The Project Gutenberg eBook ofThe Wilderness TrailThis ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.Title: The Wilderness TrailAuthor: H. Bedford-JonesRelease date: February 16, 2022 [eBook #67418]Most recently updated: October 18, 2024Language: EnglishOriginal publication: United Kingdom: Hurst & Blackett, Ltd, 1923Credits: Al Haines*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE WILDERNESS TRAIL ***
This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.
Title: The Wilderness TrailAuthor: H. Bedford-JonesRelease date: February 16, 2022 [eBook #67418]Most recently updated: October 18, 2024Language: EnglishOriginal publication: United Kingdom: Hurst & Blackett, Ltd, 1923Credits: Al Haines
Title: The Wilderness Trail
Author: H. Bedford-Jones
Author: H. Bedford-Jones
Release date: February 16, 2022 [eBook #67418]Most recently updated: October 18, 2024
Language: English
Original publication: United Kingdom: Hurst & Blackett, Ltd, 1923
Credits: Al Haines
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE WILDERNESS TRAIL ***
By H. BEDFORD-JONES
Author of"Splendour of the Gods," "The Kasbah Gate," etc.
London: HURST & BLACKETT, LTD.PATERNOSTER HOUSE, E.C.
THE WILDERNESS TRAIL
The year 1810 was more commonly known, at least in the Kentucky wilderness, as the thirty-fourth year of the Independence of the United States. Backwoods folk are simple folk, proud of what they and their fathers have done.
Although split with vexatious questions of Federal or Democrat, rent asunder by argument over the Great Conspiracy of Aaron Burr, and menaced always by the gathered allied hordes of Tecumthe across the Indiana border, the settlers in and around Louisville forgot all these things in the one supreme fact that this was the thirty-fourth year of the United States.
Law had come into the country, to the bitterness of many. Land-titles and sorry scoundrels had in combination ousted many a less famous man than Colonel Daniel Boone from his holdings. Whisky and lawless border-life, to say nothing of the more lawless river-ways, had ruined more than one good man both in morals and reputation. Some said the western country had gone to the dogs; others said that the dogs had all come to the western country. Both sayings were true, in a sense.
So, then, in this thirty-fourth year of the United States, an old man stood on the Beargrass Creek Road, just out of Louisville, and swore volubly. A horseman had spattered him with mud. To his right was a fringe of trees, to his left the mudhole, and just beyond him was a bend in the road.
The old man was only five feet ten, but was thewed like a giant. As he wiped the mud from his cheek and glared at the returning horseman, he displayed a strong, keen-eyed face which sat well above powerful shoulders and barrel-like chest.
"Consarn the lawyers!" he cried angrily. "If I had my way, I'd hang every cussed lawyer in Kaintuck! Hanging's too good for 'em. Consarn 'em, I'd——"
The horseman had reined in at the bend and was now back beside the old man. He was a large athletic man, dressed in fine blue broadcloth, with pudding cravat and ear-high coat collar. He leaned over in his saddle with a smile.
"Sir, your pardon! The offence was unintentional. I take it that you have a grudge against lawyers, eh?"
"Huh!" The other grunted angrily, yet with none of the sputtering fury of old age. His words seemed calculated, in fact. "Huh! Hain't lawyers robbed me right and left an' driv me out o' Kaintuck? You're like all of 'em, consarn ye, slick and smooth! I ain't lived seventy-six year 'thout bein' able to read a man's face. Ye black-hearted Wyandot, why didn't ye turn out o' the way—huh?"
At these final words the horseman went white to the lips. He was handsome, dark of hair and eye, with thin lips, virile features, and powerful hands. Despite the careful attire and courtly air, however, there was an indescribably cruel curve to his thin lips and nostrils, an arrogance in his bearing, which seemed rather out of place in democratic Kentucky.
"Sir, I asked your pardon," he said in a deep voice, twitching his riding-whip against his boot. "In deference to your age I pass over your words——"
"Cuss yer impudence!" broke out the old man hotly, a flame leaping out in his blue eyes. "You're one o' them Louisville vultures, huh? I kin tell. Pass over my words, do ye? Well, ye git down out'n that saddle an' I'll give ye somethin' better to pass over. Hump down, consarn ye—I'll pay out one debt more on yer carcass afore I go back to Missoury!"
The old man did not look his seventy-six years. The wrathful earnestness of his bearing bespoke his entire willingness to chastise the lawyer, while there was a dangerous vitality in his high-browed face. The other gazed down steadily, contempt sitting in his proud dark eyes.
"I have no quarrel with you, sir," he returned slowly. "Yet if you would seek redress through the courts, you may seek me at Louisville, where I am well known. My name, sir, is Charles Duval, and I regret that my apology did not——"
His stately courtesy and slight trace of contempt served only to infuriate the old man the more. With one swift forward stride, he gripped the bridle of the horse.
"Git down out'n that saddle," he broke in. "I aim to git a feel o' yer hide right here an' now, consarn ye! I don't want no courts."
"Hands off, you fool!" whipped out Duval, deadly pale. He made as if to raise his riding-crop, put paused and twisted in the saddle at sound of a cheery voice from the bend of the road just behind him. It was a vibrant joyous voice, and the lilt of song rose clearly on the afternoon air.
Oh, I fit with Gen'ral Washington an' I'd like to fight some more,An' I'm going to join with Gen'ral Clark when next we go to war!I'll tote my Kaintuck rifle, and I'll raise the Kaintuck boys,And we'll sculp the bloody Britishers——
The singer jogged around the bend of trees and came to an abrupt halt as he sighted the two. His horse was good, his deerhide dress bad, his rifle brass-mounted, and his head bare. Glinting brown hair, a brown, clean-shaven face of youth and strong lines, and clear brown eyes formed a symphony of woods-colouring.
"Well, well!" His eyes twinkled slightly as he surveyed the scene before him. "Is this a highway robbery, friends? Strength assailed by old age—what an allegory we find here! And why not make youth the mediator, may I ask?"
His appearance seemed to quiet the rage of the old man, who released the horse's bridle and stepped back calmly. The newcomer met the steady look of Duval, but the twinkle passed from the brown eyes.
"Well?" he snapped suddenly. "Are you dumb, sir? I believe you intended to strike this old man with your whip?"
"Sir, you are at liberty to formulate your own beliefs," returned Duval coldly. "Kindly get out of my path at once."
"Ah, this is more like it!" exclaimed the stranger quickly. "And if I refuse?"
A tide of passion flooded over Duval's swarthy face. He pushed his horse toward the new-comer, lifting his whip. There was a slight, almost negligent motion, and he found himself staring into the mouth of the long rifle which had reposed on the brown man's saddle-bow.
"Well, try it," smiled the stranger, but with a glint in his brown eyes as they rested on Duval's furious face. "I fancy my powder is still a bit too good for wasting, unless you force me. If you wish to pass, sir—take the mud."
For a moment Duval was choked by his rage. While plainly no coward, he was checked both at sight of the ready trigger-finger and the cold purpose in the brown eyes. The old man, watching keenly, stooped and picked up his fallen cap of coonskin.
"Devil take you," cried Duval hoarsely, the intensity of his passion clenching all his face into wild fury. "Sir, I—I——"
Whatever he might have said was stopped by a thud of hoofs. Once more the bend in the quiet Beargrass Creek Road was invaded at a critical moment, and this time by a girl who rode from the direction whence Duval had come. And as before, the arrival broke off threatening hostilities.
She was a beautiful girl enough, with her fresh firm face and clear grey eyes, and the red-gold hair falling over her shoulders. Her steed was bony and her gown was homespun, but Duval swung his horse around with a graceful bow and swept his hat to his stirrup as she drew rein.
"May I ride back to town with you, Madam Trigg?" he asked quietly, giving no hint of the storm which a moment before had convulsed him. "It seems there are strangers and odd characters about, and it may well——"
He was interrupted by a cry of surprise. The girl slipped from her saddle as the old man stepped forward, and with a swift hug and a laugh of rippling delight she flung her arms about his neck.
"You!" she cried. "Why, where on earth did you come from?"
"Come from town," said the old man jerkily. He stared into her excited eyes with a flush of pleasure on his rugged old face, and seemed lost to all around. "Come in with some beaver, Kitty. Paid the ol' debts, every last man, thank God! Clean's a whistle now. Goin' out to Dick Taylor's, comin' to see you-all, then goin' back home. Be in town to-morrow sure."
His abrupt awkward speech drew another hug and a kiss from the girl, who then turned to her horse and scrambled to the saddle.
"Be sure you come, then!" she cried merrily, and looked at Duval: "I thank you for the courtesy, sir, and avail myself of it right gladly——"
She broke off at sight of the brown-eyed stranger, who had not moved. Duval touched his spurs and brought his horse beside hers.
"Out of the way," he commanded sharply. "This lady wishes to pass."
The leather-clad stranger smiled a little.
"And so she shall, friend Duval," he drawled easily. "I told you once that you might take the mud."
"Confound you, sir—would you dare shoot me?" broke in Duval furiously. "I dare you to do it, sir!"
"Well, that's a dare easily settled!" laughed the other, but his eyes remained very steady. Pressing his steed with his knee, he moved aside and left the inner edge of the road clear. "The lady is not hindered. As for you, if you doubt either my ability or my will, why not test the matter?"
Duval noted the crooked trigger-finger, muttered an impatient word, then turned and splashed through the muddy water. The girl went on, still gazing at the stranger. As he drew upon the dry road and waited, Duval turned.
"Take care of yourself!" he cried, his face livid.
"That is my business in life, thanks," returned the stranger, lightly, and so he found himself alone with the old man. Carefully uncocking his rifle, he swung down from the saddle and gripped hands with the other.
"Well, you seem to be in no great need of help," he chuckled, surveying the huge chest of the grey-haired man. "What's the matter, anyway? Did you have a fuss with his excellency?"
"Kind of that way," grinned the old man, to whom speech now seemed to come slowly. "Muddied me, the cussed law-shark! All alike, consarn 'em."
"Well, now he's gone, can you tell me where Colonel Dick Taylor lives?"
"Goin' there," grunted the other, jerking a thumb over his shoulder. His keen blue eyes searched the younger face shrewdly. "Young man, ye handled him right. You're a fine fellow. How are ye named?"
"Norton, John Norton," smiled the younger man. "I'm a captain in the Seventh Infantry, or was, and came up from New Orleans after resigning. So you're going to the Taylors, eh? Know young Zach? Do you live around here?"
"Uh-huh, I know him. Used to live here." The old man's face darkened as he glanced around. "Them cussed lawyers skun me out o' my land, consarn 'em! Live in Missoury now. Lots o' game there. Come back here to pay my debts—no man can't say I ain't honest. Them moccasins ain't Cherokee-made, are they?"
"What's your name?" asked Norton with frank interest. He clucked to his horse, and the steed followed them as they trudged along the road. The other only glanced down at the moccasins.
"Name's Boone," he grunted. "Them moccasins, now—they sartin look kind o' like——"
"Boone?" Norton stopped abruptly, a puzzled wonder in his eyes. "You're not Colonel Boone, by any chance? Colonel Daniel Boone?"
"That's me. About them mocc——"
"Well, by thunder!" Norton gasped, then laughed aloud as he seized Boone's hand in a hearty clasp and looked deep into the keen blue eyes. "Why, Colonel, I spent two days looking you up in Missouri, over on the Femme Osage! Your wife said you had gone east, either to Virginia or Tennessee. I was mighty anxious to see you—in fact, that's why I threw up my army commission."
"Huh! To see me?" Boone looked at him, then jerked his head. "Well, come along to Dick's. Find the wife well, did ye? Now tell me 'bout where ye got them moccasins——"
John Norton was lost in amazement at the manner in which he had chanced on the one man in the country he most desired to meet. Daniel Boone was not greatly honoured in that day. He had been out of the public view for twenty years and was not of the self-assertive type; his fame seemed to be dying out with the older generation of frontiersmen. Driven into the South-west, he still made long, lonely forays through the South and East, hunting and trapping and seeking the solitude he loved.
At Femme Osage, Norton had missed him by a month. Then the young ex-officer had come on by flatboat to Fort Massac, and from there overland to Louisville. He said no more of his journey than this, but Boone looked at the delicate yet decisive profile, the brown eyes which could twinkle like a star or leap out hard and cold like a sword—and nodded to himself.
"Ye knew Zach down to N'Orleens, mebbe? He's in the Seventh, ain't he?"
"Yes," nodded Norton. "We were great friends, till he came North with fever. How is he? All right?"
Boone chuckled. "The cuss has got married, Norton."
"What? He has?" Norton whistled, then broke into a laugh. "Someone here?"
"No—him and me brung her over from Maryland. Got here a month ago. We located beaver on the way, so I went back an' got enough pelt to pay up some ol' debts here in Louisville—consarn them lawyers!"
Norton was not altogether surprised at Zach Taylor's marriage. He had gained his captaincy at the time Zach joined the regiment in New Orleans as lieutenant. Barely had the two men become friends when young Taylor went home on sick-leave. This had been two years before, and the reason for his prolonged absence was now evident. Norton's business concerned Colonel Richard Taylor, Zach's father, no less than it did Boone, so he had come on to Louisville after missing the old frontiersman at Femme Osage. Now, by a fortunate chance, he had come upon Boone as well—a good presage, he reflected. He was like to have need of all the friends he could muster.
The two tramped along between the cottonwoods, and in a few moments sighted the clustering log and frame buildings of the Taylor farm, six miles above the city itself. Colonel Taylor, or "Colonel Dick" as he was known along the frontier, had been Collector of the Port of Louisville until Louisiana ceased to be foreign territory, in 1804, but for the past six years had abstained from politics altogether and devoted himself to his farm. With the exception of George Rogers Clark, who lived across the river from Louisville, he was the town's most prominent citizen, however; an old friend of President Madison, his influence at Washington bore no little weight.
As the two men approached the farm, negroes came running out, Boone was recognized with a delighted shout, and from the different buildings appeared the family itself. Colonel Taylor and his wife were joined by Zach and his bride, and while Norton's horse was led away he met with an exuberant welcome from the hard-featured kindly-eyed lieutenant, his own elder by two years.
"Dad, this is Captain Norton," cried Taylor, introducing his friend in mad delight. "He's the man I've told you about so much—the officer who cleared out those river pirates by Nagatoches! Margaret—Mother! Upon my word, Jack, what the devil brought you here?"
This final outburst of helpless amazement evoked a general laugh, and Norton found himself placed at his ease by the quiet hospitality of old Colonel Dick. Boone was the guest of honour, however, and the old frontiersman was at once accorded an easy chair by the fireplace when the party gathered inside to hear the news.
Of this Boone brought little enough, beyond the fact he had cleared off his old debts and was ready to start for Missouri with a dollar in his pocket and a clear mind.
"You just missed Kitty Grigg," said Colonel Dick. "She was out here to visit Margaret, while I was trying to keep that skunk Duval from ridin' home with her——"
"Ye didn't do it," chuckled Boone. "We met 'em—consarn them lawyers!"
He proceeded to give a brief account of the meeting, which drew a roar of applause from Zach and his father. Norton, however, was bent on more serious matters than visiting, and waved aside the eager questions which rained upon him.
"No, there's no news—General Harrison is keeping things pretty quiet along the border, and the last I heard there was no immediate talk of a British war. I believe Zach's going to get a captaincy before long, though. I've resigned, and the older officers won't transfer into the Seventh; they think the regiment won't last long——"
"You've resigned?" broke in Zach blankly. "Why—good Lord, Jack! You ain't goin' to take up farming? Got married?"
"Neither one," laughed Norton easily. "I have letters to you, Colonel Taylor, to Governor Harrison, and to Colonel Boone here—and I want help. There's been a good deal of piracy of late, as you may know, and my business here is to get that mysterious fellow, Blacknose——"
His words were drowned in a sudden crash, as Boone knocked over one of the huge andirons with his foot. Zachary Taylor darted to the door and slammed it with a bang; Mrs. Taylor went white, and Colonel Dick started abruptly.
"My dear Norton," he said quickly, frowning, "your business here had best wait until the morning, when we will go to town with Colonel Boone and talk it over then. Margaret, will you see that the guest-cab in is made ready? How did you make out with your beaver, Daniel?"
And Norton fell into an amazed silence, while old Boone told of his hunting trip, Why had the mere name of a river-pirate brought fear to such men as these, and pallor to the faces of the two women?
"By thunder!" he exclaimed inwardly, listening to the old frontiersman's jerky sentences. "I wonder if I've struck a bigger thing than they dreamed of at New Orleans?"
Upon attaining his majority three years before, John Norton had gained a commission through the influence of his uncle, a merchant at New Orleans. Yellow fever had left him alone in the world six months afterward, and he had looked forward to a career in the army. By a curious combination of circumstances, however, he had now resigned that career to enter on a more hazardous and difficult task.
What he remembered of his life had been centred about New Orleans, but beyond a casual acquaintance with his uncle's business he had not lingered about the city save for a few weeks at a time. A few years of wandering in the Southern woods with friendly Indians, traders, and frontiersmen had given him a thorough mastery of woodcraft; with this his brief military career had not interfered, for he had conducted several treaty-making or mapping expeditions through eastern Louisiana, once as far as Florida.
Now, however, a new service had offered itself to him. The Ohio Valley trade came largely to St. Louis and New Orleans, by means of arks and flatboats. It was easy to float down with the current, and men took down their wares, sold them, and came back overland, for the return river journey was difficult. A few years before, banditti had been numerous until the Kentucky riflemen had broken up the Harpe and Mason gang of pirates. Since that time there had arisen a new king of the lawless, whose doings had all but paralyzed the river trade.
"Let me give you my own story first, gentlemen," said Norton quietly, as he rode between Colonel Dick and Boone, with Zach just ahead. "Since you seem to jump at the very name of Blacknose, things must indeed be in a poor state up here."
The others merely nodded. All four were riding slowly toward Louisville; the sun was but recently up, and in the brisk morning air all thought of danger or trouble seemed very vague and distant. Yet Boone's keen gaze never left the roadside.
"As you will, sir," responded Colonel Dick courteously. "My son has told us of you, and we would be only too glad to hear of your family. I knew a gallant gentleman of your name—a Major Charles Norton, of my own Virginian regiment under General Washington."
"He was my father." And Norton's face darkened.
"What, sir—your father!" Colonel Taylor drew rein suddenly.
"Yes. He brought his family west, expecting to settle at Cincinnati—he was a member of that society, of course, and was attracted by the name. He had barely reached there when he found a message from my Uncle John, who had gone to St. Louis. My father decided to join him, and undertook the trip with a brother officer named Moore.
"This was in the fall of 1790, when I was four years old. During the winter my father and Captain Moore built a large ark, and early in the spring embarked both families, with their property and slaves. The ark passed Louisville, and after that—it vanished."
"Good heavens, sir—what do you mean?" demanded Colonel Taylor, staring. Norton smiled.
"River pirates. I was fetched to St. Louis by my old nigger mammy in a crazy canoe; she died before she could more than tell who I was, having been shot. Beyond a doubt the ark was surprised, either by Indians or pirates, only my devoted old black mammy getting me away. The rest were never heard from again——"
Norton proceeded to give a brief account of how his uncle had adopted him, later removing to New Orleans, and of how his own life had fitted him for the task in hand.
"Now, as you all know," he continued calmly, "the river somewhere between here and Fort Massac has been terrorized by a band of river pirates. Whether whites or Indians, no one knows, for the simple reason that they take no prisoners. For some reason the rumour has crept out that their leader is called Blacknose, and is a member of the old Mason gang. This may or may not be true——"
"For heaven's sake, man, don't speak that name!" broke out the younger Taylor. "If any group discusses the name in these parts, they suffer for it. Dad urged the Legislature to send out the militia to guard the river against him; three days later our barns were burned. The same thing has happened to other men. We know nothing more about the gang than you do, except that it must have an excellent spy system."
Norton listened, his face setting into cold lines.
"No one asks you to talk of him," he returned grimly. "I'll do all that's necessary. Three months ago the New Orleans merchants got together to discuss the damages being wrought upon the river-trade; they knew I was a woodsman and that I had had the luck to break up that Nagatoches gang, so they came to me. I accepted the task of smashing this Blacknose, and I mean to do it. Gentlemen, my letters."
With this, he handed a letter each to Boone and Taylor, then moved a few paces on to the side of the lieutenant.
"See here, Norton," exclaimed the latter, with a glance at his father, "let me join you in——"
"Not much, Zach." And Norton smiled grimly. "You're a farmer, not a woodsman; besides, you've a bride to take care of. No—that's final."
Taylor said no more, and John Norton gazed out at the view beyond the little rising knoll on which they stood. It was close enough to the river to be in sight of the falls, and directly opposite them, on the Indiana shore, was Clarksville. Norton's eye lingered a moment on the large house which stood at the point of rocks; he had learned on the previous day that this was the home of George Rogers Clark, one of the great frontier heroes, but now an old man and crippled.
His gaze swept on to Louisville, half of its one street hidden by a rising knoll of cot ton woods. The stone court-house, the bell-roofed taverns, the Gault gardens at the upper end of town—Norton looked past these to Shippingsport, the little harbour below the falls, and his eyes narrowed. Here began his trail, as he knew well. From Shippingsport went out every ounce of freight to New Orleans from Louisville and all points up-river, for only experienced pilots could bring any craft through the falls. Louisville was to all intents the starting-point of river traffic, and somewhere between Louisville and Fort Massac, at the juncture of the Ohio and Mississippi, had vanished a full third of all the rich cargoes sent down in the past three years.
Having already mapped out a vague plan in his mind, he turned to the two older men, and smiled slightly. Boone had just finished spelling out his letter painfully enough, and was staring at it in disgust; Colonel Taylor was looking at his horse's head with a stern sadness, the cause of which the younger man knew only too well.
"One moment, Colonel Dick," said Norton gently. The two gazed up quickly. "I wish to draw you into nothing which can——"
"Captain Norton," broke in the other sternly, "I have never refused to do my duty, whatever the consequences, nor do I intend to falter now. My aid is yours, sir."
"You mistake me," smiled Norton, trying to offset the hint of tragedy in the other's eyes, "Since conditions here are as you inform me, there is no reason for my incriminating you. If these river pirates really have a spy system in effect, my mission will be discovered sooner or later. Do you go on to town with Zach; from this moment we are strangers. The only good you can do me is to request those whom you can trust that they will supply all I demand and draw on the New Orleans merchants who signed that letter to you. For your sake and that of your family, do as I ask. In this manner you can serve me best. Colonel Boone will, I am sure, bear me out in this."
The old frontiersman nodded quickly. Colonel Taylor hesitated, then stretched a hand to Norton.
"God bless you, my boy—and if you need help in the open, come to me."
Norton smiled, exchanged a handgrip and a word with Lieutenant Taylor, and watched father and son ride off toward the town. Then he turned to Boone, to find the old man looking glumly at him.
"Well?" he laughed questioningly. "Has Blacknose taken the heart out of you, or have you forgotten how to fire a rifle?"
To his intense amazement, Boone nodded and spat in the road.
"Yep. That's it. See here, Norton: I fit Injuns all my life and I ain't quit yet, but my hide's got to feelin' good on my back. Now I'm goin' to help you, but I ain't goin' to hunt them river pirates. I ain't ripe to die, not by a good ways! No, sir! I'm a God-fearin' man, Norton, and I ain't huntin' after trouble."
"What do you mean?" queried the perplexed Norton, taken utterly aback by the old man's attitude. "What can I count on——"
"You listen here." Boone's blue eyes wandered off among the trees as he spoke. "I ain't afeard o' no man livin', but I got a wife to pervide for. Now, we'll go down to the tavern and I'll bring you a feller who knows the hull country around here and who'll act as go-betwixt for anything you want. How you fixed on the military end?"
"I've letters to General Harrison from General Wilkinson, which will allow me to make use of the militia if I wish. Why?"
"Well, you 'tend to the military yourself an' listen here." Boone leaned over and dropped his voice, his eyes still on the trees. "Ye know where Blue River runs into the Ohio? Well, forty-five mile down the river from here, an' twelve mile this side o' Blue River, there's a big rocky cliff on the Injianny shore, with a cabin an' mebbe more cabins under it. Butyoustay on the Kaintuck side, mind. D'reckly opposite that cliff, ye'll find a big cottonwood blazed north an' south. Head right south from that there tree, an' in less'n two mile you'll find a cabin. That's where Red Hugh lives. Go an' find him if he's there; if he ain't, wait till he comes back. Tell him 'bout me sending ye, and ask fer help if ye need it."
"Who's Red Hugh?" demanded Norton, wondering.
"That's more'n I can tell ye." And Boone shook his head. "I've knowed him off an' on hard on twenty year. He raises crops there, an' goes on reg'lar spring an' fall hunts after Injuns. They killed off his fam'ly, I reckon, an' God ain't softened his heart yet—though He will some day, I reckon. He most gen'rally does—Lay down!Quick!"
The last three words shot out with vehement force; instinctively, Norton obeyed the swift gesture and ducked forward. Something sang over his head, almost brushing his hair; there came a crack on the wind, and he looked up to see a little drift of white rise from a clump of cottonwoods a hundred yards away.
Before he quite realized what had happened, the rifle was torn out of his hand and Boone was sighting. The flint fell uselessly, and with a muttered curse the old frontiersman slipped from his horse and ran for the trees whence had come the shot. Norton, now comprehending, was after him instantly.
Active though he was, he had hard work keeping up with Boone. Together they gained the trees, to find nothing more than a slight tinge of powder on the air, until Boone leaned over the ground, pointing.
"Here he was, the skunk! Come on, now."
His trained eye making out the tracks, Norton followed. After five minutes they came out on Beargrass Creek, and on the opposite shore was no trail.
"Slipped us," cried Boone savagely. "Consarn him! He might ha' gone up or down, so let's git out o' here whilst our hides are safe."
Whereupon, the old woodsman turned and incontinently made for the horses, as did Norton. The assassin had had time to reload, and tracking him in the river bed was impossible. When they had regained the horses, Boone held out something to Norton.
"Find the feller who owns this, an' ye've got him. I reckon your errand has slipped out, friend."
Norton smiled faintly at the grim sarcasm in the old man's voice, and looked at the object. It was the plug of a powder-horn evidently dropped in haste. Finely carved in greyish horn, the stopper was crossed lengthwise by a band of red.
"You find a feller with a horn what's got a red streak in it," went on Boone, "and a wooden plug; he's wearin' Shawnee moccasins instead o' boots; he's left-handed, 'cause he rested his rifle that side o' the tree, an' I wouldn't wonder but what he was cross-eyed."
"Huh? Why cross-eyed?" queried Norton, frowning, and dropped the plug in his shirt.
"'Cause he didn't see me a-watchin' them trees," cackled the old man, and swung up to his saddle. "Now let's git away from here; it makes me plumb scared. What do you reckon ye'll do first off?"
"Take advice," smiled Norton easily. "All I can get. I fancy the pirates are in league with some one here, for they've dropped on the best cargoes and let the poor ones pass by. It looks as if they had spies here, sure enough."
"An' one of 'em's wearin' Shawnee moccasins," chuckled Boone. "Well, afore ye git desp'rit, go see Red Hugh. Now, you git up to the tavern an' wait till I come. I'm a-goin' to see Kitty Grigg."
"Kitty Grigg?" Norton's mind went back swiftly to the girl he had glimpsed on the previous day. "Who is she, Colonel?"
"Well, Ol' Abel Grigg 'lows she's his daughter," returned the other slowly. "'Fraid Abel ain't much account, though. He was with me back in the Blue Lick massacree, and cert'nly fit good, but went bad later. I've knowed Kathleen sence afore I went to Missouri, and if she's Abel's daughter, then, by gum, I'll sculp myself!"
"Grigg lives at Louisville, then?"
"No—he's a hunter, mostly. Has a farm back o' town a piece. Well, see ye later! What tavern ye goin' to?"
"The 'Steuben Arms', just beyond Doctor Gault's residence."
Boone nodded, and rode off along a forest trail leading to the south, while Norton pursued his course into town.
Who had fired that shot? He thought of Duval's threat, but Duval was no woodsman, and the assassin was, as his method of escape testified. It seemed much more likely that, as Boone had said, some hint of his mission had leaked out.
How that could have been, Norton knew not. He had breathed no word of it to any man from leaving New Orleans until reaching the Taylor farm, nor had he discussed either piracy in general or Blacknose in particular. He had kept his ears open along the frontier but had learned nothing; no one had ever seen Blacknose, no one so much as knew whether there were a Blacknose or not. The name was a rumour, a border myth—and only in Louisville was it backed up by reality, reflected Norton.
He had not been sent on any false trail, that was certain. Neither the up-river farmers and merchants nor those of New Orleans could give him any definite information; yet both they and Norton knew well that in this year of grace, 1810, when settlements and cabins were scattered all along the Ohio and Mississippi, flatboat after flatboat could not vanish into thin air with their crews.
Norton's private opinion had been that Blacknose was a renegade who led a band of Indians and kept in touch with some one at Louisville for information. That opinion was sorely shaken by what the Taylors had said, however. He began to think the whole affair was engineered by river pirates alone, and so rode slowly into town, lost in thought. Nor did he forget the horn plug which now reposed in his pocket. Sooner or later he would find the man who wore Shawnee moccasins and whose powder-horn was mottled with a red streak, and he promised himself that something unpleasant would happen to the gentleman in question.
As he splashed through the mud in front of the courthouse, he saw the figure of Duval going up the steps. The lawyer had not observed him, however, and Norton watched him disappear inside. For the Far West the courthouse was a stately building, with its two stories, ornate cupola, and handsome pillars.
The Louisianian rode slowly on down the one principal street toward the lower end of town, and so came to the "Steuben Arms", whose host had once served under the fiery baron in the late war. Indeed, it was for this reason alone that Norton had chosen the place, for it was none of the best; he had been disappointed in finding Bower an infirm, mumbling old veteran.
Dismounting, he gave his reins to the waiting negro, nodded to old Bower as he passed through the public room, and sought his own chambers. He had no desire to hang about below-stairs, since the inn seemed frequented by rivermen.
The morning was well advanced when, in response to a knock, Norton opened the door and admitted Colonel Boone and a stranger. This stranger was a peculiar individual, even for a time when the border was crowded with peculiar personages. He was dressed in a dirty shirt with dirty ruffles, an ancient beaver, ancient scarlet velvet breeches, shoes which had burst at the toes, and a greatcoat of reddish fustian. Below a greasy and dishevelled wig, his face was small and pinched, yet very ruddy and healthy; he seemed to Norton an odd little old man, and his black eyes twinkled perpetually.
"Captain Norton, my friend, Mr. Elisha Ayres, Gent.," declaimed Boone with something like a grin. "Ayres, young Norton's the likeliest feller I've seen in a coon's age."
"That, sir," averred Mr. Ayres in a slow and precise tone, "is a truer knighthood than any which could be bestowed by the crowned heads of the Old World! I trust you appreciate the honour, Mr. Norton, sir! I am yours to command."
"You can trust Mr. Ayres, Norton," continued Boone. "Now, I'm goin' to git home. Pow'ful glad I met ye, Norton, and if ye need to do a little shootin', go find Red Hugh. Ye can trust Elisha——"
"You're not starting for Missouri—now?" inquired the astonished Norton.
"Not yet—goin' to crack a bowl o' punch at Doc Gault's first." And Boone shook hands with both men, then turned to the door. Norton had a last glimpse of the barrel-like chest, grey hair, and keen eyes; then Boone was gone with a final wave of the hand.
"Well, Captain Norton," began Ayres in his dry precise manner, "Colonel Boone has told me of your mission in these parts, sir. I congratulate you heartily, sir, and I congratulate these United States upon having a public servant of your spirit——"
Norton smiled to himself. He began to think that Boone had made the best of a bad bargain by passing off the first person he had picked up as an assistant.
"What is your business, Mr. Ayres?" he inquired, wondering how best to get rid of the ruddy-cheeked little man.
"I am a schoolmaster, sir"; and as he spoke, Ayres settled back in his chair and pulled forth a pipe. "By the way, Mr. Norton, the man who shot at you this morning is a hunter from down-river. His name I do not know, but he wears a fox-skin cap with the brush hanging, dresses in buckskin like yourself, and wears a black beard."
Norton started.
"Are you jesting, sir? Do you know this man?"
"I do not." And Ayres fell to work with flint and steel, until he had a light for his pipe. "I saw him last week, and chanced to note the redstreaked powder-horn. When my friend Colonel Boone told me of it, I remembered. That is all. Ah—one point further—he was discussing some of our host's excellent Virginia whisky, in company with one Charles Duval, Gent., a fellow townsman of mine."
While Norton was still trying to assimilate the information imparted by this queer individual, the bell on the roof banged out its summons to dinner. Ayres arose with a grandiose bow.
"You will honour me, sir, by your company below? Then we can discuss matters at our leisure."
Norton swallowed hard, nodded, and followed to the door. He began to think that he had sadly misjudged Colonel Daniel Boone.
Norton rather regretted his hasty choice of taverns. The "Steuben Arms" had in its day been a fine inn, but its day was done. Located conveniently to Shippingsport, its clientele now consisted largely of rivermen, merchants, and such of the townsmen as found its rates better suited to their purses than those of the new taverns.
Passing through the deserted travellers' room, Ayres led his guest on into the public dining-room, where the long table was already partially filled. At the upper end sat Bower, the host—a feeble old man with tobacco-stained beard. The overhead fans were pulled by a negro girl in the corner.
Ayres settled down in a chair at an unoccupied space, Norton following suit. Then, when the little man had nodded to Bower and signed to a negro waiter, he turned and spoke in a low voice.
"Now, Mr. Norton, had you any definite plan of action? ... Until the table fills up, we will pass unnoticed."
Norton nodded, glancing around. A number of rivermen were talking loudly; two or three merchants were discussing prices—and profanity hung over the long room like a cloud.
"Well," he returned slowly, "I thought that a boat might be well laden here, quietly pick up a force of men farther down the river, and so be used as a lure. With such a spy system as seems to prevail, however, that looks rather hopeless."
Ayres nodded.
"A good plan, sir, a good plan, yet doubtful of success. As you say, the people in question would hear of it and you would be laughed at for your pains. The case, sir, calls for circumspection."
"Quite so," agreed Norton drily, "Have you any suggestions to make, sir?"
"I hope to have some, Captain Norton. Granted that an organization exists, we may presuppose it to be composed of white men. Negroes or Indians would be sure to let out the secret. Given, then, white men: these might be scattered settlers, or they might be a small band of determined men down-river, whose friends and directors work from Louisville or some such point. We may take it, I trust, that one or two members of the gang ship on the designated boats and act as accomplices in the crime."
Ayres paused, in order to absorb a huge pinch of snuff—after which he allowed the waiter to get out of hearing, and prepared to attack his dinner.
"You are aware," he went on calmly, "that the richer cargoes go down in a fleet, under an experienced commodore. Invariably, one or two boats vanish overnight—but never at the same point in the river. It would be easy for a member of the crew to untie the moorings and let the boat slip down the stream. Now, remember these points; and remember also that if there is a down-river band, they must have a hiding-place where the stolen cargoes can be stored away until disposed of."
Concluding his speech with extreme haste, Ayres abruptly began his dinner as the nearer seats were filled up. Gathering that the discussion was ended for the present, Norton applied himself to dinner also. Whisky was circulating freely, and while they ate, the rivermen filled the room with tales of river life, most of which were more spicy than refined.
"Gen'lemen, yew hear me!" broke out one of two men opposite Norton—a big, hairy man of immense build. His companion was bronzed, gloomy-eyed, and stern-faced, and both had been absorbing vast quantities of white whisky. "Gen'lemen," boomed the big fellow, glaring around, "thar's gwine to be war. I'm tellin' yew! War! Yew hear me!"
"We hear ye all right," piped up a shrill voice. "Who's the war with?"
"Gen'lemen, your health!" And the big man emptied his glass. "Thet thar feller they call the Prophet—the one-eyed crazy dog, he's a-stirrin' up the Injuns. Yew hear me, gen'lemen, ol' man Harrison he's gwine to need Kaintuck rifles afore long! Who said ol' Dan'l Boone was in town?"
Whereupon there followed an excited discussion of Boone. In the midst, the gloomy-eyed companion of the big man brought down his fist with a crash on the table.
"This here generation's got to suffer for its sins!" he roared out in a vibrant voice, fastening his eye on Norton. "Friends, read the prophecies of the inspired Richard Brother! There'll ye find set forth about the Injun war, and the cursed Federals ruining the country! That there inspired man, he was a prophet. Damnation to the Federals, say——"
The gloomy-eyed man said no more, for a roar went up at his words.
"Ye drunken Democrat," cried some one, "take that!"
With which a heavy pitcher of molasses struck the gloomy-eyed man above the ear, smashed, and sent him down senseless. His big companion sprang up like a cat, drew back his arm, and a knife flashed across the room in a flame of glittering light. It did no harm, save to precipitate a general fight. Norton was just rising to escape, when a deep cold voice broke in upon the uproar:
"Gentlemen, make way!"
Norton started. He looked up to see the figure of Duval entering the door, against which two fighting cursing men had reeled. Duval took them by the shoulders and tore them apart; one went spinning down the room; the other crashed into the wall, and the lawyer strode forward.
That display of strength was not lost upon John Norton, nor the calm which instantly followed. Instead of being mobbed, Duval seemed to inspire these rivermen with fear—all save the big hairy man opposite Norton. He alone paid no heed; having caught the man who had laid out his companion, he was administering a sound thrashing when Duval caught him by the shoulder and tore him loose.
"Go to your seat," commanded Duval, cold and immobile. The other glared at him.
"Who the devil are yew?" he demanded hoarsely. "Take yer hand off'n me—I'm liable to sculp ye! Yew hear me! I'm gwine to lay out this cussed Federal. I don't care ef he's Blacknose hisself!"
A startled silence fell, while Duval still gazed coldly into the big man's eyes. There was something terrible in the lawyer's immobility; then Norton saw that he was holding a small pistol against the big man's chest.
"Go to your seat," he repeated icily. The other felt the pistol, glanced down at it, and obeyed sullenly. Norton felt a hand on his arm.
"Let us go, sir," murmured Ayres very softly. Norton nodded, rose, and they left the room together.
Five minutes later they were sitting side by side in the chairs before the tavern, pipes out. Norton's thoughts were dwelling on this man Duval, and he wondered afresh if the lawyer had been behind that attempted assassination of the morning. The man hardly seemed of such a nature; he had quieted the rivermen by sheer force of voice and muscle, and was plainly a man known and feared.
"Who is this Duval?" asked Norton, glancing at his friend.
"A lawyer, sir, who speaks of going to the Legislature next fall. He comes of a good Virginia family, settled here some three years since, and has a fair practice. A rising man, sir, a rising man. One of our ablest citizens, and already talks of raising a company in case General Harrison has trouble with the redskins."
Norton thought he detected a faint hint of sarcasm in the precise voice, but Ayres's pinched, red-cheeked face was expressionless.
"Well, have you any sort of plan, Mr. Ayres?"
"An excellent one, sir," came the surprising answer. Ayres knocked out his pipe slowly. "I would suggest that you follow Colonel Boone's advice, and go to see this man Red Hugh, of whom he told you. When you have seen him, you may expect a messenger from me at the Blue River settlement—on the Kentucky side, remember, for there are two. I may find it feasible to put your prior plan into operation and use a rich-laden flatboat for lure."
"Hm!" Norton looked at the other keenly. "Do you seriously believe that Duval had anything to do with the man who shot at me this morning?"
He was amazed, upon meeting the black eyes of his friend, to find them in a terrible earnestness.
"Sir,"—and the dry precise voice quivered the slightest bit—"it is my honest belief that if you remain in this town overnight, you will be murdered."
Startled, Norton gave the other a keen look. Then he smiled slightly.
"Murdered? Man, what do you mean? Is that gang——"
"I cannot say what I mean, sir," returned Ayres, rising. "I hardly know myself. God forgive me if I misjudge Charles Duval! But, sir, this is my sincere advice: go and find Red Hugh, and go within the hour. You are a woodsman; therefore go by the trails and not by boat. Trust no man. Sir, I—I have been doing much quiet investigation of late, and I am appalled. The whole thing is indefinite and terrible. Most of what was said in the dining-room there was lost upon you, but not upon me; and, sir, I will make you this prediction: That big riverman, who only came in from Cincinnati to-day, and who took the name of Blacknose in vain—that man will die."
"Good Heavens, Ayres!" Norton rose, aghast at the solemn earnestness of the little schoolmaster. "Do you know what you're saying? This isn't the Indian border, but——"
"Sir, this is Louisville, State of Kentucky, in the thirty-fourth year of the Independence of the United States of America," responded Ayres gravely. He bowed. "You may count upon hearing from me, Mr. Norton, at Dodd's tavern at the Blue River settlement. Let your task be to scour the woods and settlements, meantime. Sir, your servant, and—and may God keep you!"
Whereupon, with another bow, the little man turned and marched stiffly away, his absurd beaver cocked jauntily over one ear and his fustian greatcoat fluttering behind him. Norton stared after him, then sank into his chair and drew out his tobacco.
"By thunder!" he muttered slowly to himself, the while he stuffed his pipe, watching the lessening figure. "I seem to have set foot in a hornet's nest—and came near to getting stung this morning! Now, I wonder what that little fox of a schoolmaster suspects, and why he imagines I am in danger here in the town itself!"
The very thought was amusing to Norton. He knew very well that in such centres of civilization as New Orleans, St. Louis, and Louisville, men did not condone murder. Even in the newer river settlements, the older generation who had passed through the lawless pioneer days were savagely set upon upholding a rude justice. Boone himself exampled this, for Norton had heard of how the old frontiersman had made himself a terror while acting as magistrate in Missouri.
That he had anything to fear in Louisville, therefore, seemed impossible to Norton. Duval might well have hired the assassin of the morning; yet it was more likely that some hint of his mission had leaked out, thought the Louisianian. There was most certainty a secret organization of river-pirates; so much had been amply proved to him, but he was still inclined to smile at the terror it inspired.
"Still," he reflected sagely, "men like Taylor and Boone aren't exactly fools. And I rather believe Elisha Ayres is no fool, either. So, my assailant is black-bearded, wears a brushed fox-skin cap, and has a red-streaked powder-horn! Something gained, at all events. Mr. Ayres, I believe I will heed your warning."
Having plenty of money, Norton called one of the negroes loafing in the sun and ordered his horse saddled, then went down the street to the store of Audubon & Rosier, where he found the junior partner and purchased a few supplies. As he was leaving, Rosier leaned over the counter with a cautious glance at the door.
"Your pardon, sir I believe your name is Norton?"
"It is, sir," returned the surprised Louisianian.
"Colonel Taylor spoke to me of you," went on the other rapidly. "You may rely upon us absolutely, sir. If by chance you meet my partner somewhere in the woods, do not fear to trust him. He is slightly touched in the head, but save for his long wanderings is—" A man passed outside, and without a change in his low tone Rosier continued. "As I was saying, sir, General Harrison can control the Indians excellently——"
Norton took the hint and passed out with a nod, storing away in his mind the name of the senior partner, Audubon. It occurred to him that if he was joining forces with a hermit Indian-slayer and a schoolmaster, a half-crazed merchant who evidently spent his time wandering in the woods would make a good third.
Returning to the tavern, he found it deserted in front, though a murmur of loud voices came from the dining-room. It seemed slightly odd that dinner was not yet over, but he went to his room, got his things, and after some search located Bower's daughter in the kitchens. He paid her his bill, then went around to the front for his horse.
Now John Norton was no fool, as may have been previously inferred. Despite his respect for the law, Ayres's words had set his nerves on edge, in conjunction with what had happened that day. Like all woodsmen, he much preferred danger in the woods to danger in the town; as he tied his purchases and rifle to his saddle, he found himself glancing nervously over his shoulder. And even as he set foot in the stirrup, he paused.
There was a horrible shuffling step from the doorway behind, and he whirled, hand on knife, to see the big hairy riverman clutching the door-post. The giant's face was terribly convulsed, and one hand gripped at a knife-haft whose blade was buried in his side. Barely had Norton comprehended, when the man pulled the knife free, coughed, and fell dead. With the same instant there rose a shrill yell from the doorway behind, and men came crowding out.
"There he is! Thar's the murderer!" went up the shout. "Git him, boys!"
A pistol flashed, and the ball sang past Norton's ear. Dodging behind his horse, he realized everything in a flash; Ayres's prediction had proved terribly true, and what was worse, the murderers were trying to fasten the crime on him. More, they were trying to kill him before he had a chance to deny his guilt. Whether Duval's work or not——
Sensing all this as he dodged, Norton wasted neither time nor movement. Before the first of the crowd poured out across the dead man, he made a flying leap for the saddle, gained it, and sent his horse ahead on the jump. He knew his one chance lay in getting out of town within the hour—as Ayres had predicted.
Another pistol cracked behind him, and another. The balls whistled harmlessly past, but served to draw attention. Several men leaped into the road, shouting; Norton drove his horse at them with a yell, and they fell away. Without thought, he had headed up-town and now had no choice but to continue his way along the south road.
The last of the fine brick houses was almost past, and the uproar behind him was being swelled by voices and bells. The final house was a splendid mansion—Norton knew it for that of a Doctor Gault. As he pounded past the terraced gardens, he glanced up to the doorway and caught sight of a group of figures—Colonel Taylor, Zach, Boone and others. A wave of the hand came to him, a shouted farewell, and Louisville fell behind.
"And now for the chase," thought Norton grimly, pulling in his steed a trifle. "They'll fasten that murder on me and get me—if they can. It's a neat manner to be rid of an enemy—the second attempt in one morning, the day after my arrival in town! Now I would call that quick work, brainy work, but desperate work. Whoever he is, Blacknose fears me—good! If I can match his villainy with honest woodcraft, he shall fear me more."
Twisting in the saddle, Norton looked back, having caught a sudden thud of hoofs. He thundered past a cross-roads, and although the town was shut out behind, the horseman who followed was plainly visible. He wore a crushed beaver-hat, scarlet breeches, and a fluttering greatcoat; as Norton gazed in amazement, the other waved him onward. Ayres, for it was no other, drew up at the cross-roads, carefully spattered mud over the road from a puddle, then departed at a gallop by the eastern track and was lost to sight.
"Covering my trail—the old fox!" exclaimed Norton. "Mr. Ayres, my compliments. You may be a schoolmaster, but John Norton owes you his life this day!"
And he rode on to the south.
That there would be pursuit Norton knew well enough. He knew also that if he were caught, he would not be brought back to Louisville alive; Blacknose, being a person of sufficient wit to make so shrewd and swift a plot, would have him safely shot in order to preclude all possible danger. Once past Sullivan's ferry, where the post-road crossed the Ohio to Vincennes seven miles below Shippingsport, Norton knew that he would have the wilderness ahead and his own good wits to rely upon.
More than once he pondered on the subject of Charles Duval. He more than suspected the lawyer of being at the bottom of the affair at the tavern, though this seemed hardly possible on sober second thought. He had seen nothing of Duval in the crowd about the door, but the memory of how the man had silenced the riot during dinner still remained with him. Duval had influence, it seemed, and he was also a prominent citizen.
John Norton was pre-eminently just. He admitted to himself that he had taken an instant dislike to Duval upon meeting the latter on the Beargrass Creek Road the day before. The dislike was based on no solid ground. Duval was the type of man best fitted to capture the liking of frontiersmen—strong, powerful, unafraid and brainy. None the less, Norton did not like him. Either, he considered, his errand had been noised abroad and the river-pirates had tried to eliminate him that morning, or else Duval had been behind the two attempts on his life.
"And if I'm to take my choice," he thought, "I'd say it was the pirates."
None the less, it was with a distinct shock that a moment later he recognized Charles Duval slowly riding toward him. Norton drew rein, astounded.
His track had degenerated into a mere forest trail, since he had struck away from the main pike which Ayres had followed, to throw off the pursuers. Trees were on every side, and Norton could only conjecture that he had come some four miles from the town. Yet here was Duval riding toward him—Duval, whom he had supposed was even then urging on his pursuers!
With him was walking a man, and Norton eyed the pair keenly enough as they approached. Duval's horse was warm, but not foam-flecked, and it was a warm day; the lawyer had been doing no furious riding; so much was clear. Almost reluctantly, Norton instantly absolved him of any complicity in the plot at the tavern. The man with him was very tall and gaunt, dressed in backwoods style, carried a rifle, had a bushy grizzled beard, a thin, hooked nose and very deep-set dark eyes. He had not been at the tavern.
The pair sighted Norton almost as he saw them, and stopped for an instant in evident surprise. He saw Duval say something in a low voice; then both came forward. To Norton's great surprise, the lawyer advanced with hand outstretched and a smile upon his face which seemed sincere enough.
"Sir," exclaimed Duval heartily, "I must ask your pardon for my words of yesterday. I was somewhat in liquor, and irritated at the moment. May I have the honour of your name, sir?"
Norton, with no hint of his inward amazement, gripped the other's proffered hand and looked squarely into Duval's dark eyes. He read there only a sincere regret, however, and after giving his name proceeded to compliment the lawyer on his evident prestige among the rivermen as exemplified at the tavern that noon. Duval's eyes narrowed a trifle.
"Yes, I saw you go out," he returned, "and left myself shortly after. As to those flatboat-men, if some one did not overawe them occasionally they would run the town. By the way, Mr. Norton, meet Mr. Grigg, one of our old settlers and a solid farmer of the vicinity."
This designation seemed to draw a grin from Grigg, who stuck up a huge paw with a muttered "Howdy!" to Norton. The latter found the backwoodsman's face a mixture of savagery, cunning and boldness; he wondered idly what Duval had to do with such a man.
"Mr. Grigg and a neighbour are having a land dispute," smiled Duval smoothly, as if reading the thought of Norton, "but we hope to settle it out of court. Thinking of buying a farm hereabouts?"
"No, I'm just on a tour," returned Norton easily. "I'm from Cincinnati, originally."
Which was quite true, but misleading. For one thing, Norton recollected that the man Grigg must be the father of the strikingly beautiful girl he had met on the Beargrass Creek Road yesterday; also, Colonel Boone's description of Grigg did not quite coincide with that just given by Duval. Remembering what Boone had said regarding Grigg's parentage of the girl, Norton eyed the man with no great favour.
Duval, of course, seemed to have no suspicion of what had happened at the tavern—which happening, indeed, having been too recent for him to know of it. Norton concluded the lawyer had left the place while he was absent at the store of Audubon & Rosier, and that after his leaving, the rivermen had formulated their plot. He wondered vaguely whether or not the redoubtable Blacknose himself had been present at dinner.
"Well, I must be going forward," he said. "Can you tell me if this trail will lead me around toward the river?"
"After a bit," nodded Duval, inspecting Norton's outfit piece by piece. "It runs past Mr. Grigg's farm, then forks. Take the fork to the left, which circles around to the river a few miles down. Your servant, sir!"
He bowed, Norton returning the compliment, and the three separated.
Passing through some marshy cane-brake, the Louisianian presently came to higher ground, found the trees thinning, and perceived hemp and tobacco fields to the right. He was thinking of his own situation, however, and wondering at Duval's change of front. What had caused the lawyer to take this sudden attitude?
Norton himself was a man who neither explained nor apologised for his own actions, and knew Duval for the same kind of man. There must be something behind his abrupt apology and surprising amiability, he concluded, though he was at a loss to conceive what it might be. Colonel Taylor had spoken none too warmly of Duval the day before, else he might have thought that Taylor had mentioned him and his errand to the lawyer, as he had done to Rosier.
"By thunder!" frowned Norton, gazing at the few negroes at work in the fields among the scattered stumps and girdled trees. "There's something almighty strange about this whole affair. Well, I'm out of it now, and if they can reach me in the woods—let them! I guess I'll call on the charming Madam Kitty Grigg. Hm! Duval seems to have been ahead of me there, too. I'm afraid that if I lingered in Louisville, Mr. Duval and I would get farther than apologies——"
He laughed a little, feeling that if he came to hand-grips with Duval the result might be dubious, but worth chancing. And so he came to Grigg's cabin, for farm it was not.
There was no mistaking the place; the girl herself was sitting on the steps of the log shack, at work sewing. Behind him, Norton saw the back-ends of the plantations he had passed, whose buildings were perhaps a mile or more distant. Grigg's cabin was placed amid a grove of half-dead maple and walnut—girdled but never cleared. Even as Norton drew rein and dismounted, the girl rising at sight of him, a sudden thought came into his mind: Duval had said that he was in liquor the day before. Now Norton had seen enough drunken men to know that Duval lied in that statement.
Dismissing this thought, however, he advanced to the shack with a smile. He had no cap and had neglected to buy one in town, and his brown hair and bronzed face were very good to look upon in the warm afternoon sunlight.
"This is Madam Kitty Grigg?" he smiled, bowing, "I met your father and Mr. Duval upon the road, and finding that I had to pass here, determined to crave the courtesy of a drink of water."
She looked at him steadily for a moment, one hand at her breast. Once again Norton noted the clear beauty of her grey eyes and gold-red hair, the character and fresh womanliness of her whole face.
"Sir—you met—my father and Mr. Duval?" she said slowly. Norton comprehended the alarm in her eyes, and laughed again.
"Aye, that I did, Kitty!" he cried gaily. "And your Mr. Duval did me the honour of an apology for what happened on the Beargrass Creek Road yesterday. But pardon—my name is John Norton, at your service now and always."
She looked into his eyes for a moment longer, then turned and walked around the corner of the house, beckoning. Norton followed, to find a spring trickling up beneath a crab-apple tree. Gravely, she dipped out a gourd of water, held it to him, and he drank.
"Thanks, Kitty!" he sighed. "You have nigh saved my life this day——"
"Then you had best save it for yourself," she returned quickly, yet with a laugh in her eyes, "by departing speedily. If Charles Duval gave you an apology, look to your steps, sir!"
"Eh?" Startled out of his gay mood, Norton looked keenly at her. "Now what may you mean by that, sweet Kitty?"
The girl, however, only shrugged her shoulders and laughed.
"'Tis easy to see you are from Louisiana, Mr. Norton"—and he marvelled at the ringing timbre of her voice—"since from you it is 'Kitty' and 'sweet Kitty', while our Kentuckians will ever have it 'Madam Grigg' or mayhap 'Miss Kathleen'."
"Faith, I had itKittyfrom Colonel Boone," laughed Norton easily.
"Oh, but he is an old family friend—a second father." Abruptly, the girl fell serious, and put out an imploring hand to his arm, as she glanced at the trail. "Pray, Mr. Norton—go at once! You are in danger, I assure you——"
"Not a bit of it," broke in Norton soberly. "I'm in the woods to get out of danger, Miss Kitty. Even now, I suspect that horsemen are searching for me on the Lexington post-road. But I would like to know what makes you think I am in danger——"
"Because my father allows no one around here"—and the girl drew back with a slight flush. Norton thought of Duval, but forbore to mention the obvious. "But—what do you mean? Why are men searching for you? Are you jesting?"
"Well, it's more or less of a joke," he laughed, seeing her quick alarm. Plainly, she knew more than did he; whether from Abel Grigg or not, danger threatened and she was afraid. So, with a light air, he told her of what had chanced at the tavern.
She listened quietly, her eyes flitting from his face to the trees and back again. She was stirred out of herself. Norton had never seen so rare a girl in all his life—clear, incisive, with grey eyes that could harden into ice or sparkle into star-glints. The brown homespun fell loosely enough about her slender figure, but Norton's fancy transformed it into brocade, and he imagined this girl as she would look were she dressed in the fashion of the New Orleans belles.
"By gad," he thought to himself, reaching the end of his story, "Boone was right! She is no daughter of Grigg's. What a glorious girl she is!"
"Evidently, sir, it was a plot against you," she said, her brow wrinkling deliciously in thought. "But why did you not stay and face the absurd charge?"
"For many reasons"—and Norton was instantly on guard—"chief of which was that I have important business down the river. I believe that I take the left fork from this trail, do I not?"
"If you wish to reach the Tennessee settlements, yes," she returned drily. "If you want to reach the river, take the right fork, which brings you out just below the post-road at Sullivan's ferry."
"Eh? You are certain of that?"
"Of course!" There was wonder in the clear grey eyes. "Why?"
"Oh, no reason at all—I must have been hugely mistaken in my notions of your roads hereabouts," he smiled. "You see, I am going to the Blue River settlements and am a stranger in this country. Did you see Colonel Boone this morning?"
Norton was not at all surprised to find that Duval had directed him to the wrong road. He had half suspected as much, and guessed that when the lawyer reached town he would set the pursuers going in the right direction. He was, however, no little astonished when the girl shook her head in reply to his casual question. Though Boone had not said it in so many words, he had distinctly understood that the frontiersman had seen the girl that morning.
"No, Mr. Norton—I was looking for him even now. Was he in town?"
"He came to town with me from Colonel Dick Taylor's this morning, Kitty—or let us say Kathleen, which is more dignified and has a right Irish touch to it. I thought he had intended to visit you long ere this!"