact that the grass was dryin the tracks, proved that they had been made since sunrise; because the dew must have ceased to drip from one blade to another, and its being undisturbed between, established the freshness of the Indian’s horse, because every bound was a clear spring from the ground.] Fifteen minutes brought them to the outskirts of Cahokia timber; and, after a rigid examination of this, they issued again upon the prairie toward the West, maintaining the same course.

They were now approaching a more densely wooded country. The prairies grew narrower, and were broken, here and there, by groves, and strips of timber, along the banks of numerous little streams. The ground became uneven, in places even hilly; and every thing denoted the approach to the Mississippi. This continued for about three hours, during which they had made scarcely five miles an hour: it was noon, too, and the September sun was pouring upon their heads the overpowering heat of the season. A halt became necessary, both for men and horses. Edgar rode within the shelter of the timber, and dismounted on the bank of a shallow stream—the first they had seen with a gravelly bed.

“We must rest awhile, boys,” he said, “and recruit our horses—or we shall break down before night.”

His companions followed his example; and all led their panting horses to the stream, to drink of its clear sparkling waters. But Edgar drew his back, suddenly, before he had touched the tide; and, arresting the others in the same manner, pointed to the bottom of the rivulet.

“Is not that a horse’s track?” he asked, indicating the spot with his rifle.

“Yes,” said White, “and here are more! And here, to the left, they are plainer, and more numerous. Our visitors must have passed this way, and are not going to thePortage!”

The tracks were but faint prints in the shifting gravel of the stream; and, to the eyes of less observant men, would have been quite void of meaning. It was, however, the peculiar faculty of Western Rangers, never to overlook any thing; and their attention once attracted, but a few moments were consumed in determining that, fifteen or twenty horsemen had ridden along the bed of the stream; that they were Indians, and traveling in haste. It might seem a more difficult matter to fix, even approximately, the length of time which had elapsed since their passage; but the invention of rangers was seldom at fault.

“George,” said the captain to Fielding, “get on your horse, and ride up the stream a few rods—as fast as he can walk—in among those tracks.”

Fielding obeyed; and, turning out of the stream a short distance above, came back and dismounted. The little party now stripped their horses of their harness; and, picketing them upon the sweet herbage, stretched themselves upon the sward at the margin of the stream. As soon as the agitation in the waters had ceased, Edgar fixed his gaze upon the footprints—plainly visible—of Fielding’s horse, and watched the gradual process of their filling up, by the current. Scarcely a pebble, or a grain of sand was washed into one of them, that he did not note—scarcely a minute passed whose influence he did not estimate, in slowly obliterating the trail; and when, at the end of an hour, he rose and walked nearer to the water, but a few moments of scrutiny were sufficient to determine how long it would be before the new tracks were as nearly filled up, as were the old when he saw them first.

“They are quite six hours ahead of us,” he said; “and to-morrow night will see them, before we will.”

“They must be making for the ford[8], above the Piasan Bluffs,” said White; “and, if so, will not cross the Mississippi.”

“That is rather too far north,” Edgar replied; “but we will follow them, if they go to the Starved Rock.”

So saying, he threw the saddle again upon his horse, and—imitated by his companions—remounted for the pursuit.

“I think, George,” said he, after a minute’s reflection, “you had better ride on to the Portage; the men will all be there by the middle of the afternoon. Tell them to bait their horses for an hour, and then follow us with all speed, so as to join us at the mouth of the Illinois by sunrise to-morrow. Unless the trail should lead us too much out of the way, we will wait for them there. If you do not find us there, look for three columns of smoke, ranging north and south, and make all haste to come up.”

Fielding made no reply; but, putting spurs to hishorse, turned his head to the west, and was soon out of sight—while Edgar and White, now left alone, took their way as rapidly as was possible up the banks of the stream. It was a small force with which to attack twenty savages; but, had the odds been ten times greater, Edgar’s eagerness and White’s zeal would have felt no check. What they might not effect by the strong hand, they trusted to stratagem to compass; and even the savage was no match for the ranger, in cunning.

The two adventurers had gone scarcely a mile, when they were brought suddenly to a halt. The trail was about equally divided—one half the party keeping up the bed of the stream, and the other half issuing toward the left, and leading off westward. This was embarrassing. The prisoner could not be with both divisions; and it was extremely difficult to determine which to follow.

“We are at fault,” said Edgar.

“There is a sign which may set us right,” exclaimed White, pointing to a little strip of some white stuff which fluttered upon a bush, but a few paces from the water. “The briars have befriended us at need.”

Edgar rode rapidly to the place. A narrow strip—evidently torn from Jane’s bridal dress—hung fluttering upon a briar, as if caught in passing. He halted at the distance of several yards, and cautiously approached on foot, closely scrutinizing the ground at every step. The horses had passed, without doubt, near enough to brush against the briars; but directly beneath the fragment, a small dry twig was broken, and the leaves about it were flattened to the ground.

“A mocassined foot has been set there,” he muttered. And on directing the examination to the fragment, his suspicion was confirmed—that it was not accident, but design which placed it there. The fabric was not drawn, as it would have been, had it been torn in passing; and it bore marks of a larger hand than Jane’s.

“They are trying to outwit us, White,” said the captain; “but they don’t know with whom they have to deal. This little piece of muslin is a Red-skin lie—though it did come from Jane Fielding’s dress. We must keep up the stream, and let those decoys go on their way.”

“It has been ascertained,” says Chateaubriand, “that the white man, in America, is capable of enduring more hardships and privations than the Indian, and is decidedly his superior even in his own mode of warfare:” and thence he deduces sundry propositions about differences in race, and other unprofitable speculations. But the facts, about which there is no dispute, instead of being the result of generic distinctions, are the effects of a much later cause—superior intellectual culture. Not that the rangers of those days were highly educated men, in the ordinary acceptation of the term; but any degree in the scale of civilization, by the providence of God, possesses measureless advantages—in all the pursuits of life—over every lower grade. And, though these weredecidedly ignorant men, their evident superiority over their enemies—without contradiction in terms—was the fruit of theirintelligence.

We cannot linger to detail the minute and, to other men, imperceptible signs, or the acute and logical reasonings upon these, which led the adventurers unerringly upon their way: though all would illustrate, so clearly, the principle above. They followed the trail, after it left the stream, several miles toward the north; when, on entering the broken country on the head waters of the Piasan, it verged suddenly to the left, and led, almost “as the bird flies,” directly toward the Illinois river. A little before sunset, they reached the banks of this tranquil stream; and but a moment’s examination was sufficient to determine that the fugitives had crossed here some hours before.

But this was not the only inference that Edgar drew from the signs of their halt. The footprints of several horses led off from the river, in different directions; but it was in that uncertain, winding way which animals take while grazing—and from the extent of these paths, it was evident that a halt of some duration had been made. While minutely examining the ground, the captain suddenly discovered the print of a small shoe, and following it a little aside, he approached the river bank, and discovered the impress of both Jane’s feet in the soft loam. Directly over these, upon a willow branch, hung a small shell comb—evidently placed there as a signal for him. Beside her footprints were those of two savages, who had sought her, and dragged her roughly back to the halting point. Edgar noted these things with the coolness, but also with the fierceness of the ranger; and—grasping his rifle tighter in his hand—walked back to his companion.

“They must have halted here two or three hours,” said the latter.

“They think they outwitted us, and are safe,” replied Edgar. “But they cannot be more than three hours ahead of us, and I think we may overhaul them to-night.”

“They are twenty to two,” said White. “We must wait for the men.”

“We can cross the river,” Edgar answered, “and ride on as long as we have light. By that time we can see which direction the Indians have taken; you can then return here and hasten up the men, who must reach this point before midnight.”

It required but few minutes to cross the river, which at this season is always low. Upon the western bank the trail was still more apparent than upon the eastern. Here, also, there had been a halt, though not so long. “Three hours of daylight, now,” thought Edgar, “and we should overhaul them:” he forgot that his force was but one to ten—that he was more than a hundred miles from any settlement, in the midst of a vast solitude, where he could meet none but enemies. Nor would the reflection have disturbed him, had it occurred. He saw but one image—the helpless captive in the hands of his most hated foes; and, cool and considerate as he usually was, he would not have hesitated toencounter the whole band, with his single strong arm. Fortunately, perhaps, no such opportunity seemed likely to be offered him; for, after winding about for a few miles among the bluffs, the trail ascended the ridge which divides the two rivers, and here turning again toward the north, the fugitives had evidently increased their speed. The long twilight, too, was deepening into night, and the fear of again going astray would compel a halt, so soon as the tracks became invisible.

They followed, however, with all practicable speed, for an hour longer—dismounting at every offshoot from the main ridge, to ascertain their direction; but, at the end of that time, it was no longer safe to proceed, and Edgar reluctantly drew up.

“You had better return to the river now, White,” said he, “and bring the men up as fast aspossible. I will expect you before daybreak.”

“If they do not come up, I’ll return myself,” said White; and, turning about, he rode away to the south.

The hardy ranger was now left alone, in the midst of the wilderness. Night had closed in, moonless—and the stars twinkled but faintly down through the woods. The wind—as is usual in this country—had subsided toward evening, and sunset had been followed by a dead calm. When the footsteps of White’s horse died away in the distance, the silence of the grave added depth and awe to the solitude. Not a branch waved—scarcely a leaf stirred; and even the trickling of a little spring, in a ravine near him, only served to make the stillness audible—as a glimmering light but renders darkness visible.

Edgar dismounted, and led his tired horse in the direction of the sound; and, having allowed him to drink, divested him of his harness, and picketed him on a slope of green grass near the spring. His own thirst satisfied, he then seated himself at the foot of a tree; and, drawing his blanket up over him, endeavored to sleep. The stillness was broken only by his horse, eagerly cropping the sweet grass; and the monotony of the dripping fountain, combined with his fatigue, soon brought on that half-dreamy state which precedes oblivion. Indeed, his head was thrown back against the tree, and his eyes were closed, when he suddenly sprung to his feet, and standing as motionless as the trees about him, assumed the attitude of profound listening.

[8]

An obstruction to the navigation of the Illinois, now known as “Apple Creek Bar.”

——

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