Chapter Twenty Three.The Strayed Canoe.That night Nelatu left the Indian camp.Wacora had given him a few hints by which he thought his search for Crookleg might be facilitated.He had suggested that the negro lay hid within the neighbouring swamp.This wilderness, difficult to traverse, was of great extent. It was only by a knowledge of its intricate paths that it could be successfully explored.Nelatu, fully appreciating the difficulty of his undertaking, was more than usually depressed.This journey through the track of dry timber was easy enough.On emerging from it he found himself on a broad savanna.On the other side of which lay the swamp to which Wacora had directed him.Its gloomy appearance struck a chill to the young chief’s heart.Could it by any possibility be the place selected by Warren for Sansuta’s concealment?He almost hoped his search for her in its sombre fastnesses might prove futile.Its aspect was especially forbidding at the time Nelatu reached it, which was in the early morning.A heavy fog rose from its dark waters, clinging around the rank vegetation, and veiling the mosses and spectral limbs of the decayed trees.A foetid breath exhaled from the thick undergrowth, and the air seemed charged with poison.No note of bird was heard; no bloom of flower seen. Death in life was everywhere apparent!Carefully, and with the quick natural instinct of his race, Sansuta’s brother struck upon a well-defined trail leading inwardly from the borders of the morass.Following this with care, he had soon made considerable progress.The sun rising higher as he advanced, only revealed more clearly the gloomy character of the scene.The thick mist became dispelled; the verdure, dark but rich, glistened with drops of moisture, and the ghostly moss waved to and fro, stirred by a gentle breeze that had helped to dissipate the fog.With the bright sky, however, there came a corresponding lightness over the young man’s spirit, and a doubt arose in his mind as to the guilt of his former friend.“I cannot believe all that he has been accused of. Perhaps he is not guilty of carrying off Sansuta. I always trusted him. Why should he be so evil without a suspicion having crossed my mind that he was so? He has not been seen since she disappeared; but yet Crookleg might be the guilty one. If all I have been told be true, and Warren be the man, he shall bitterly pay for his crime. But I will not believe it until I am convinced ’tis so.”It will be seen that Nelatu was still a firm friend, ready to doubt even villainy.Suddenly the trail he was following came to an end.A deep black lagoon was before his feet.How to cross it?Its unrippled bosom showed it to be deep.Here and there jagged cypress stumps, to which clung drooping parasites, stood out of it.Nelatu felt that the trail he had followed was purposely terminated at the edge of the lake, doubtless to be discovered on its opposite shore.How to cross it? That was the question.Stooping, he scanned the shore, but failed to trace any further evidence of the footsteps of man.He was on the point of retracing his path in order to look for a trail, when he was arrested by a faint sound, as from a movement in the water.It was very faint, but unmistakeable in its character.It was the stroke of an oar!He strained his eyes to catch a view of the boat which he felt sure was traversing the lake.After some time spent in the endeavour, his scrutiny was rewarded.A strange tableau was revealed to him.At a distance appeared the shadowy form of a canoe, in which two figures were seated.The fog, like a dull silver veil, was still spread over the lagoon, and his efforts to recognise the phantom-like forms were unavailing.The intervening curtain of vapour baffled even the keen eye-sight of an Indian.He hallooed to the spectral figures until the swamp re-echoed his shouts.In vain!No response came from the silent voyagers.He fancied that the measured pulling of the oars for an instant ceased, but so dim and unreal did it all appear, that he began to doubt the evidence of his senses.As he gazed the canoe glided silently out of sight.Muttering an angry adjuration at the ghostly oarsman, he threw himself upon the ground.Overcome with the fatiguing journey, and dispirited by his fruitless search, he soon fell into a deep slumber.The last film of the fog was now dispelled by the powerful rays of the sun.Birds sang in the trees above him, and from the black waters of the lagoon a huge caiman crawled up the banks to bask in the noontide glare.Still Nelatu slumbered.He slept until the meridian heat had passed, and the evening approached, seeming to lull all nature into silence.The young man’s sleep was placid. With his head pillowed on his arm, he lay like one dead.From this sweet unconsciousness he awoke with a start.A rippling sound as of some craft cleaving the water, once more fell upon his ear.Had the phantom canoe returned?A glance answered the question.Drifting near the shore was an empty dug-out.The broken manilla rope, dragging at the stern, told him why it was adrift.Without hesitation he plunged into the water, and in a few strokes reached the straying craft.Scrambling into it, he seized an oar found lying in its bottom, and paddled back to the place whence he had started. Placing his gun ready beside him, he again paddled off, and rowed into the centre of the lake, steering his course, as nearly as he could remember, in the direction which, in the morning, he had observed the canoe to take.The spot, as he had marked it, was near a huge cypress tree.It proved to be at a greater distance than he thought, and the sun had well sunk in the western sky before he arrived at it.Once there he came to a stop. Those he sought had evidently either gone further out into the open water of the lagoon or had made for one or other of the numerous narrow canals which debouched into it.Selecting that which appeared of the greatest width, he plied his oar and advanced towards it.
That night Nelatu left the Indian camp.
Wacora had given him a few hints by which he thought his search for Crookleg might be facilitated.
He had suggested that the negro lay hid within the neighbouring swamp.
This wilderness, difficult to traverse, was of great extent. It was only by a knowledge of its intricate paths that it could be successfully explored.
Nelatu, fully appreciating the difficulty of his undertaking, was more than usually depressed.
This journey through the track of dry timber was easy enough.
On emerging from it he found himself on a broad savanna.
On the other side of which lay the swamp to which Wacora had directed him.
Its gloomy appearance struck a chill to the young chief’s heart.
Could it by any possibility be the place selected by Warren for Sansuta’s concealment?
He almost hoped his search for her in its sombre fastnesses might prove futile.
Its aspect was especially forbidding at the time Nelatu reached it, which was in the early morning.
A heavy fog rose from its dark waters, clinging around the rank vegetation, and veiling the mosses and spectral limbs of the decayed trees.
A foetid breath exhaled from the thick undergrowth, and the air seemed charged with poison.
No note of bird was heard; no bloom of flower seen. Death in life was everywhere apparent!
Carefully, and with the quick natural instinct of his race, Sansuta’s brother struck upon a well-defined trail leading inwardly from the borders of the morass.
Following this with care, he had soon made considerable progress.
The sun rising higher as he advanced, only revealed more clearly the gloomy character of the scene.
The thick mist became dispelled; the verdure, dark but rich, glistened with drops of moisture, and the ghostly moss waved to and fro, stirred by a gentle breeze that had helped to dissipate the fog.
With the bright sky, however, there came a corresponding lightness over the young man’s spirit, and a doubt arose in his mind as to the guilt of his former friend.
“I cannot believe all that he has been accused of. Perhaps he is not guilty of carrying off Sansuta. I always trusted him. Why should he be so evil without a suspicion having crossed my mind that he was so? He has not been seen since she disappeared; but yet Crookleg might be the guilty one. If all I have been told be true, and Warren be the man, he shall bitterly pay for his crime. But I will not believe it until I am convinced ’tis so.”
It will be seen that Nelatu was still a firm friend, ready to doubt even villainy.
Suddenly the trail he was following came to an end.
A deep black lagoon was before his feet.
How to cross it?
Its unrippled bosom showed it to be deep.
Here and there jagged cypress stumps, to which clung drooping parasites, stood out of it.
Nelatu felt that the trail he had followed was purposely terminated at the edge of the lake, doubtless to be discovered on its opposite shore.
How to cross it? That was the question.
Stooping, he scanned the shore, but failed to trace any further evidence of the footsteps of man.
He was on the point of retracing his path in order to look for a trail, when he was arrested by a faint sound, as from a movement in the water.
It was very faint, but unmistakeable in its character.
It was the stroke of an oar!
He strained his eyes to catch a view of the boat which he felt sure was traversing the lake.
After some time spent in the endeavour, his scrutiny was rewarded.
A strange tableau was revealed to him.
At a distance appeared the shadowy form of a canoe, in which two figures were seated.
The fog, like a dull silver veil, was still spread over the lagoon, and his efforts to recognise the phantom-like forms were unavailing.
The intervening curtain of vapour baffled even the keen eye-sight of an Indian.
He hallooed to the spectral figures until the swamp re-echoed his shouts.
In vain!
No response came from the silent voyagers.
He fancied that the measured pulling of the oars for an instant ceased, but so dim and unreal did it all appear, that he began to doubt the evidence of his senses.
As he gazed the canoe glided silently out of sight.
Muttering an angry adjuration at the ghostly oarsman, he threw himself upon the ground.
Overcome with the fatiguing journey, and dispirited by his fruitless search, he soon fell into a deep slumber.
The last film of the fog was now dispelled by the powerful rays of the sun.
Birds sang in the trees above him, and from the black waters of the lagoon a huge caiman crawled up the banks to bask in the noontide glare.
Still Nelatu slumbered.
He slept until the meridian heat had passed, and the evening approached, seeming to lull all nature into silence.
The young man’s sleep was placid. With his head pillowed on his arm, he lay like one dead.
From this sweet unconsciousness he awoke with a start.
A rippling sound as of some craft cleaving the water, once more fell upon his ear.
Had the phantom canoe returned?
A glance answered the question.
Drifting near the shore was an empty dug-out.
The broken manilla rope, dragging at the stern, told him why it was adrift.
Without hesitation he plunged into the water, and in a few strokes reached the straying craft.
Scrambling into it, he seized an oar found lying in its bottom, and paddled back to the place whence he had started. Placing his gun ready beside him, he again paddled off, and rowed into the centre of the lake, steering his course, as nearly as he could remember, in the direction which, in the morning, he had observed the canoe to take.
The spot, as he had marked it, was near a huge cypress tree.
It proved to be at a greater distance than he thought, and the sun had well sunk in the western sky before he arrived at it.
Once there he came to a stop. Those he sought had evidently either gone further out into the open water of the lagoon or had made for one or other of the numerous narrow canals which debouched into it.
Selecting that which appeared of the greatest width, he plied his oar and advanced towards it.
Chapter Twenty Four.A Smoke Interrupted.Although Cris Carrol was absent from the immediate neighbourhood of the settlement, he was none the less informed of what had happened since his departure.Several of the colonists, alarmed at the prospect of affairs, had quietly left Tampa Bay, and, meeting with the hunter, had told him of the events that had transpired within the past month.The backwoodsman’s foresight had not deceived him.The whites, by which he meant Elias and his followers, had not heeded his advice, and worse had come of it.The hunter was nothing, if not oracular.“Wal,” said he, “Governor Rody thought himself smart when he set to work buildin’ that thar frame-house of his’n on the red-man’s ground, but I reckon he’ll pay for it yet in bloody scalps and broken bones. Confound the old cormorant; his house will cause all of them poor white settlers no end of trouble. It don’t bear thinkin’ on, that it don’t. As for his black-hearted whelp of a son, darn me if I wouldn’t like to put an ounce o’ lead into his carcass, if it war only to larn him some human feelin’.”“But won’t you go back to the settlement now, and see if your presence can do any good?”To this question, propounded by one of the fugitive settlers, Cris answered—“Good! What good can I do now? No, lad, the fat’s in the fire this time, and, may be, I may better help some poor critter away from the place than anigh it. I’ll tell ye what it is, and it aint no use denyin’ it. Them there red devils means mischief, and the old cuss Rody knows it by this time. The chief, Oluski, what you tell me air dead, war worth a whole settlement of Rody’s—barrin’ one—that is, barrin’ one.”“And who may that be?”“Who but his darter. The most beautifullest gal that this coon ever set eyes on. Bless her, I hope no hurt won’t come to her, and there shan’t either, if Cris Carrol can prevent it.”In this manner did the honest hunter comment on the alarming news brought by the fugitives from Tampa Bay.Not that he approached the spot closely. No; he had formed an idea of the manner in which he might be most useful; and, to do so, he must carefully avoid any appearance of interference between the contending parties.He, therefore, pursued his occupation of hunting; but contrived materially to narrow the circle of his excursions.Often as the image of Alice Rody presented itself to his mind, he would heave a painful sigh.“How such a gal came to be a child of that old trait’rous heathen is more nor I can reckon up. It’s one of them thar things as philosophers call startlers!”In one of these moralising, wandering moods the old hunter was seated on a tree stump on the afternoon of a day that had been more than usually fatiguing to him.He knocked the ashes from his pipe, took a plug of tobacco from his pouch, and began to cut up a supply for another smoke.“Ah!” muttered he, shaking his head, “I remember the time when there was happiness in the savannahs, and when them red-skins were ready to help the white man rather than fight agin them. Them times is gone from hyar for ever!”He struck a light with his flint, and applied it to his pipe.Just as he had puffed two or three small clouds of smoke, and was preparing to enjoy himself to the fullest extent, a flash suddenly appeared, the pipe was knocked from his mouth, and the whizz of a bullet sounded in his ears!To grasp his rifle and shelter himself behind a tree, on the side opposite to that from which the shot proceeded, was but the work of an instant.“Red-skins, by the eternal! I know it by the twang of that rough-cast bullet.”Whether red-skins or white men, he did not find it easy to be certain, although he was up to every move in such an emergency.He knew that to look in the direction of the shot was to expose himself to almost certain death.He listened with breathless anxiety for the slightest sound, which might give evidence of the movements of the enemy.All remained perfectly still.Adopting a very oldruse, he stuck his skin cap upon the barrel of his rifle, and held it out a few inches beyond the trunk of the tree, by the side of which he had ensconced himself.A flash, a report, and it was pierced by a bullet!He was now fully satisfied that there was but one enemy with whom he had to cope.Had there been more, the first bullet, which struck the pipe from his mouth, would have been followed by another as quickly, but perhaps more surely aimed.With a rapid glance he surveyed the ground behind him.It was covered with undergrowth and fallen timber.His resolution was at once taken.He fell flat upon the earth, and noiselessly gliding away reached a tree, distant some paces, and in an oblique direction from the one he had left.From that spot he made his way to another, at a greater angle, and about equally distant from the second.The movements were affected with such agile stealthiness, as to be entirely unperceived by his unseen enemy.By the change of position he now commanded a side view of his unknown antagonist, who, unsuspicious of it, was keeping a close watch upon Carrol’s supposed shelter.To raise his rifle to his shoulder was a natural action of the old hunter.Instead of pulling the trigger, however, some idea seemed to cross his mind, and pausing, he scanned his adversary.He saw it was Maracota who had fired at him!Carrol knew Maracota as a faithful and devoted follower of the late chief, and he felt loth to take his life, although he might easily have done so.The better thought prevailed.He felt convinced that the bullet fired by the Indian had been aimed in reality at one for whom Maracota had mistaken him.Advancing cautiously towards the unconscious warrior, the old backwoodsman crept from tree to tree until he was close upon him.Not anticipating an attack from the rear, and still fancying he commanded the hiding-place of the white man, Maracota, in spite of his Indian cunning, was completely in the white man’s power.A loud shout, a quick bound, and Carrol had him in his grasp.With one hand upon his throat, the hunter had pinned him to the earth.“Not a word, you darned catamount, or I’ll run my knife into your ribs! So you thought to circumwent me, did yer, with your Injun treachery? What would you say now if I war to raise your har, ’stead of letting you take mine?”Maracota could make no reply to the question, as the pressure on his throat stopped his breath as well as speech.The backwoodsman saw by the expression upon the Indian’s face, that his own surmise had been correct.He was not the victim Maracota would have doomed to death.It was a mistake, but rather a serious one.Loosening his hold, he suffered the astonished Maracota to rise to his feet.“Yes; I can tell you’ve made a random shot at me. Next time, try and see a man’s face ’fore you pulls trigger on him, or it might be awkward. There’s no harm done, only a worse shot nor yours I never saw. I’d eat my rifle, stock, lock and barrel, afore I’d own to sich shooting. Who war it you were arter?”Having at length recovered breath, the Indian was able to answer.“I took you for Warren Rody.”“Much obleeged for the compliment. Do I look such a skunk as that fellow? If I do, put a brace of bullets into me, and we won’t quarrel.”The warrior grimly smiled.“Maracota has sworn to avenge Oluski’s death. Warren Rody must die!”“Wal, let him die. I shan’t stop you from riddin’ the world of such as he. What made you follow my trail?”“It was no trail I followed. I have been seeking one from the north; yours came from the east.”“Right you air; that’s whar I hail from last.”“Have you seen anything of him, or Sansuta?”“Hark hyar, Injun. Altho’ I might draw blood in the scoundrel if I saw him, I ain’t aman-hunter, and that’s why I haint been a follerin’ any trail of his’n.”Maracota’s eager look gave place to one of despondency, as he muttered,—“Not found yet! Where can they be?”“Ah, whar? It ain’t Warren as has hid whar he can’t be found. Some knowin’ hand has put him up to it.”“Yes, Maracota thinks so. It must be the negro Crookleg.”“Crookleg! Is that all-fired nigger varmint mixed up with him? That makes a brace of the durndest hounds that ever run together. Who told you that Crookleg helped young Rody?”“The chief thinks so.”“Wal, then, I’ll bet a ’possum skin agin a musk rat’s that he’s right. Your chief, Wacora, is as likely an Injun at reck’nin up the merits o’ a case as this coon knows on. Now you’ve missed liftin’ my scalp, what do you intend doin’?”“Go on looking for the chief who stole Oluski’s heart, find him, and kill him.”The glance that accompanied these words was full of deadly determination.“Wal, go, and good luck attend you. Don’t ask me to jine you, I tell you I ain’t no man-hunter nor never will be; only, if either of them thar scamps should be out walkin’ whar I chance to be, they had better have met with a mad bar than this Cris Carrol. Never mind sayin’ a word about that bad shot o’ yourn. The moment I seed you I knowed you didn’t mean it for me, only next time be more partiklar, that’s all.”Without making reply, Maracota turned away, and was soon lost under the shadows of the forest.As soon as he was out of sight, the old hunter renewed his preparations for a smoke.Drawing from his pouch (which seemed to contain everything that the heart of a hunter could desire) another pipe, he was soon once more sending clouds of blue smoke up into the air.“If that Maracota meets Warren Rody or Crookleg he’ll be an awkward customer to either or both on ’em; and that he may meet ’em he has Cris Carrol’s best prayers and wishes.”With this homely but sincere expression of his desires, the backwoodsman ceased to think of the deadly danger lately threatening himself.
Although Cris Carrol was absent from the immediate neighbourhood of the settlement, he was none the less informed of what had happened since his departure.
Several of the colonists, alarmed at the prospect of affairs, had quietly left Tampa Bay, and, meeting with the hunter, had told him of the events that had transpired within the past month.
The backwoodsman’s foresight had not deceived him.
The whites, by which he meant Elias and his followers, had not heeded his advice, and worse had come of it.
The hunter was nothing, if not oracular.
“Wal,” said he, “Governor Rody thought himself smart when he set to work buildin’ that thar frame-house of his’n on the red-man’s ground, but I reckon he’ll pay for it yet in bloody scalps and broken bones. Confound the old cormorant; his house will cause all of them poor white settlers no end of trouble. It don’t bear thinkin’ on, that it don’t. As for his black-hearted whelp of a son, darn me if I wouldn’t like to put an ounce o’ lead into his carcass, if it war only to larn him some human feelin’.”
“But won’t you go back to the settlement now, and see if your presence can do any good?”
To this question, propounded by one of the fugitive settlers, Cris answered—
“Good! What good can I do now? No, lad, the fat’s in the fire this time, and, may be, I may better help some poor critter away from the place than anigh it. I’ll tell ye what it is, and it aint no use denyin’ it. Them there red devils means mischief, and the old cuss Rody knows it by this time. The chief, Oluski, what you tell me air dead, war worth a whole settlement of Rody’s—barrin’ one—that is, barrin’ one.”
“And who may that be?”
“Who but his darter. The most beautifullest gal that this coon ever set eyes on. Bless her, I hope no hurt won’t come to her, and there shan’t either, if Cris Carrol can prevent it.”
In this manner did the honest hunter comment on the alarming news brought by the fugitives from Tampa Bay.
Not that he approached the spot closely. No; he had formed an idea of the manner in which he might be most useful; and, to do so, he must carefully avoid any appearance of interference between the contending parties.
He, therefore, pursued his occupation of hunting; but contrived materially to narrow the circle of his excursions.
Often as the image of Alice Rody presented itself to his mind, he would heave a painful sigh.
“How such a gal came to be a child of that old trait’rous heathen is more nor I can reckon up. It’s one of them thar things as philosophers call startlers!”
In one of these moralising, wandering moods the old hunter was seated on a tree stump on the afternoon of a day that had been more than usually fatiguing to him.
He knocked the ashes from his pipe, took a plug of tobacco from his pouch, and began to cut up a supply for another smoke.
“Ah!” muttered he, shaking his head, “I remember the time when there was happiness in the savannahs, and when them red-skins were ready to help the white man rather than fight agin them. Them times is gone from hyar for ever!”
He struck a light with his flint, and applied it to his pipe.
Just as he had puffed two or three small clouds of smoke, and was preparing to enjoy himself to the fullest extent, a flash suddenly appeared, the pipe was knocked from his mouth, and the whizz of a bullet sounded in his ears!
To grasp his rifle and shelter himself behind a tree, on the side opposite to that from which the shot proceeded, was but the work of an instant.
“Red-skins, by the eternal! I know it by the twang of that rough-cast bullet.”
Whether red-skins or white men, he did not find it easy to be certain, although he was up to every move in such an emergency.
He knew that to look in the direction of the shot was to expose himself to almost certain death.
He listened with breathless anxiety for the slightest sound, which might give evidence of the movements of the enemy.
All remained perfectly still.
Adopting a very oldruse, he stuck his skin cap upon the barrel of his rifle, and held it out a few inches beyond the trunk of the tree, by the side of which he had ensconced himself.
A flash, a report, and it was pierced by a bullet!
He was now fully satisfied that there was but one enemy with whom he had to cope.
Had there been more, the first bullet, which struck the pipe from his mouth, would have been followed by another as quickly, but perhaps more surely aimed.
With a rapid glance he surveyed the ground behind him.
It was covered with undergrowth and fallen timber.
His resolution was at once taken.
He fell flat upon the earth, and noiselessly gliding away reached a tree, distant some paces, and in an oblique direction from the one he had left.
From that spot he made his way to another, at a greater angle, and about equally distant from the second.
The movements were affected with such agile stealthiness, as to be entirely unperceived by his unseen enemy.
By the change of position he now commanded a side view of his unknown antagonist, who, unsuspicious of it, was keeping a close watch upon Carrol’s supposed shelter.
To raise his rifle to his shoulder was a natural action of the old hunter.
Instead of pulling the trigger, however, some idea seemed to cross his mind, and pausing, he scanned his adversary.
He saw it was Maracota who had fired at him!
Carrol knew Maracota as a faithful and devoted follower of the late chief, and he felt loth to take his life, although he might easily have done so.
The better thought prevailed.
He felt convinced that the bullet fired by the Indian had been aimed in reality at one for whom Maracota had mistaken him.
Advancing cautiously towards the unconscious warrior, the old backwoodsman crept from tree to tree until he was close upon him.
Not anticipating an attack from the rear, and still fancying he commanded the hiding-place of the white man, Maracota, in spite of his Indian cunning, was completely in the white man’s power.
A loud shout, a quick bound, and Carrol had him in his grasp.
With one hand upon his throat, the hunter had pinned him to the earth.
“Not a word, you darned catamount, or I’ll run my knife into your ribs! So you thought to circumwent me, did yer, with your Injun treachery? What would you say now if I war to raise your har, ’stead of letting you take mine?”
Maracota could make no reply to the question, as the pressure on his throat stopped his breath as well as speech.
The backwoodsman saw by the expression upon the Indian’s face, that his own surmise had been correct.
He was not the victim Maracota would have doomed to death.
It was a mistake, but rather a serious one.
Loosening his hold, he suffered the astonished Maracota to rise to his feet.
“Yes; I can tell you’ve made a random shot at me. Next time, try and see a man’s face ’fore you pulls trigger on him, or it might be awkward. There’s no harm done, only a worse shot nor yours I never saw. I’d eat my rifle, stock, lock and barrel, afore I’d own to sich shooting. Who war it you were arter?”
Having at length recovered breath, the Indian was able to answer.
“I took you for Warren Rody.”
“Much obleeged for the compliment. Do I look such a skunk as that fellow? If I do, put a brace of bullets into me, and we won’t quarrel.”
The warrior grimly smiled.
“Maracota has sworn to avenge Oluski’s death. Warren Rody must die!”
“Wal, let him die. I shan’t stop you from riddin’ the world of such as he. What made you follow my trail?”
“It was no trail I followed. I have been seeking one from the north; yours came from the east.”
“Right you air; that’s whar I hail from last.”
“Have you seen anything of him, or Sansuta?”
“Hark hyar, Injun. Altho’ I might draw blood in the scoundrel if I saw him, I ain’t aman-hunter, and that’s why I haint been a follerin’ any trail of his’n.”
Maracota’s eager look gave place to one of despondency, as he muttered,—
“Not found yet! Where can they be?”
“Ah, whar? It ain’t Warren as has hid whar he can’t be found. Some knowin’ hand has put him up to it.”
“Yes, Maracota thinks so. It must be the negro Crookleg.”
“Crookleg! Is that all-fired nigger varmint mixed up with him? That makes a brace of the durndest hounds that ever run together. Who told you that Crookleg helped young Rody?”
“The chief thinks so.”
“Wal, then, I’ll bet a ’possum skin agin a musk rat’s that he’s right. Your chief, Wacora, is as likely an Injun at reck’nin up the merits o’ a case as this coon knows on. Now you’ve missed liftin’ my scalp, what do you intend doin’?”
“Go on looking for the chief who stole Oluski’s heart, find him, and kill him.”
The glance that accompanied these words was full of deadly determination.
“Wal, go, and good luck attend you. Don’t ask me to jine you, I tell you I ain’t no man-hunter nor never will be; only, if either of them thar scamps should be out walkin’ whar I chance to be, they had better have met with a mad bar than this Cris Carrol. Never mind sayin’ a word about that bad shot o’ yourn. The moment I seed you I knowed you didn’t mean it for me, only next time be more partiklar, that’s all.”
Without making reply, Maracota turned away, and was soon lost under the shadows of the forest.
As soon as he was out of sight, the old hunter renewed his preparations for a smoke.
Drawing from his pouch (which seemed to contain everything that the heart of a hunter could desire) another pipe, he was soon once more sending clouds of blue smoke up into the air.
“If that Maracota meets Warren Rody or Crookleg he’ll be an awkward customer to either or both on ’em; and that he may meet ’em he has Cris Carrol’s best prayers and wishes.”
With this homely but sincere expression of his desires, the backwoodsman ceased to think of the deadly danger lately threatening himself.
Chapter Twenty Five.Preparing for the Attack.The Indians had, at length, determined upon making an attack upon Elias Rody’s stronghold.The governor had got wind of their intention through a spy, a slave belonging to the tribe, who had turned informer through his seductive offers.A meeting of the settlers within the stockade was at once called.“Fellow citizens,” said Rody, addressing them, “I have received some information that our enemies have resolved upon attacking us. It is my duty to tell you this in order that every man may be prepared to defend himself and his family. One thing I would have you remember; this war will be one of extermination; therefore be careful not to waste a bullet. Let every pull upon your trigger send an Indian to his long account. Let the cry be ‘no quarter!’”“Perhaps that’ll be their motto too,” remarked a voice in the crowd.“I perceive, sir,” replied Rody, a little nettled at the running commentary on his speech, “I perceive that there are still one or two dissatisfied people amongst us. Let them step forward, and declare themselves.Wewant neither renegades or traitors in our midst.”“That’s so,” the voice replied.“Again I say, let those displeased with my views step boldly out, and allow me to answer any objections they may raise. I’ve done nothing I am ashamed of. I blush for nothing that I do.”“No, you’re past blushing!” was the ironical rejoinder.A suppressed titter ran round the assemblage at these pertinent remarks of the unknown; and the governor’s temper was not improved by observing the effect the words had produced on his hearers.“I scorn to answer the fellow who is afraid to show himself; but I warn you all to be prepared for a desperate contest. We have only ourselves to look to for our defence. We are in the hands of Providence.”“We are!”This sudden change from jeering comment to deep solemnity of utterance on the part of the unknown speaker struck awe into the crowd, and caused Rody to turn pale.In the hands of Providence!Yes, for good or evil. For punishment or reward.The thought expressed in this manner was too much for the governor.He dismissed the meeting with a hurried admonition to be prepared for the worst.As he re-entered his house, he encountered his daughter face to face.“Father, I was about to seek you,” said she. “They tell me that you have heard bad news.”“Bad enough, girl! The red-skins are going to attack us.”“Is there no hope?”“Hope, for what?”“That this bloodshed may be avoided. Will they not listen to an offer of reconciliation?”“And who would dare to make it?”“Dare, father! I do not understand you. It is the duty of those who have done wrong to contrive by concession to atone for it, and, if possible, to make peace.”“But who has done wrong?”Alice did not answer in words, but the look she bestowed upon her father was eloquence itself.“I see what you’re thinking about, my girl. It’s very hard that inside of my own home I should meet with reproaches. Isn’t it enough for me to have to bear the sneers and taunts of others, without being forced to listen to them from you?”“Father!”“Oh, yes; now you’ll try to say you didn’t mean to reproach me; but it won’t do. I see it in your face; and, there, your eyes are full of tears. That’s the way with you girls, when you can’t use your tongues, you have always a stock of tears ready. But blubbering won’t mend this matter; it’s got to be settled with blows.”“Oh, father! can nothing be done?”“Nothing, but prepare for the worst. Now, girl, stop your crying, or you’ll drive me stark mad. I’ll tell you what it is, I’m just in that sort of state that if I don’t do something, I shall go clean out of my mind. What with the worrying work here, and the grumbling discontent of a few paltry hounds about the settlement, I don’t know how I keep my senses about me.”The angry mood into which he had worked himself was, however, no novelty to his daughter. She had of late seen it too often, and sorrowfully noted the change.Still, she was a brave girl, and knowing she had a duty to perform, she did it fearlessly.“Oh, father!” she exclaimed, apologisingly, “I did not mean to reproach you. If my looks betrayed my thoughts, I cannot help them, much as I may regret giving you pain. What I wanted to say was, that if there is any honourable way to avoid this bloodshed, it should be tried. There is no disgrace in acknowledging a fault.”“Who has committed one?”“You know wrongs have been done by white people against the Indians, not alone now, but ever since the two races have been brought together. We are no better than others; but we can avoid their errors by trying to remedy the grievances they complain of.”Old Rody stamped the floor with rage; his daughter’s remarks made him wince. Conscience, which he deemed asleep, was at work, and upon the tongue of his own child had found utterance.“Begone, girl!” he cried, “before I forget that you are my own flesh and blood. You insult me beyond endurance. I will manage my affairs my own way, without impediment from you. Ay, not only my own affairs, but the affairs of all here. I will have blind obedience; I demand it, and will exact it. Begone!”His daughter looked him boldly in the face.“Be it so, father,” she answered; “I have done my duty—will always do it. Think, however, before it is too late, that to your conduct in this matter, the groans of widows and the sighs of orphans may be laid. The happiness or misery of many rests upon your single word. It is an awful risk—reflect upon it, dear father, reflect!”Her proud bearing gave place to tears. Her womanly heart was full to overflowing. It conquered her spirit for a time; and as she parted from her father’s presence, she felt that the last hope of peace had vanished.“By the eternal powers!” cried he, “this will prove too much for me. It must come to an end!”As Rody uttered these words, he drew from his pocket a flask and applied it to his lips.It was a bottle of brandy. It seemed the last friend left him.
The Indians had, at length, determined upon making an attack upon Elias Rody’s stronghold.
The governor had got wind of their intention through a spy, a slave belonging to the tribe, who had turned informer through his seductive offers.
A meeting of the settlers within the stockade was at once called.
“Fellow citizens,” said Rody, addressing them, “I have received some information that our enemies have resolved upon attacking us. It is my duty to tell you this in order that every man may be prepared to defend himself and his family. One thing I would have you remember; this war will be one of extermination; therefore be careful not to waste a bullet. Let every pull upon your trigger send an Indian to his long account. Let the cry be ‘no quarter!’”
“Perhaps that’ll be their motto too,” remarked a voice in the crowd.
“I perceive, sir,” replied Rody, a little nettled at the running commentary on his speech, “I perceive that there are still one or two dissatisfied people amongst us. Let them step forward, and declare themselves.Wewant neither renegades or traitors in our midst.”
“That’s so,” the voice replied.
“Again I say, let those displeased with my views step boldly out, and allow me to answer any objections they may raise. I’ve done nothing I am ashamed of. I blush for nothing that I do.”
“No, you’re past blushing!” was the ironical rejoinder.
A suppressed titter ran round the assemblage at these pertinent remarks of the unknown; and the governor’s temper was not improved by observing the effect the words had produced on his hearers.
“I scorn to answer the fellow who is afraid to show himself; but I warn you all to be prepared for a desperate contest. We have only ourselves to look to for our defence. We are in the hands of Providence.”
“We are!”
This sudden change from jeering comment to deep solemnity of utterance on the part of the unknown speaker struck awe into the crowd, and caused Rody to turn pale.
In the hands of Providence!
Yes, for good or evil. For punishment or reward.
The thought expressed in this manner was too much for the governor.
He dismissed the meeting with a hurried admonition to be prepared for the worst.
As he re-entered his house, he encountered his daughter face to face.
“Father, I was about to seek you,” said she. “They tell me that you have heard bad news.”
“Bad enough, girl! The red-skins are going to attack us.”
“Is there no hope?”
“Hope, for what?”
“That this bloodshed may be avoided. Will they not listen to an offer of reconciliation?”
“And who would dare to make it?”
“Dare, father! I do not understand you. It is the duty of those who have done wrong to contrive by concession to atone for it, and, if possible, to make peace.”
“But who has done wrong?”
Alice did not answer in words, but the look she bestowed upon her father was eloquence itself.
“I see what you’re thinking about, my girl. It’s very hard that inside of my own home I should meet with reproaches. Isn’t it enough for me to have to bear the sneers and taunts of others, without being forced to listen to them from you?”
“Father!”
“Oh, yes; now you’ll try to say you didn’t mean to reproach me; but it won’t do. I see it in your face; and, there, your eyes are full of tears. That’s the way with you girls, when you can’t use your tongues, you have always a stock of tears ready. But blubbering won’t mend this matter; it’s got to be settled with blows.”
“Oh, father! can nothing be done?”
“Nothing, but prepare for the worst. Now, girl, stop your crying, or you’ll drive me stark mad. I’ll tell you what it is, I’m just in that sort of state that if I don’t do something, I shall go clean out of my mind. What with the worrying work here, and the grumbling discontent of a few paltry hounds about the settlement, I don’t know how I keep my senses about me.”
The angry mood into which he had worked himself was, however, no novelty to his daughter. She had of late seen it too often, and sorrowfully noted the change.
Still, she was a brave girl, and knowing she had a duty to perform, she did it fearlessly.
“Oh, father!” she exclaimed, apologisingly, “I did not mean to reproach you. If my looks betrayed my thoughts, I cannot help them, much as I may regret giving you pain. What I wanted to say was, that if there is any honourable way to avoid this bloodshed, it should be tried. There is no disgrace in acknowledging a fault.”
“Who has committed one?”
“You know wrongs have been done by white people against the Indians, not alone now, but ever since the two races have been brought together. We are no better than others; but we can avoid their errors by trying to remedy the grievances they complain of.”
Old Rody stamped the floor with rage; his daughter’s remarks made him wince. Conscience, which he deemed asleep, was at work, and upon the tongue of his own child had found utterance.
“Begone, girl!” he cried, “before I forget that you are my own flesh and blood. You insult me beyond endurance. I will manage my affairs my own way, without impediment from you. Ay, not only my own affairs, but the affairs of all here. I will have blind obedience; I demand it, and will exact it. Begone!”
His daughter looked him boldly in the face.
“Be it so, father,” she answered; “I have done my duty—will always do it. Think, however, before it is too late, that to your conduct in this matter, the groans of widows and the sighs of orphans may be laid. The happiness or misery of many rests upon your single word. It is an awful risk—reflect upon it, dear father, reflect!”
Her proud bearing gave place to tears. Her womanly heart was full to overflowing. It conquered her spirit for a time; and as she parted from her father’s presence, she felt that the last hope of peace had vanished.
“By the eternal powers!” cried he, “this will prove too much for me. It must come to an end!”
As Rody uttered these words, he drew from his pocket a flask and applied it to his lips.
It was a bottle of brandy. It seemed the last friend left him.
Chapter Twenty Six.Forced into Service.After entering the narrow stretch of water, Nelatu, for some time, plied his paddle with vigour.He then paused to examine the place.Sedges and cane-brakes grew thickly down to the water’s edge.There appeared no passage through them.Resuming his course, he attentively watched for any sign of habitation, but for a long time without success.Just as he was turning the head of the canoe again in the direction of the lagoon, an object, floating on the surface, attracted his attention.It was an oar.A glance convinced him that it was the fellow of the one he held in his hand.Re-animated by this assuring proof that he was going in the right direction, he fished it up, and abandoning the more laborious mode of paddling, he adjusted the oars in the rowlocks, and bending to them, made more rapid way.He kept his eyes turning to right and left, on the lookout for a landing-place, which he now felt assured could not be far distant.His scrutiny was at length rewarded.A few hundred yards from where he had picked up the floating oar, a post was seen sticking up out of the bank.To this was attached a Manilla rope, the broken strands of which showed it to be the other portion of that fastened to the stern of the canoe.The clue was found.Those he had dimly seen in the morning, were doubtless close at hand.He ran the craft in shore, fastened it securely to the post, and landed.With cautious steps he followed the footprints now seen in the soft mud of the bank.They led to a sheltered spot, upon which a rude hut had been erected.The sound of a man’s voice arrested his steps.“He, he! I ’clare it makes dis chile larf, to t’ink about de trubble dat’s brewing for dem. De long time am comin’ round at last. I’se bin a waitin’ for it, but it am comin’ now.”It was Crookleg who spoke; but for the time he said no more.A stunning blow from Nelatu’s clubbed rifle—which would have crushed any skull but that of a negro—felled him senseless to the ground.On recovering consciousness, he found himself bound in a most artistic manner by a thong of deer-skin, which Nelatu had found near the hut.“Hush!” said the Indian, in a half-whisper; “not a word, except to answer my questions. Don’t move, dog, or I’ll dash out your brains!”The negro trembled in every limb.“Is Warren Rody inside that hut?”Crookleg shook his head.“Where is he?”“Don’t know, Massa Injun; don’t know nuffin ’bout him.”“Liar!”“By him tressed life, massa, dis chile don’t know.”“Answer me—where is Warren Rody? I give you one chance for your wretched life. Tell me, where is Warren Rody?”The raising of a tomahawk above the negro’s head convinced him that death would be the sure reward of untruth.“Don’t, massa, don’t kill de ole nigger. He’ll tell you all he knows. Oh, don’t kill me!”“Speak.”“Hewarhere, but he am gone.”“Where?”“Out ob de swamp into de woods.”“And Sansuta?”“De gal am gone ’long wid him.”Nelatu groaned.Warren, then, was guilty.“Do you know me?” he asked.“Oh, yes, massa, I knows you well—you am Sansuta’s brodder. I tole Warren he war a-doin’ wrong, but he am so headstrong he would take your sister. Dis chile’s begged him not to do it.”“False dog! you are deceiving me.”“I swear, Mass ’Latu, I’se speaking the bressed trufe.”Not deigning to reply, the Indian strode on to the hut, and entered it. It was deserted.A bead bracelet lying inside attested to the truth of that portion of Crookleg’s story which told him Sansuta had been there.He returned to the negro.“Rise,” he said, in a commanding tone.“I can’t, massa; you has tied me so tight that I can’t move.”“Rise, I tell you,” repeated the Indian with a threatening gesture.Beginning to obey, the negro rolled over the ground in the direction of the rifle which Nelatu had laid aside in order to tie him.Could he but reach that, he might defy his raptor.But the Indian was too quick for him.With a kick which made Crookleg howl with pain, he forced him aside, and secured the weapon himself.Seeing that his only chance was submission, the negro got upon his feet with some difficulty, and stood awaiting further orders.Nelatu now unfastened the thongs that bound him.“Go before me,” he said.Crookleg hobbled forward with a demoniac look upon his face.They reached the water’s edge.“Is that your canoe?”“Yes, massa; dat dug-out b’long to me.”“Get in.”The black scrambled into the stern.“Not there—the other end.”Crookleg obeyed.Nelatu took the vacated seat.“Now, lay hold of these oars, bend your back, and row me to the place where you landed Warren Rody and my sister. Remember, that if you make the slightest attempt to deceive me, I will bury my tomahawk deep in your brain.”Thus admonished, the negro plied the oars, and the canoe darted rapidly through the water.
After entering the narrow stretch of water, Nelatu, for some time, plied his paddle with vigour.
He then paused to examine the place.
Sedges and cane-brakes grew thickly down to the water’s edge.
There appeared no passage through them.
Resuming his course, he attentively watched for any sign of habitation, but for a long time without success.
Just as he was turning the head of the canoe again in the direction of the lagoon, an object, floating on the surface, attracted his attention.
It was an oar.
A glance convinced him that it was the fellow of the one he held in his hand.
Re-animated by this assuring proof that he was going in the right direction, he fished it up, and abandoning the more laborious mode of paddling, he adjusted the oars in the rowlocks, and bending to them, made more rapid way.
He kept his eyes turning to right and left, on the lookout for a landing-place, which he now felt assured could not be far distant.
His scrutiny was at length rewarded.
A few hundred yards from where he had picked up the floating oar, a post was seen sticking up out of the bank.
To this was attached a Manilla rope, the broken strands of which showed it to be the other portion of that fastened to the stern of the canoe.
The clue was found.
Those he had dimly seen in the morning, were doubtless close at hand.
He ran the craft in shore, fastened it securely to the post, and landed.
With cautious steps he followed the footprints now seen in the soft mud of the bank.
They led to a sheltered spot, upon which a rude hut had been erected.
The sound of a man’s voice arrested his steps.
“He, he! I ’clare it makes dis chile larf, to t’ink about de trubble dat’s brewing for dem. De long time am comin’ round at last. I’se bin a waitin’ for it, but it am comin’ now.”
It was Crookleg who spoke; but for the time he said no more.
A stunning blow from Nelatu’s clubbed rifle—which would have crushed any skull but that of a negro—felled him senseless to the ground.
On recovering consciousness, he found himself bound in a most artistic manner by a thong of deer-skin, which Nelatu had found near the hut.
“Hush!” said the Indian, in a half-whisper; “not a word, except to answer my questions. Don’t move, dog, or I’ll dash out your brains!”
The negro trembled in every limb.
“Is Warren Rody inside that hut?”
Crookleg shook his head.
“Where is he?”
“Don’t know, Massa Injun; don’t know nuffin ’bout him.”
“Liar!”
“By him tressed life, massa, dis chile don’t know.”
“Answer me—where is Warren Rody? I give you one chance for your wretched life. Tell me, where is Warren Rody?”
The raising of a tomahawk above the negro’s head convinced him that death would be the sure reward of untruth.
“Don’t, massa, don’t kill de ole nigger. He’ll tell you all he knows. Oh, don’t kill me!”
“Speak.”
“Hewarhere, but he am gone.”
“Where?”
“Out ob de swamp into de woods.”
“And Sansuta?”
“De gal am gone ’long wid him.”
Nelatu groaned.
Warren, then, was guilty.
“Do you know me?” he asked.
“Oh, yes, massa, I knows you well—you am Sansuta’s brodder. I tole Warren he war a-doin’ wrong, but he am so headstrong he would take your sister. Dis chile’s begged him not to do it.”
“False dog! you are deceiving me.”
“I swear, Mass ’Latu, I’se speaking the bressed trufe.”
Not deigning to reply, the Indian strode on to the hut, and entered it. It was deserted.
A bead bracelet lying inside attested to the truth of that portion of Crookleg’s story which told him Sansuta had been there.
He returned to the negro.
“Rise,” he said, in a commanding tone.
“I can’t, massa; you has tied me so tight that I can’t move.”
“Rise, I tell you,” repeated the Indian with a threatening gesture.
Beginning to obey, the negro rolled over the ground in the direction of the rifle which Nelatu had laid aside in order to tie him.
Could he but reach that, he might defy his raptor.
But the Indian was too quick for him.
With a kick which made Crookleg howl with pain, he forced him aside, and secured the weapon himself.
Seeing that his only chance was submission, the negro got upon his feet with some difficulty, and stood awaiting further orders.
Nelatu now unfastened the thongs that bound him.
“Go before me,” he said.
Crookleg hobbled forward with a demoniac look upon his face.
They reached the water’s edge.
“Is that your canoe?”
“Yes, massa; dat dug-out b’long to me.”
“Get in.”
The black scrambled into the stern.
“Not there—the other end.”
Crookleg obeyed.
Nelatu took the vacated seat.
“Now, lay hold of these oars, bend your back, and row me to the place where you landed Warren Rody and my sister. Remember, that if you make the slightest attempt to deceive me, I will bury my tomahawk deep in your brain.”
Thus admonished, the negro plied the oars, and the canoe darted rapidly through the water.
Chapter Twenty Seven.The Lost Sister.For more than an hour Crookleg was compelled to use the oars, until they had reached the other side of the lagoon.Nelatu, silent and wrapped in his own gloomy thoughts, watched his every motion.It was twilight when they made a landing within a sheltered bay upon that side of the swamp nearest the settlement.Beyond this lay the woods of which the negro had spoken.Compelling the black to precede him, Nelatu urged him forward until they had reached a mound covered with bushes.“Hush! Massa Injun, we are near de place.”“I see no signs of habitation!”“We is near it, for all dat. It ain’t a easy ting to find a place like dis ’ere whare dere are nuffin to show but de ground and dese ere bushes!”“Quick! lead me to the place!”“By-am-by, massa; for a mercy’s sake hab jist a little patience. ’Twont do no good to be in a hurry, ’twont, indeed.”Suspecting treachery, Nelatu would hear of no delay.“Remember, slave! what I threatened you with. Conduct me at once to their hiding-place!”“Well, den, Massa Injun, if you must go, step light, or we’ll gib Massa Warren de alarm. He’s as quick eared as a rabbit; dat he am. And he may shoot us both afore we know; dat is, if he ’spects you am coming after de gal.”With this caution, to which his companion silently agreed, they skirted the mound to its extreme end, where it seemed to terminate abruptly in a deep chasm.Once there, Crookleg threw himself upon the ground, motioning the Indian to do the same.Nelatu complied, still watching for any movement of betrayal on the part of his guide.With a stealthy hand the negro parted the bushes, and signed to the young man to look through the opening.He did so.Before his eyes was the entrance of a cave or grotto.Inside the entrance a pine-torch, stuck in the ground, illumined a portion of the interior.The light was obscured by the bushes, and it was only when these were parted that it became visible.Inside the grotto was Sansuta. She was reposing upon a bed of moss.Behind her, on a large boulder of rock, sat Warren Rody!Nelatu was on the point of rushing forward, when he was stayed by the negro’s hand clutching his arm.“Not yet, massa,” he whispered, “you’d be shot afore you get two steps in dar, and dis poor ole nigga would nebba get away ’gain. Let me go speak first, and gib Massa Rody de signal; and den I’ll find a way to bring him out to you. Don’t you see that’ll be de best plan to fix him?”“I cannot trust you from my sight. Take your hand off my arm! let me go!”“Oh, massa, I shall be ruined, and murdered complete. Don’t you see dat afore you reach him he’d see you and fire? De ole nigga’s plan am de best. Let me bring de fox out ob his hole!”Crookleg spoke reasonably.Nelatu might, it is true, have easily killed Warren from where he lay, but his sister’s presence, Wacora’s command, and a certain reluctance to shed blood, stayed his hand.“Well, then, do it, but on conditions.”“What conditions, Massa Injun? Name ’em, and I’se obey.”“That you bring him away from my sister’s side out here into the open ground; that every word you speak shall be loud enough for me to hear. Go!”“I’ll go, massa.”“See!”As Nelatu uttered this monosyllable he tapped his rifle.Crookleg took the hint.“I’se swear, massa, do dis ting right! Dis ole nigga don’t want no bullet through him karkiss. I’se swear to do as you say!”With this asseveration he rose erect and entered boldly among the bushes, while Nelatu concealed himself behind them.Warren started to his feet, calling out—“Who’s there?”“Hush, Massa Warren! It’s only me—ole Crookleg.”“Come in, Crookleg.”“No, Massa Warren, you come out here. I’se want to show you somethin’.”With a hasty glance at the slumbering maiden Warren Rody emerged from the cave.At the entrance he was suddenly confronted by Nelatu.“Nelatu!”A yell of fiendish laughter from Crookleg answered the exclamation.“He, he, he, he! ho, ho, ho! Oh, dat am de best ting dis ole nigga eber done! Ah, de time am comin’ now! Ho, ho! Massa Warren, who kicked de ole dog of a nigga wot fetch and carry for de white man to de Injun gal? Ha, ha, ha! I ’clare to mercy it am splendid! Now I’ll leave you two friends togedder; but don’t quarrel—don’t! Only remember, Massa Warren, remember Crookleg to your dyin’ day!”With these words the negro darted off, and was soon lost to sight behind the bushes.Warren stood grating his teeth in impotent rage.He saw that he had fallen into a trap laid for him by Crookleg.Nelatu stirred not an inch.Again young Rody pronounced his name.“Nelatu!”“Yes, Nelatu—the brother of Sansuta! Does not the sight of me turn you into stone? Is your heart so hardened that you do not tremble?”Warren gave a short, mocking laugh.“Go away from here,” he said; “I owe no account of my actions to any one.”“Yes, you owe an account of them to that Great Spirit who is alike your God and mine.”“Pah! stand aside, I say.”“My arm will brain you if you move or step! Nelatu is a chief, andmustbe heard!”“Well, then, go on.”“You once said you were my friend. Nelatu tears your friendship from his breast and casts it to the wind! You are an assassin—a thief! What answer do you make?”“I make none.”“You are right; nothing can be said to palliate the crime of falsehood, murder, and robbery! Come along with me.”“Indeed! Where to?”“To our chief—to Wacora.”“A prisoner?”“Yes.”“And who is to take me?”“I will.”“You!” retorted Rody, with a sneer.“Yes; your life was in my hands but a minute ago. You live only because I would not kill you in my sister’s presence. Your very slave has proved false to you. You are in my power; Wacora shall pass sentence on you, and that sentence will be death.”With a bound Warren rushed at Nelatu, who, suddenly dropping his rifle, grappled with him.A terrible struggle ensued.The young men were about equally matched in size and strength, while each knew that it was a contest for life or death.Warren, by his unexpected onset, had at first some advantage over his antagonist; but the Indian speedily recovered it by his great power of endurance.All feeling of pity had vanished from his breast. He had intended to take him a prisoner; he would now kill him.He made several unsuccessful efforts to draw his tomahawk; whilst Warren, inspired by the certainty that death would be the result, strove to his utmost to prevent him from wielding the weapon.Long did they continue the struggle without either speaking a word. Their heavy breathing, as they rolled over and over on the grass, was the only audible sound.Nelatu at length succeeded in getting his antagonist under him, and with one arm strove to hold him, whilst with the other he groped for his tomahawk.At this moment Warren made a superhuman effort, threw the Indian off, and, with the speed of lightning, snatched his rifle from the ground.Nelatu had stumbled as he was thrown off, and lay sprawling upon the earth.Another instant and he would have had a bullet through his body.Was it an echo that answered the cocking of the rifle held in Rody’s hand?That was the last thought that crossed Warren Rody’s mind.The next moment he was a corpse.A bullet had pierced his brain!It came from Maracota’s gun, who had arrived upon the ground at the moment of Nelatu’s fall.Before either of the two Indians could speak a word, a piercing cry echoed in upon their ears; a girl came gliding through the bushes, and flung herself prostrate over the body.It was Sansuta!The air was filled with her lamentations as she kissed the cold forehead of Warren Rody, and with a thousand endearing terms endeavoured to recall him to life.Nelatu approached and gently raised her from the ground.He was about to address her, but he started back in horror.Her wild, starting eyes, with that unmeaning smile upon her lips, told the sad tale.Her reason had departed.
For more than an hour Crookleg was compelled to use the oars, until they had reached the other side of the lagoon.
Nelatu, silent and wrapped in his own gloomy thoughts, watched his every motion.
It was twilight when they made a landing within a sheltered bay upon that side of the swamp nearest the settlement.
Beyond this lay the woods of which the negro had spoken.
Compelling the black to precede him, Nelatu urged him forward until they had reached a mound covered with bushes.
“Hush! Massa Injun, we are near de place.”
“I see no signs of habitation!”
“We is near it, for all dat. It ain’t a easy ting to find a place like dis ’ere whare dere are nuffin to show but de ground and dese ere bushes!”
“Quick! lead me to the place!”
“By-am-by, massa; for a mercy’s sake hab jist a little patience. ’Twont do no good to be in a hurry, ’twont, indeed.”
Suspecting treachery, Nelatu would hear of no delay.
“Remember, slave! what I threatened you with. Conduct me at once to their hiding-place!”
“Well, den, Massa Injun, if you must go, step light, or we’ll gib Massa Warren de alarm. He’s as quick eared as a rabbit; dat he am. And he may shoot us both afore we know; dat is, if he ’spects you am coming after de gal.”
With this caution, to which his companion silently agreed, they skirted the mound to its extreme end, where it seemed to terminate abruptly in a deep chasm.
Once there, Crookleg threw himself upon the ground, motioning the Indian to do the same.
Nelatu complied, still watching for any movement of betrayal on the part of his guide.
With a stealthy hand the negro parted the bushes, and signed to the young man to look through the opening.
He did so.
Before his eyes was the entrance of a cave or grotto.
Inside the entrance a pine-torch, stuck in the ground, illumined a portion of the interior.
The light was obscured by the bushes, and it was only when these were parted that it became visible.
Inside the grotto was Sansuta. She was reposing upon a bed of moss.
Behind her, on a large boulder of rock, sat Warren Rody!
Nelatu was on the point of rushing forward, when he was stayed by the negro’s hand clutching his arm.
“Not yet, massa,” he whispered, “you’d be shot afore you get two steps in dar, and dis poor ole nigga would nebba get away ’gain. Let me go speak first, and gib Massa Rody de signal; and den I’ll find a way to bring him out to you. Don’t you see that’ll be de best plan to fix him?”
“I cannot trust you from my sight. Take your hand off my arm! let me go!”
“Oh, massa, I shall be ruined, and murdered complete. Don’t you see dat afore you reach him he’d see you and fire? De ole nigga’s plan am de best. Let me bring de fox out ob his hole!”
Crookleg spoke reasonably.
Nelatu might, it is true, have easily killed Warren from where he lay, but his sister’s presence, Wacora’s command, and a certain reluctance to shed blood, stayed his hand.
“Well, then, do it, but on conditions.”
“What conditions, Massa Injun? Name ’em, and I’se obey.”
“That you bring him away from my sister’s side out here into the open ground; that every word you speak shall be loud enough for me to hear. Go!”
“I’ll go, massa.”
“See!”
As Nelatu uttered this monosyllable he tapped his rifle.
Crookleg took the hint.
“I’se swear, massa, do dis ting right! Dis ole nigga don’t want no bullet through him karkiss. I’se swear to do as you say!”
With this asseveration he rose erect and entered boldly among the bushes, while Nelatu concealed himself behind them.
Warren started to his feet, calling out—
“Who’s there?”
“Hush, Massa Warren! It’s only me—ole Crookleg.”
“Come in, Crookleg.”
“No, Massa Warren, you come out here. I’se want to show you somethin’.”
With a hasty glance at the slumbering maiden Warren Rody emerged from the cave.
At the entrance he was suddenly confronted by Nelatu.
“Nelatu!”
A yell of fiendish laughter from Crookleg answered the exclamation.
“He, he, he, he! ho, ho, ho! Oh, dat am de best ting dis ole nigga eber done! Ah, de time am comin’ now! Ho, ho! Massa Warren, who kicked de ole dog of a nigga wot fetch and carry for de white man to de Injun gal? Ha, ha, ha! I ’clare to mercy it am splendid! Now I’ll leave you two friends togedder; but don’t quarrel—don’t! Only remember, Massa Warren, remember Crookleg to your dyin’ day!”
With these words the negro darted off, and was soon lost to sight behind the bushes.
Warren stood grating his teeth in impotent rage.
He saw that he had fallen into a trap laid for him by Crookleg.
Nelatu stirred not an inch.
Again young Rody pronounced his name.
“Nelatu!”
“Yes, Nelatu—the brother of Sansuta! Does not the sight of me turn you into stone? Is your heart so hardened that you do not tremble?”
Warren gave a short, mocking laugh.
“Go away from here,” he said; “I owe no account of my actions to any one.”
“Yes, you owe an account of them to that Great Spirit who is alike your God and mine.”
“Pah! stand aside, I say.”
“My arm will brain you if you move or step! Nelatu is a chief, andmustbe heard!”
“Well, then, go on.”
“You once said you were my friend. Nelatu tears your friendship from his breast and casts it to the wind! You are an assassin—a thief! What answer do you make?”
“I make none.”
“You are right; nothing can be said to palliate the crime of falsehood, murder, and robbery! Come along with me.”
“Indeed! Where to?”
“To our chief—to Wacora.”
“A prisoner?”
“Yes.”
“And who is to take me?”
“I will.”
“You!” retorted Rody, with a sneer.
“Yes; your life was in my hands but a minute ago. You live only because I would not kill you in my sister’s presence. Your very slave has proved false to you. You are in my power; Wacora shall pass sentence on you, and that sentence will be death.”
With a bound Warren rushed at Nelatu, who, suddenly dropping his rifle, grappled with him.
A terrible struggle ensued.
The young men were about equally matched in size and strength, while each knew that it was a contest for life or death.
Warren, by his unexpected onset, had at first some advantage over his antagonist; but the Indian speedily recovered it by his great power of endurance.
All feeling of pity had vanished from his breast. He had intended to take him a prisoner; he would now kill him.
He made several unsuccessful efforts to draw his tomahawk; whilst Warren, inspired by the certainty that death would be the result, strove to his utmost to prevent him from wielding the weapon.
Long did they continue the struggle without either speaking a word. Their heavy breathing, as they rolled over and over on the grass, was the only audible sound.
Nelatu at length succeeded in getting his antagonist under him, and with one arm strove to hold him, whilst with the other he groped for his tomahawk.
At this moment Warren made a superhuman effort, threw the Indian off, and, with the speed of lightning, snatched his rifle from the ground.
Nelatu had stumbled as he was thrown off, and lay sprawling upon the earth.
Another instant and he would have had a bullet through his body.
Was it an echo that answered the cocking of the rifle held in Rody’s hand?
That was the last thought that crossed Warren Rody’s mind.
The next moment he was a corpse.
A bullet had pierced his brain!
It came from Maracota’s gun, who had arrived upon the ground at the moment of Nelatu’s fall.
Before either of the two Indians could speak a word, a piercing cry echoed in upon their ears; a girl came gliding through the bushes, and flung herself prostrate over the body.
It was Sansuta!
The air was filled with her lamentations as she kissed the cold forehead of Warren Rody, and with a thousand endearing terms endeavoured to recall him to life.
Nelatu approached and gently raised her from the ground.
He was about to address her, but he started back in horror.
Her wild, starting eyes, with that unmeaning smile upon her lips, told the sad tale.
Her reason had departed.
Chapter Twenty Eight.The Struggle in the Stockade.On that same night the Indians, led by Wacora, stormed the stockade upon the hill.The combat proved long and desperate, but the place was at length taken.Bravely as the settlers fought, they had a foe to deal with implacable and determined.As fast as the red warriors fell in the attack, others took their places, and from out the darkness legions seemed to rise to avenge the deaths of their fallen comrades.The white women loaded the rifles, stood by their brothers and husbands assisting them in the fearful strife.But valour availed not; the settlers were doomed.Never had Elias Rody been seen to greater advantage.He seemed ubiquitous, cheering and inspiring the men around him.Many who had condemned him till then gave him credit for his bravery.He seemed to bear a charmed life, and was seen where-ever bullets whistled, unharmed and undaunted!All his hopes on earth were centred in successfully maintaining himself; and that strong physical courage which he undoubtedly possessed, stimulated by his frightful responsibility, made him for the moment heroic.His daughter, the gentle Alice, showed herself equally brave.She took under her care the wounded men—she who, at any other time, would have fainted at the sight of blood—bound up the ghastly wounds, and stood on that dreadful night by more than one death-bed, calm and courageous, upheld by the sustaining idea.But what availed courage and devotion against numbers?The stockade was at length carried, and, after it, the house, which was instantly given to the flames.A horrible carnage ensued amongst those who, unable to fly, were left to the besiegers’ fury.The worst passions were displayed in their worst forms, and helplessness pleaded in vain to hearts steeled with revenge.The moon’s rays lighted up a fearful scene.Corpses of Indians and settlers, with their wives and children strewed the ground of the enclosure!The glare of the burning house added to the horror of the sight.Some few of the colonists fled across the country, pursued by their relentless foes.Though a small number escaped with life, many perished in their flight.With revengeful cries the Indians sought for Elias Rody, but failed to find him.Had he, too, escaped?It seemed so, for nowhere could his body be discovered among the slain.His daughter had also disappeared.But half of their revenge seemed accomplished, and Wacora felt that, with Rody alive, his uncle’s death was not yet avenged.In vain did he send warrior after warrior in search of the missing man.All returned with the same answer.The white chief was not to be found!Enraged at being thus baffled in his revenge, Wacora called his straggling forces together, and returned with them to the Indian camp.After their departure there was profound stillness within the stockade, more awful from contrast with the battle there so late raging.The dead were left to repose in peace.For a long time this stillness continued unbroken.Then from afar sounds began to be heard, gradually drawing nearer and nearer.It was the howling of the gaunt Florida wolves as they scented a rich repast.Ere long they could be seen skulking through the enclosure, and quarrelling over the corpses upon the plain. Above them, with shadowy wings, the vultures hovered, waiting to come in for their share of the spoil.The moon sank in the sky, and drew a pall over the dreadful sight.At intervals a flickering tongue of flame shooting up from the expiring embers of the burnt house, imparted a weird aspect to the scene, lighting it up, only to display its ghastly horrors.Where was Elias Rody?He had proved deceitful to the last.Wacora and his warriors had sought him everywhere, but had failed to find him.For all that he was near.In the last attack made by the red men, he had been wounded—not severely, but sufficiently to make him feel faint and giddy. He knew that he could no longer hope for success, and determined, if possible, to save his own life while there was a chance.Amidst the smoke and confusion he found no difficulty in withdrawing from the combat. Remembering a species of cellar he had caused to be dug in the rear of the house, he staggered towards it, and reached it unobserved.He paused before entering. A thought of Alice arrested him—the thought of the hopelessness of saving her, and tottering forward, half-blinded by his own blood, he descended the steps of the cellar, at the bottom of which he fell insensible to the floor.The yells of the victorious Indians, the glare of the burning mansion, the shrieks of the wounded, and the agonising wail of defenceless women and children as they committed their souls to Heaven, Elias Rody, though the cause of all this, heard nothing.Beneath his own burning house, miraculously sheltered by some huge timbers which had fallen over the excavation, he lay for a long time insensible to thought as to feeling.When he at length recovered consciousness, and crawled forth from his concealment, the sun had risen, lighting up the ruined pile.He shuddered at the sight.He suffered a thousand deaths in the contemplation of the horrors his mad selfishness had caused.Bitter remorse, stronger than his shattered physical frame could endure, gnawed at his heart. But it was selfish remorse for all that.Here was vengeance for Oluski, had the chief only been alive to witness it.Too weak to get away from the spot, Rody groaned in the bitterness of his spirit.“Ten thousand times may I be accursed for all this! Fool—blind, infatuated fool—that I have been. Every aspiration might have been gratified, every hope fulfilled, had not my impatience blinded me against caution. May the fiend of darkness overtake these red—”How long this tirade of blasphemous repentance of his villainy might have lasted it is impossible to say. It was stopped, however, by a physical pain, and with a faint voice, he cried—“Water! water!”Blood there was in plenty around him, but not one drop of water.Others had yelled for it through the long, dreadful night, as agonisingly as he, but had been answered by the same solemn silence.Theyhad died in their agony. Why should not he?“Well, then, let death come! The full accumulation of mortal torment has fallen on myself; it cannot be greater?”Wrong in this, as in everything else.See! Skulking along the brow of the hill, stooping over and examining corpse after corpse, with a look of demoniac joy upon his hideous features, something in human shape, and yet scarce a man, appears.Horror of horrors! he is robbing the dead.Rody saw him not, for he had again fainted.With a harsh voice, rivalling the vulture’s croak, the skulker continued his hideous task.“Ha! ha! ha!” chuckled he to himself, “there am nice pickings after all for dis chile, boaf from de bodies of white man and de red. Bress de chances what set ’em agin’ each oder! Oh, but de ole nigger am glad—so glad! But where am he?—where am he? If dis chile don’t find him, why den his work ain’t more den half done!”Diligently did Crookleg, for it was he, continue to search, turning over dead bodies, snatching some bauble from their breasts, and so passing to others, as if still unsatisfied.For whom was he seeking?As he proceeded in his work, a voice that came from among a heap of ruins, was heard feebly calling for “water!”The negro started on hearing it, sending forth a shout of triumph.He had recognised it as the voice of Elias Rody, the man for whom he had been searching.As the latter recovered consciousness, he saw a hideous face close to his own, that caused him to start up, at the same time uttering a cry of horror.
On that same night the Indians, led by Wacora, stormed the stockade upon the hill.
The combat proved long and desperate, but the place was at length taken.
Bravely as the settlers fought, they had a foe to deal with implacable and determined.
As fast as the red warriors fell in the attack, others took their places, and from out the darkness legions seemed to rise to avenge the deaths of their fallen comrades.
The white women loaded the rifles, stood by their brothers and husbands assisting them in the fearful strife.
But valour availed not; the settlers were doomed.
Never had Elias Rody been seen to greater advantage.
He seemed ubiquitous, cheering and inspiring the men around him.
Many who had condemned him till then gave him credit for his bravery.
He seemed to bear a charmed life, and was seen where-ever bullets whistled, unharmed and undaunted!
All his hopes on earth were centred in successfully maintaining himself; and that strong physical courage which he undoubtedly possessed, stimulated by his frightful responsibility, made him for the moment heroic.
His daughter, the gentle Alice, showed herself equally brave.
She took under her care the wounded men—she who, at any other time, would have fainted at the sight of blood—bound up the ghastly wounds, and stood on that dreadful night by more than one death-bed, calm and courageous, upheld by the sustaining idea.
But what availed courage and devotion against numbers?
The stockade was at length carried, and, after it, the house, which was instantly given to the flames.
A horrible carnage ensued amongst those who, unable to fly, were left to the besiegers’ fury.
The worst passions were displayed in their worst forms, and helplessness pleaded in vain to hearts steeled with revenge.
The moon’s rays lighted up a fearful scene.
Corpses of Indians and settlers, with their wives and children strewed the ground of the enclosure!
The glare of the burning house added to the horror of the sight.
Some few of the colonists fled across the country, pursued by their relentless foes.
Though a small number escaped with life, many perished in their flight.
With revengeful cries the Indians sought for Elias Rody, but failed to find him.
Had he, too, escaped?
It seemed so, for nowhere could his body be discovered among the slain.
His daughter had also disappeared.
But half of their revenge seemed accomplished, and Wacora felt that, with Rody alive, his uncle’s death was not yet avenged.
In vain did he send warrior after warrior in search of the missing man.
All returned with the same answer.
The white chief was not to be found!
Enraged at being thus baffled in his revenge, Wacora called his straggling forces together, and returned with them to the Indian camp.
After their departure there was profound stillness within the stockade, more awful from contrast with the battle there so late raging.
The dead were left to repose in peace.
For a long time this stillness continued unbroken.
Then from afar sounds began to be heard, gradually drawing nearer and nearer.
It was the howling of the gaunt Florida wolves as they scented a rich repast.
Ere long they could be seen skulking through the enclosure, and quarrelling over the corpses upon the plain. Above them, with shadowy wings, the vultures hovered, waiting to come in for their share of the spoil.
The moon sank in the sky, and drew a pall over the dreadful sight.
At intervals a flickering tongue of flame shooting up from the expiring embers of the burnt house, imparted a weird aspect to the scene, lighting it up, only to display its ghastly horrors.
Where was Elias Rody?
He had proved deceitful to the last.
Wacora and his warriors had sought him everywhere, but had failed to find him.
For all that he was near.
In the last attack made by the red men, he had been wounded—not severely, but sufficiently to make him feel faint and giddy. He knew that he could no longer hope for success, and determined, if possible, to save his own life while there was a chance.
Amidst the smoke and confusion he found no difficulty in withdrawing from the combat. Remembering a species of cellar he had caused to be dug in the rear of the house, he staggered towards it, and reached it unobserved.
He paused before entering. A thought of Alice arrested him—the thought of the hopelessness of saving her, and tottering forward, half-blinded by his own blood, he descended the steps of the cellar, at the bottom of which he fell insensible to the floor.
The yells of the victorious Indians, the glare of the burning mansion, the shrieks of the wounded, and the agonising wail of defenceless women and children as they committed their souls to Heaven, Elias Rody, though the cause of all this, heard nothing.
Beneath his own burning house, miraculously sheltered by some huge timbers which had fallen over the excavation, he lay for a long time insensible to thought as to feeling.
When he at length recovered consciousness, and crawled forth from his concealment, the sun had risen, lighting up the ruined pile.
He shuddered at the sight.
He suffered a thousand deaths in the contemplation of the horrors his mad selfishness had caused.
Bitter remorse, stronger than his shattered physical frame could endure, gnawed at his heart. But it was selfish remorse for all that.
Here was vengeance for Oluski, had the chief only been alive to witness it.
Too weak to get away from the spot, Rody groaned in the bitterness of his spirit.
“Ten thousand times may I be accursed for all this! Fool—blind, infatuated fool—that I have been. Every aspiration might have been gratified, every hope fulfilled, had not my impatience blinded me against caution. May the fiend of darkness overtake these red—”
How long this tirade of blasphemous repentance of his villainy might have lasted it is impossible to say. It was stopped, however, by a physical pain, and with a faint voice, he cried—
“Water! water!”
Blood there was in plenty around him, but not one drop of water.
Others had yelled for it through the long, dreadful night, as agonisingly as he, but had been answered by the same solemn silence.Theyhad died in their agony. Why should not he?
“Well, then, let death come! The full accumulation of mortal torment has fallen on myself; it cannot be greater?”
Wrong in this, as in everything else.
See! Skulking along the brow of the hill, stooping over and examining corpse after corpse, with a look of demoniac joy upon his hideous features, something in human shape, and yet scarce a man, appears.
Horror of horrors! he is robbing the dead.
Rody saw him not, for he had again fainted.
With a harsh voice, rivalling the vulture’s croak, the skulker continued his hideous task.
“Ha! ha! ha!” chuckled he to himself, “there am nice pickings after all for dis chile, boaf from de bodies of white man and de red. Bress de chances what set ’em agin’ each oder! Oh, but de ole nigger am glad—so glad! But where am he?—where am he? If dis chile don’t find him, why den his work ain’t more den half done!”
Diligently did Crookleg, for it was he, continue to search, turning over dead bodies, snatching some bauble from their breasts, and so passing to others, as if still unsatisfied.
For whom was he seeking?
As he proceeded in his work, a voice that came from among a heap of ruins, was heard feebly calling for “water!”
The negro started on hearing it, sending forth a shout of triumph.
He had recognised it as the voice of Elias Rody, the man for whom he had been searching.
As the latter recovered consciousness, he saw a hideous face close to his own, that caused him to start up, at the same time uttering a cry of horror.