CHAPTER VIII.TWO WELL-MATCHED VILLAINS.
To a spot about ten miles distant from the settlement we now ask the attention of the indulgent reader.
It is the morning following the night whose events we have just described; the sun has risen in a cloudless sky, and Nature seems exerting herself to make existence in this world desirable. It is a lovely morning, made refreshing by asteady breeze, and the trees ring with the lays of a thousand feathered warblers singing glad welcome to the orb of day.
At a place where the wood is thickest a man is moving along with stealthy, cat-like steps, dodging from tree to tree in a very curious manner. He is a man of medium proportions, wearing the buck-skin garb of a hunter, and armed with the weapons usually carried by the early pioneers and wood-rangers. From beneath a coon-skin cap, lank locks of red hair fall just to his shoulders, and a coarse beard of the same hue disfigures, rather than adorns, his face. There is an ugly patch on his left check, and his right eye is completely hidden by a rough bandage that is tied around his head, all giving him a decidedly unprepossessing, if not repulsive, look.
After this, it is perhaps superfluous to add that the hunter’s name is Nick Robbins. As such he has doubtless been recognized, although it is observable that there is much more expression on his visage than usual. In fact, through the unhandsome exterior, beams a look of fine intelligence that might lead one to suppose the backwoodsman has received a thorough education at some time of his life.
Nick Robbins is approaching a deep ravine that lies a short distance away. He moves toward it step by step, with studied circumspection, his quick eye flashing from right to left occasionally, but the greater part of the time fastened upon the ravine in front. He creeps along with that caution usually exercised by hunters when stealing upon the game, or scouts when nearing an enemy’s camp, and yet he is the only person or living thing in sight. It is evident, however, from his manner and actions, that he is not only intent on reaching a certain point ahead, but is extremely fearful that his footsteps will betray him to somebody or something before he can reach it.
“Strange that he should go there,” mutters the hunter. “Bad as he is, I should never have supposed that he was leagued with the Indians. He entered that ravine as he would have entered his own house, and I know there is a bivouac of savages there. Very well, I shall soon know what it means if I am not discovered, and who knows but at the same time I may obtain proofs of the fellow’s guilt in that other affair? Of course I am already satisfied in my ownmind that he is the guilty party, but despite the length of time that I have been a spy upon his movements, and an eavesdropper to his conversations, I have not as yet heard a direct affirmation that such is the truth. But something seems to tell me that the crisis is at hand, and that to-morrow’s sun will reveal wonders to many of our friends. I must now find out what new scheme this villain has hatched.”
Nick Robbins has, by this time, proceeded so far that a confused sound of voices strike upon his ear, coming from the ravine in front. He crouches down on all-fours, and crawls forward with redoubled caution. He sights a wide, smooth ledge of rock, or plateau, that extends out over the gully, and toward this he worms himself, taking great care that he moves no stone in his progress.
He reaches the level platform of rock. He draws himself up to the edge of it, and looks down. Finding that he has chosen the proper point for observation, he lies flat upon his breast and begins to contemplate the scene below him with no slight degree of interest.
A tiny stream ripples through the ravine. On one side of it is a large camp-fire, around which a band of Indians is congregated, sitting or reclining in various attitudes, some breakfasting and some smoking, while others are doing nothing. They number about thirty souls in all, and a single glance at them discovers more than one evidence of the fact that they are, or recently have been, on the war-path. This fact is shown by their scantiness of dress and abundance of paint, they being incumbered with no other garments than leggins and moccasins, and their bodies and faces being plentifully bedaubed with red and yellow ocher. It is further shown by the manner in which they are armed, as they all carry the deadly fire-arms of the white man, instead of the customary bow and arrow; whereas they would prefer the latter weapon on a hunting expedition. But the horrid truth is most loudly proclaimed by the scalps which hang at their girdles, and which have doubtless been torn from the heads of the slaughtered pale-faces.
The gaze of Robbins does not long linger on this savage band. There are others there who claim his attention. At some distance from the main body of Indians, and directlyunder the rocky ledge on which he is lying, two men stand conversing.
Of these two men, one is no less a personage than the despicable profligate, Jim McCabe! The hunter evinces little surprise, but much interest, as his eyes alight on this man, for he saw him enter the ravine, and now only seeks an explanation of the fellow’s strange actions. McCabe’s companion is obviously the chief, or leader, of the war-party. His title to this distinction is revealed by his bearing, and the superiority of his dress and adornments. To tell the color of his skin it would be necessary to remove the thick covering of paint from his face and body, but that he isnotan Indian, our spy begins to suspect after the first look! A closer survey convinces him of this fact. There are no high cheek-bones there—no sharp Roman nose—no stoical stoniness of features—nor even that style of standing characteristic of his savage followers. Besides this, he speaks the English language as fluently as Jim McCabe himself. In all probability he is a white man—one of those degraded, crime-hardened wretches, who forswear their own race forever, that they may plunder and murder to their heart’s content, beyond the restrictions of the law.
“You are not looking well, my boy,” are the first words the hunter distinguishes after taking his position on the rock, and it is the white chief who gives utterance to them.
“Am I not?” carelessly answers McCabe, who really has grown pale and haggard since his adventure of last night. “I am not aware of any feeling that may account for the look.”
“For all that, you don’t look as healthy as when I saw you last. Maybe you’ve done something bad, that preys on your mind too much for your own good? Ha, ha! Or, likely, your friends have detected you in some of your devilments, and in consequence you have just escaped from confinement that was not extremely beneficial to your health? Which is it?”
“Neither the one nor the other. Nothing like that you hint at has occurred. I am still safe among those who think me their friend, and the secret of my friendship with you and your red lambs, I have securely locked in my own breast.”
“And you will have occasion, sir, to thank your lucky starsthat you are on the good side of me and my red lambs, if we take it into our heads to fall upon your place. But why don’t you explain your presence here? Seems to me you’ve wandered quite a distance from your home.”
“I should have wandered further, had I not met you,” said McCabe. “But, before I give you the desired explanation, I wish you to tell me how it happens thatyouare here? I started out last night with the hope of finding you before night should come again, but my hope grew less at every step, and by dawn it had amounted almost to despair. I know where your village is, but sober second thought told me I couldn’t reach it in time to gain the object I have in view. How lucky that chance has thrown me in your way at this early hour. Surely the devil is on my side.”
“If not, you are on his side,” remarks the renegade, with a low laugh. “But you wish to know why I am here? My story is quickly told. Over there in the interior, a few miles from this point, there are three houses standing all alone, known by the name of the ‘Three Inns.’ Maybe you’ve seen or heard of them. Well, we waded into them last night, I and this handful of braves, and these are the result.”
The outlaw coolly points to a couple of gory scalps at his waist, and then to a number of others carried in a like manner by the Indians. Even Jim McCabe averts his eyes with a shudder.
“Now, your business with me?” inquires the chief.
“I will explain in a few words,” says McCabe. “Last evening a family left our settlement, and started down the river under cover of the darkness—removing, you see, to the first fort below. The family consists only of the old gentleman, his wife and daughter.”
“Their name?” interrupts the chief.
“Is Moreland. Mr. Moreland has long been one of the leading spirits of our place,” answers the other.
“You say they are removing to the first fort below?” is the next inquiry.
“Yes.”
“Without an escort?”
“Oh, not by any means. They are accompanied by a round dozen of armed men. But what of that? You outnumberthem two to one, and as your braves have had a taste of blood, I am sure it has only sharpened their appetites. Fact is, the Morelands haven’t completed their journey yet. They have went into camp on an island in the center of the river, where they intend spending the day. The island lies nearly opposite to this spot. It is a long, narrow strip of land, thickly wooded on each side with willow trees, and barren and rocky in the middle.”
“I know which one you allude to,” interposes the chief, “and know exactly where it lies. So the boating party has stopped there, eh? and your object in all this palaver is to have me go over there and stir them up?”
“That is it, precisely,” replies McCabe, rubbing his hands. “They say the island affords pretty fair means for defense, but I am sure success will attend you if you fall upon them when they are not suspecting such a thing. Don’t spare them. Attack and butcher the whole set—except one.”
“And that one?”
“She is the daughter—Isabel Moreland. Don’t harm her, but bring her to me, if you can possibly capture her. She is as beautiful as an oriole, and I want her for a wife. I have attempted to make her mine in a legitimate manner, but she has rejected me with scorn, and I must resort to violence or lose her.”
“Want a wife, do you? Surely, then, you will not think of returning to the whites with your unwilling bride?”
“No; that would be walking into the lion’s jaws after capturing one of its cubs. Help me to get this lady, and then I will join the Indians, and make their wigwams my future home!”
“Good. But I can’t make the attack in the daytime.”
“I haven’t asked you to.”
“Yet you say the party will this evening continue their voyage.”
“I will arrange that. They think I’m their friend, you know, and I will go over to the island some time during the day, and make up a story that will induce them to remain an hour after dark, thus giving you ample time to make the attack.”
The renegade reflects a moment.
“Yes, that will do,” he mutters. “Prevail on them to tarry there an hour after dark, and the game is ours. Should they leave the island before we reach it, they stand a good chance of escape, for they have good boats and strong oarsmen, and can outstrip our canoes in a chase. But, do your part and I’ll do mine. Those fellows,” he adds, glancing at his band of warriors, “will hail with joy this chance of adding more to the number of scalps they have already taken. Yes, sir, this thing shall be done, as certain as my name isSimon Girty!”