Kingman slept sweetly and heavily—so heavily, in fact, that it was broad day when he opened his eyes and gazed wondering about him.
“How do you feel, George?” asked Moffat.
“Oh!—is that you, Abe? I didn’t know you.”
“How many more times are you going to ask whether I am what I am? But that ain’t answering my question—how do you feel?”
“Like a new man, as I am,” replied Kingman, springing triumphantly to his feet.
Not a trace of last night’s fever remained. The restless, bloodshot eyes were now calm and sparkling; the red, throbbing face was cool and glowing; and the shivering, exhausted frame was now firm and graceful. Moffat had taken him just at the proper moment, and the fever had been broken and the equilibrium of the system restored.
“Wal, you do feel right, eh? Glad to hear it. Hungry?”
“I’m slightly of that opinion. I feel, just at this moment as though I could eat a Shawnee, tomahawk rifle and all.”
Moffat took his departure in quest of game, and soon returned with a wild duck, which he had managed to approach unobserved, and kill with a well-aimed stone, there being too much danger in firing his gun. The bird was speedily cooked and eaten, with the keenest of appetites upon the part of both.
“Now,” said the ranger, “as we ain’t exactly sartin of our neighbors, we’ll seperate fur awhile. I’ll go to the left and you to the right, and we’ll jine again, by that point of bank, which you remember is about a quarter of a mile down the river.”
There was some risk in this, although, with proper prudence, there was no need of either running into danger. Accordinglythey separated, and each taking the route designated by the scout, and moving with the stealthy tread of panthers seeking their prey.
They had been separated about fifteen minutes, and each was advancing silently, cautiously and stealthily, when our hero suddenly discovered an Indian in his war paint approaching. As quick as thought the young man “sprang to cover,” by darting behind a large oak tree. The tree behind which he was sheltered was, as said, a very large one of the oak species. The protection of the Shawnee was much smaller, and barely served to cover his body; but it was enough, and all he desired.
Kingman stood a moment, as if to decide his course, and then he walked with a stealthy tread about ten feet from the tree, and dropped upon the ground. In doing this, the tree had been kept in a range with the Indian, so as to still screen his body, and his purpose was unsuspected. He now sank flat upon his face, and commenced working himself slowly backward, his eye fixed upon the tree he had just left, and his whole caution exerted not to deviate from the range.
Had the savage once caught a glimpse of his movements, it would have been all up with Kingman. As it was, the Shawnee was half expecting some stratagem or treachery, and never once removed his gaze from the spot where he supposed his victim to be; but so consummately had our hero arranged this that as yet not the remotest suspicion had crossed the mind of the savage. He was, however, doomed to pass a more fearful ordeal than he yet dreamed.
The wood being open, and the ground devoid of the thick, tangled undergrowth so common in some other parts, Kingman was compelled to use the most extreme caution that no mismovement was made upon his part. As he proceeded, the friendly angle he made with the tree grew less, and the ground that was safe for him consequently more narrow each moment. More than once he found himself deviating from the line, and almost exposing himself. His progress was very slow and wearisome. The distance necessary to be passed before he could rise to his feet was considerably over a hundred yards, and not half that distance was yetcrossed. When near the center, and moving slowly and painfully along, Kingman was startled by his feet coming in contact with some hard substance. Turning his gaze, he saw a rotten and decayed log lay directly across his path.
This was a new difficulty to be got over, or gone around. But there was no time for hesitation, and waiting but a second, he lifted his feet and commenced pushing himself over. His body passed over safely, and, feeling considerably relieved, he recommenced his novel retreat. But he had scarcely taken a step, when he heard a sound beside him that made his blood tingle with horror. It was the warning of the rattlesnake! Glancing furtively around, Kingman saw the reptile within six feet of him. His scaly, glittering body lay coiled like a rope, and from the centre his head, terrible in its beauty, rose some eighteen inches, and was drawn back, ready for the fatal strike. The tail on the outside of the horrid ring was gently swaying, giving forth that deadly rattle, and the whole body seemed alive and excited. Hardly a more terrible spectacle can be conceived than that of the coiled and bristling rattlesnake. The one in question was about five feet in length, and was gathered in a circle of a foot in diameter. The head was drawn back in a glistening arch, like the neck of a swan. As he lay, a patch of the sunlight broke through the treetops and rested upon him, making his whole body to glisten with a thousand brilliant variegated colors. His eye shone with a malignant glitter, like the ray of the star through the dark cloud, and his tongue flashed with lightning-like rapidity round his flat, swaying head. So rapid and incessant were the movements of this, that to Kingman it resembled a tiny stream of bright red blood crossing the neck and head in every direction. Several times the cavernous jaws were distended, and the white fangs, loaded with venom, could be seen curving inward, and as pointed as a needle.
Kingman saw all this in less time than it takes us to describe it. His first movement, upon seeing the reptile so nigh him, was an involuntary recoil, which had well discovered him to his human enemy. He felt the double danger that now menaced him. The rattlesnake had warned himonce, and in a minute would strike. He could spring to his feet, and, with a little dexterity, avoid him; but, in the place of the sluggish reptile, the swift bullet of the Shawnee could not be avoided. No; Kingman made up his mind that an encounter with the reptile was preferable to one with the vindictive Shawnee.
Favored by the log over which, as will be remembered, he had just passed, and by still being in perfect range with the Indian, Kingman rose upon one knee and grasped his stick with both hands. It was a dangerous movement, and he durst not turn to see whether the savage had noticed it. But it must be done, and he could not remove his gaze from the snake, whose head now rose and drew back several inches, and whose eye glittered with tenfold brightness at his own threatened danger. He now rattled for the last time, and drew his neck back like a bent bow, when the stick of Kingman flashed through the air so rapidly as to be invisible, and struck the reptile just at the junction of the head and neck. Any other snake would have dodged the blow, quick as it was; but this species, besides being sluggish, is easily killed with a slight wound. As it was, the force with which Kingman struck was so great, and the blow so well aimed, that, incredible as it may seem, the head was stricken clean from the body. Kingman heard it snap, and, as the trunk spurted its hot blood on him, saw something spin like a ball through the air, and fall several yards away. A glance showed him the head writhing among the leaves, and the mouth gaping to its utmost extent.
The instant the head of the rattlesnake was severed from his trunk, the body doubled in a knot, and then whirled with lightning-like gyrations in his horrible agony. Fortunately for Kingman it took another direction, and still writhing and twisting, it shot off among the trees.
The greatest immediate danger was now rid of, and Kingman betook himself again to escaping from the Indian. When he fully realized the imminent peril from which he had been delivered, a sort of desperate reaction came over him, and he grew reckless and careless. He turned and made the rest of his retreat on his feet, stooping very lowand moving quite rapidly. He was, however, unobserved, and reached another small ravine, for which he had so earnestly wished. Down this he bounded, and ran for the river.
“It is the opinion of this gentleman that he has gotten into about enough trouble from leaving broad trails for the Shawnees, and he proposes another plan.”
With this, our hero stepped into the water and again commenced swimming. He did not strike for the channel, for this would have been certain destruction, but continued close along shore. Heavy branches of trees and huge bushes overhung the water for fifteen or twenty feet from the shore and afforded an almost impenetrable protection for him. Beneath these he gently swam, and was half carried by the current, catching at the leaves and twigs within his reach.
When Kingman and Moffat separated, as mentioned in our last chapter, the latter concluded that before making his retreat sure, it was best to determine more definitely the whereabouts and intentions of the Shawnees. With this purpose he proceeded farther down the ravine and crossed it in the same place, and a few minutes after Kingman’s pursuer did; so that three individuals moved over nearly the same spot, and at nearly the same time, without one suspecting the presence of the other, except in the case of our hero. Kingman reached the opposite side of the ravine, and he reascended it for several hundred yards for the purpose of ascertaining the precise position of the Indian above. This necessarily required some time, and was only partially successful. He approached nigh enough to hear the “ugh!” of a savage in conversation with another, when he deemed it best to make good his retreat.
The fact that the Shawnees were still watching above he considered as evidence that his stratagem to insure the escape of Kingman had been perfectly successful; for, if they suspected anything, they would not still be lying in ambush as they were. With these thoughts, he now made his way toward the river for the last time, trusting to come upon Kingman and the boat. He reached the river at a pointbehindthe Shawnees, pursuing our hero, so that the two latter were below him on the river. It was singular that the three should be in such proximity and still ignorant of the other’s proceedings. The appearance of Moffat upon the ground would have made a material difference in the programme of affairs; but such was not destined to be the case.
Moffat took a careful survey of the river bank, but of course saw nothing either of Kingman or the boat. Not doubting, however, but the latter had made off with it, and was waiting at some point lower down for him, he proceeded onward. Scarcely a hundred feet lower he saw the boat lying under and fastened by one of the overhanging bushes. He was considerably surprised at this, and feared that it augured ill for Kingman. He waded out and examined it. There were no signs of a struggle having taken place, and the oars lay precisely as they did when he left the boat himself. Still, only partially satisfied, he stepped into it, shoved it out clear from the bushes, and commenced rowing down stream. The noise made doing this reached the ears of the Shawnee above, but did not succeed in drawing him from his watch; for, as the reader has probably noticed, he had fixed his heart upon obtaining Kingman’s scalp, and was determined that nothing else should draw him from it.
Moffat had rowed several hundred yards as silently as possible, when he was startled by hearing a movement in the bushes. He dropped his oars instantly, seized his rifle, and sank into the bottom of the boat. Fixing his gaze upon the shore, he imagined he could see a dark body half in the bushes and half in the water, struggling as though it wounded. Not daring to fire, he rowed within a short distance, and called out just loud enough to reach it:
“Is that you, Kingman?”
“I am of that opinion. What’s the news?”
“I have just found a poor dog, half drowned, in the water.”
“Why don’t you pick him up, then?”
“Afraid he might swim away, if I should try.”
“Try, and see whether he will.”
Moffat rowed up to him, and took him in.
“Now pull for the other shore,” said Kingman, “for I have had enough of this for the present.”
In going across, nothing occurred to alarm them, and our two friends related to each other their experience since they parted. Moffat gave it as his opinion that Kingman had had quite an adventure—something that would do to tell when they got home.
“But where do you suppose that Shawnee of yours is?” asked Moffat.
“I suppose he is watching behind that tree yet,” laughed Kingman. “You haven’t told me yet how you came by this canoe.”
“Oh, there is little to tell of that. When our company dropped their doors with which they were carrying the Injin fort, and I found every man was for himself, and all for no, I thought I’d try a journey on my own hook. So I dug for the woods until I supposed I was clear of the crowd, when I made tracks for the river. Just before I got there, I come ’cross two little Injin boys—little devils out shooting our men and learning to scalp on their own hook; and, would you believe it, the confounded imps had a couple top-knots they had haggled off of some poor fellow’s head. They found them half dead, I suppose, and then shot and finished them. They didn’t happen to have loaded their guns yet, and the way I walked into their meat-houses was a caution to bears. That split in that rifle stock came from splitting both their heads. I laid ’em out stark and stiff, so that there’s no likelihood of their lifting the hair of any more of our boys for a considerable time. Wal, as their guns wan’t of any use to me, I let ’em alone, and just took their ammunition, and went on down the river. After going a half mile or so, I stumbled onto this canoe pulled in snug under the bank. As the owner wasn’t about to ask permission, Iborrowedit until I could return it.
“Wal, I spent that day pulling down the river, keeping close under the shore, and watching all-fired close for Injin sign. I didn’t see anything worth noticing through the day, and at night I run into shore, turned the canoe overme, and curled up for a snooze. The air was so warm and there was so many musketoes, and I felt so kind of all-overish, that I crawled out agin, and squatted on top of the boat. I heard a gun go off, and that started my nerves. I sat watching the river a good long while. The moon was shining so bright that I could see anything as plain as day. Purty soon a tree come floating down, and I thought I seed an Injin’s head in it. Thinking as how it might be the one that owned the canoe, who was looking for it, I launched it, and when out, I intended to apologize. The moon shone so bright, that, before I got to him, I seed it was a white man. The rest you know.”
By this time our friends had reached the opposite shore. Here, after a short and earnest consultation, they determined to keep the river as long as possible. Accordingly they again shoved into the stream, and continued upon their way.
The disastrous termination of the battle of Chillicothe was a severe blow to the settlements along the frontier, and none, perhaps, felt it more than our own village. Defeat was not dreamed of with such ardent troops, and under the leadership of Colonel Sandford, and the experienced Indian-fighter, Wetzel. Instead of giving a check to the savage depredations, this really added an impetus. The Shawnees and several tribes united, and under the harangues of their chiefs and leaders, finally believed that the whites could be still driven from their grounds forever. The great Tecumseh had not arisen yet to seek to stay the inevitable tide of extermination with his masterly genius, but the warriors were as numerous and their intentions as deep-rooted.
Could some such man as Tecumseh have arisen at this time, the Indian wars on the frontier would have beenmuch more bloody and formidable than they were. Many of the tribes were at variance with each other, and some of the severest battles ever fought upon the “dark and bloody ground” were between the rival tribes. Though all were opposed to the whites, they could not unite against them. Their leaders were too short-sighted, and in spite of their utmost efforts, the tide of emigration still rolled westward.
Long and anxiously was the return of the volunteers looked for. The sentinels at the block-houses continually watched every point of the forest and river, and the deep interest felt in the result of this expedition was shown by all. Finally a few days afterward, a couple of stragglers, worn and haggard, emerged from the wood, and entered the settlement. They were immediately surrounded by numbers, eager and anxious, to whom they related the sad particulars of defeat. Several they had seen fall upon the battle-field, but who were shot or wounded they were unable to tell. The retreat had been so disorderly and confused that the two in question had taken to the woods together, and made all possible haste for home.
In the afternoon, Captain Parks, Prentice, and all of the volunteers, except Pompey, and the killed and our two friends, returned. From them the full particulars of the battle were received. Those who escaped the massacre had made a rapid retreat for Pennsylvania, so that the settlements were again left to their own protection.
“But where are Kingman, Smith, and Moffat? I don’t see them among your number,” asked the minister, Edwards, of Captain Parks.
“Smith I saw killed. I don’t know where Moffat and that madcap, Kingman, are. I saw them both fighting like devils, and suppose if they ain’t scalped, they’re scouting around the country somewhere. Umph! the all-firedest battle I ever saw fought.”
“Very unfortunate—very unfortunate.”
“That Wetzel is a trump, and understands what he is about, but the men hadn’t a chance.”
“The boldness of the Indians will no doubt be increased by their triumph.”
“I don’t know as their boldness will require much increase, but the way they walked into the retreating soldiers did credit to their cruelty.”
“This is a sad thing if Kingman is lost. He was a fine noble-hearted, promising young man, and his loss will be deeply felt by all. But, beside his parents, there is one to whom the blow will be terrible.”
“Who is that?”
“Irene Stuart. You know her. She came with you.”
“Yes; but why shouldshefeel it?”
“There is something more than friendship”—
“Umph! I understand. He’sgone inthere. Yes; I understand. But, I don’t believe he’s goneunder, because his being absent at the same time with Moffat shows pretty certain that they are together, and they do say that that long, spindle-shanked fellow that I once kicked clear of the ground is one of the best Indian fighters in the parts. He can run like a deer, and is as cunning and wide-awake as that Mingo, Logan. No; I think they’re in some scrape but he’ll bring both out all right.”
“I do earnestly pray that he will. Irene asked me to inquire when she heard some of the men had arrived, and I must now go to her. You think, then, there is nothing wrong done, if I encourage her to hope?”
“Of course not. I won’t believe he’s dead if he don’t come back for a month, unless Moffat comes in and says he saw him go under.”
“If you have nothing to detain you, suppose you go on to the house. The families are very anxious to get the particulars, and I suppose your wife is looking with much concern for your reappearance.”
“Umph! not much, I guess; but I’ll go down with you, for I happen to be most confoundedly hungry.”
The result of the battle had one salutary effect upon the settlement: it gave every one a true sense of the danger in which they all stood. Thus far they had relied too much upon the good-heartedness of the Indians. They now saw their mistake, and remedied it before it was too late. Most of the men set to work, and in a short time a double row of firm pickets enclosed the settlement. Although buried deeply and firmly into the earth, of course they were not impregnable; but they were a protection which few settlements on the frontier were willing to do without. They enclosed the settlement in the shape of a square, with a block-house, well manned, at each corner.
A scout, whose principal duty was to skirt along the Ohio and watch the movements of the hostile tribes, came in a short time after the battle and reported that a flat-boat, with some thirty persons on board, bound for this settlement, had been enticed into shore by a white man, not more than a dozen miles up the river, and every one tomahawked!
The scout believed that the renegade was no other than the notorious Pete Johnson, who figured in our account of the battle of Chillicothe. Girty was at the bottom of the affair and had given strict and positive orders that no white man, woman, or child who fell into their hands should be spared!
This scout’s present duty was to visit the settlements along the frontier and warn them to make preparations for the worst. The Indians were evidently concentrating to strike some decisive blow against civilization, and woe to the villages whose sentinels slumbered and who were found unprepared.
There could no longer be any doubt of the intentions of the tribes through the whole territory.
“A war, and a long and bloody one, I fear, is unavoidable,” remarked Edwards, in conversation with the scout.
“It must come to that, sooner or later,” replied the latter, “and I don’t see the need of putting the thing off. Them Injins have got to lose about half their number, and get most eternally lammed before they’ll holler ‘enough.’ I go in for giving them particular fits when we undertake to do it.”
“There have been rumors that Colonel Clark is to march against them with his Kentucky Rangers. Do you know whether such is the case?”
“I think he will—since this battle he will be compelled to. I hope the colonel will do it, for he ain’t the man to order his men to retreat when they get the upper hand of the red cowards.”
“Provided they do get the upper hand,” smiled the minister.
“Oh, no danger about that. The colonel understands Indian fighting, and he’ll show some of it, too, when he undertakes it.”
“Something better than their last colonel, I hope. Umph!—couldn’t be any worse,” remarked Captain Parks, who had just come.
“Wal, mistakes will sometimes happen,” said the scout in extenuation; “and I s’pose that Colonel Sandford’s was one of them; but that don’t shift the blame, for all that. He made the blunder, and would, like as not, do it again, and consequently he ain’t fit to go into Injin ground.”
“The Wetzel brothers render great service to the settlement, I understand,” observed the minister.
“They are regular teams. If they’ll let Lew Wetzel manage matters, there’ll be no mistake made; he knows all about Injin ways.”
“The Shawnees, I believe, are causing the most trouble?”
“Them imps are at the bottom of the whole trouble we’ve had. They have always been mean and uglyenough to do anything, and since Simon Girty has got among them, they’re nothing but a set of devils let loose upon airth. It’s the fact,” added the scout, as he noticed a look of displeasure upon the minister’s face. “It’s the fact, I say; them Shawnees are the biggest set of villains that ever walked on two legs or four either, for that matter.”
“I suppose that this renegade has a great influence over them?”
“A great influence? Well, there?” repeated the scout, gesticulating very emphatically, “There ain’t a Injin chief west of Pennsylvania that can do more with his tribe than he can, and there ain’t a single chief among the Shawnees who dare persist in opposing him. No, sir.”
“Girty I knew when a boy,” said the minister, “and I have prayed many a time for him since. Although a dark and guilty man, he is a brave one, and was led to forswear his race on account of the brutal treatment he received from them. I have often wondered whether it were possible to win him back again.”
“Win him back again?” repeated the scout, recoiling a step or two, in perfect amazement. “No, sir;never. A greater monster never breathed, and as long as he lives his whole aim will be to revenge himself upon us; and what is worse, he isn’t alone. There’s that Pete Johnson, as big a devil, and a bigger coward, and a half dozen others, among the Injins, who are ever setting them on.”
“Umph! they’ll get paid for it yet.”
“But I see the day is well along,” remarked the scout, “and I must be on my way to the other settlements.”
The ranger, after a few minutes further conversation, left our friends, and departed. The words recorded took place the next day after the battle described in a preceding chapter, and up to this time nothing had been heard of Moffat and Kingman. During the interval Pompey had come in, who of course knew nothing. Their prolonged absence occasioned the most painful apprehension. All but Captain Parks were extremely doubtful of their return and Kingman’s parents were compelled to believe thattheir promising “George” was lost forever to them. The sad uncertainty of their fate cast a gloom over all the settlement.
But there was one upon whom the blow fell, as the minister remarked, with double weight. The gentle, blue-eyed Irene Stuart and the daring George Kingman had long been plighted—plighted in hearts, but not in words. All had seen and understood the claim which he had upon her, and although there was many an admiring eye cast upon the lithe and graceful form, yet none pretended to dispute his right. All gave way, and pronounced the handsome twain “a fine match.”
Irene watched with a straining eye for the form of her beloved to appear among the returned. None other than she who has experienced it can understand the painful doubt, the distressing uncertainty of a heart in such a situation: and when the fatal knowledge, like a blow of death, strikes all at once, then it is that the soul feels its great agony. As the good minister communicated gently, and with an air of hopefulness, the tidings that Moffat and Kingman had not returned, she felt her heart sink within her. The minster noticed her sudden paleness and faintness, and hastened to remark.
“Oh, my child! you must not take it thus. There is good reason to believe that your friend is living, and will yet return.”
“Did any one see them fall?” she asked, in a voice so calm that it was frightful.
“Not at all. Gavoon, who was killed, was seen when shot, as were most of the others; but no one noticed our friend.”
“Then there is hope!”
“To be sure—to be sure. Moffat is very skillful, they say, in savage ways, and has been delivered from so many dreadful dangers that it can hardly be supposed with reason that he has not escaped from this.”
“But why do they remain so long away?”
“Many reasons might detain them of which we knownothing, child. I have by no means given up hope, and I think it is not wrong for me to encourage you in hoping for the best.”
“I will try,” she remarked, faintly, as she arose and went to her room, where she might indulge her sorrow in secret.
The good minister had arisen to depart, when Mrs. Stuart hurried into the apartment.
“Ah! how do you do, sister?” he exclaimed, extending his hand.
“Pretty well in body, but wretched in spirit. O dear! few know the horrors and sufferings we nervous women go through for the men’s sake.”
“What is the trouble now?” he asked, with an air of solicitude.
“What is the trouble, do you ask? Why, isn’t these awful times now, with these savage Indians murdering and hacking people. I expect, just as like as not, they’ll murder us all in our homes. There’s no telling what they won’t do in this heathen country. Lord of massy! I should think they had done enough now.”
“Ah! my good sister, you must be more hopeful. The Lord will deliver us from our peril. Remember there are strong and willing hearts around you.”
“Yes, that’s a slight consolation; but then them Injins will do almost anything. Only think how they run off with George Kingman.”
“But that is not certain yet, by any means. Many others, including myself, have not given up our hopes of him yet.”
“Oh, he’s gone, you may be sure of that. I’ve been up to see Mrs. Kingman. She felt a little propped up, I believe, by what the people had said; but I told her there was no use in hoping, for he’d got into the hands of them heathens, and they hacked him all to pieces.”
“And what did she say to that, my good sister?”
“Oh, she burst out a cryin’ like, and wrung her hands saying as how she feared so all the time. It’s always so;we women do suffer nearly everything for the unfeeling men. Yes, oh, yes!”
A sort of hysterical sob and whimper followed this, but in a moment she revived again.
“I have one consolation, at any rate—we won’t see any of them nasty Indians in heaven, when we get there.”
“Don’t say that, sister, for I hope and expect to meet a great many there.”
The prolonged absence of Kingman and Moffat, to say the least, was certainly singular. Several days had now elapsed since the battle, and if they were in the woods, or had escaped the vengeance of the Shawnees, there could be no reason offered why they had not made their appearance. The most sanguine began to doubt—all despaired save the captain, who, when questioned, replied with more than his usual protervity.
“He’ll come if you only wait. Umph! I don’t see anything to worry about.”
The fifth day wore slowly away without any tidings of the missing ones, and darkness was again gathering over the quiet village. There was an air of subdued repose up on everything. The quiet tree-tops were not swayed by the slightest zephyr, and the broad Ohio glistened like a sheen of silver as it flowed without a ripple beneath the horizontal rays of the setting sun. The dark forms of the sentinels could be seen at the block-houses, and here and there a quiet settler wended his way through the ungainly streets. The few cattle and horses were gathered home, and all were ready for the slow approaching night to close around them.
Irene Stuart stood at the open door of her cabin, as she had every evening since the battle, gazing vacantly out upon the Ohio. The last rays of the sun were shootingbrilliantly over the tree-tops and illuminating them with a golden glow; the hum and noise of work around her had ceased, and the mournful stillness harmonized well with her sad and mournful thoughts. It was easy to tell where they were. It was easy to tell where they had been every night when she had stood thus, lost in communion with them. It is sometimes hard beneath the most convincing proof to believe that one is dead. When gazing upon the form of some cherished one, dressed ready for the grave, a strange doubt will sometimes come over us, that there is still life within him. The most improbable theories will present themselves and have a hearing. Perhaps we imagine that he is only feigning death, and will yet arise and speak before fastened within the coffin; or we may experience a faint, tormenting part of that awful thought of burying one alive, and our tortured imagination conceives of the unutterable horror of his waking within the tomb. Then, again, a hope that there yet is power in medicine subtle enough to win the soul back, sustains us to the brink of the grave. A thousand conflicting theories—perhaps in Divine Providence—prevent us from fully realizing the truth as it is.
Hopes, fears, doubts, constant and intensified, had had continual play with Irene. Sometimes when cold, common sense had its sway, it carried with its overwhelming evidence the conviction that George Kingman was lost forever to her. Then instantly a thousand contingencies would present themselves, and her heart would throb tumultuously with the hope thus awakened. These conflicting feelings had told upon her, even in the short time since they had held alternate region. There was a vacant wandering expression of the eye, a languid listlessness of manner, and an absent unconsciousness to what was passing immediately around her, that show unmistakably the deep hold these thoughts had upon her. Sometimes she would stand as motionless as death itself, with that expression of the eye as though gazing at the clouds in the horizon miles away. And often when questioned upon some different subject, her reply would relate to the all-absorbingtopic of her mind, she would move like an automaton among the living, scarcely heeding a word or movement of those around.
Her parents pronounced her conduct queer, and trusted she would soon get over it. The good minister frequently visited the house. At such times Irene would be herself again, and would cheer up and converse about whatever was proposed, gradually verging to the one great topic, however, until, at the departure of her friend, she was completely lost again. The worthy man understood fully her case, and used every means he could devise to win her from the fearful control of her feelings.
Irene was standing in an attitude of earnest meditation, as was said, at the door of her cabin. Her parents were absent, so that there was nothing to prevent her relapsing into one of her unconscious spells. This was the reason why she did not notice an unwonted noise in the village—this was the reason why she did not hear a confusion of voices a short distance away, and the reason why, when a form flitted past her vision, it made no impression upon it; or more properly, the impression was made upon the retina, and the optic nerves sped the intelligence up to the brain; but the brain had took much other business on hand, and took no notice of it whatever.
A confused, waving field was Irene Stuart’s vision at that time. There was that peculiar, indescribable confusion of forms and colors which one sometimes experiences during a mental aberration. All unimaginable figures doubled and disappeared within one another with noiseless celerity; objects never dreamt of before took form and motion, and her vision finally became a gorgeous mixture of light and darkness, of shadow and sunlight, and of forms and colors.
But amid all these, an object gradually took shape. At first it had the appearance of a long, dark, undulating column, directly in the centre of her field of vision. It swayed gently from side to side, as though agitated by a passing breeze, but the base still maintained its place without motion. Slowly, almost enough to be imperceptible, itdiminished in size, and the airy figures around grew dimmer and more obscure every moment. Once or twice it seemed as though some sound proceeded from the shaft, but Irene heeded it not, although her gaze still remained from a languid unwillingness to remove it, riveted upon the dark object. Suddenly it diminished in size to that of a man, and the first thought that had anything of vigor in it was, that it bore some resemblance to a human form. By a seemingly desperate effort, she roused herself and looked intently at it. It was a human form.
“Why, Irene, how long before you are going to speak to me?”
“Oh, George! is it you? I was thinking so deeply!”
“Thinking? thinking of what?” asked Kingman, approaching and taking one of her hands, and looking searchingly into her rich blue eyes.
“Why, thinking ofyou,” she replied, impulsively.
“Thank Heaven!” he added, in a low tone, as he embraced her fervently, and half carried her within the cabin. For a moment Irene was totally overcome; the great strain which her system had undergone now suffered a reaction, and she was as weak and helpless as a child. There seemed an utterabandonmentabout her which made her a dead weight in Kingman’s arms: not a dead weight, either, but a live one, and for that matter our hero felt perfectly willing that it might be thus for any length of time. He brushed the dark curls from her forehead, and kissing it ardently, drew her head down upon his shoulder, where for a few moments the sobs came without restraint. But she shortly recovered herself, and he allowed her to withdraw herself from his arms and seat herself beside him.
“What made you remain so long away?” she asked, with a deep, yearning look which Kingman felt.
“I could not help it.”
“Could not help it? Why not? Were you hurt?”
“A little; not much, but so much that we could not travel fast without danger.”
“Was Moffat injured?”
“Not in the least; and had it not been for him, it is doubtful whether you would ever have seen me again.”
“Oh, George, you do not know how many times I did think so! Mother and father and your folks all thought you must have been killed. Captain Parks said you were not, and Mr. Edwards believed you would yet return to us. I prayed that you might, and yet it did not seem that you,—I am so glad!” and she gave one of those soulful glances that it made Kingman blush at his own happiness.
“I thought perhaps you might think rather strange of my absence”——
“Ratherstrange,” she interrupted, with a reproving look.
Kingman drew her head over upon his shoulder, and pressed her ardently to him. She sprang to her feet.
“I must look upon you again,” she laughed, “for it seems hardly possible that you are really here now. Yes; I believe it is George Kingman, after all.”
“And as I have some doubt of the truth of my eyes, permit not only to look upon you, but to taste you,” added Kingman, rising and imprinting a kiss upon her burning cheek.
“There, that will do! Now tell me where you have been all this time. But does any one else know you have returned?”
“Does any one else know I have returned? A fine question to ask when I have been in the village three or four hours.”
“That time? Impossible! What have you been doing?”
“Circulating among the neighbors. Moffat and I have been here a long time. I went home and the folks acted crazy. I thought motherwouldgo demented. I never knew she thought so much of me before. As luck would have it, Captain Parks was in, and he made a great time.”
“Very glad to see you of course?”
“I suppose so; he just gave his ‘umph!’ and said he was beginning to respect me. A little while after, Edwards,hearing, I suppose, that I had arrived, came in. He gave me one of the heartiest grips I ever had, and told me that before I stopped to see my parents, I should have knelt down and thanked God for my preservation.”
“How like him! What did you answer?”
“I told him I had already done so. He said it gave him pleasure to hear it, and he hoped I would remember the One who never forgot me. Well, after a little talk, he smiled in that pleasing way of his, and said he was just thinking there was some one else who would like to see me. I asked him who he could mean, of course, not knowing who it was; but he looked so mischievous, I know I blushed and showed that I knew well enough who he meant. So after some more conversation, I left and came here.”
“How long ago?”
“A good while, indeed. I came up as silently as possible, intending to give you a surprise. When I came up to the door, I saw you standing in it, and supposed you had seen me, so I laughed, called you by name and approached. You did not reply, and I was frightened to see you look so.”
“To see me look how?”
“Why, so much like death. At first I started, and almost believed you were dead—you appeared so white, and your eyes were fixed upon the clouds away off in the sky. I spoke again, but you made no answer, and I was afraid to approach you. I thought perhaps you were asleep, and in a fit of somnambulism, and waited to see if you moved. By-and-by, you remember, you did, and finally saw me standing before you. What did it mean, Irene? Have you ever been thus before?”
“I suppose so, several times. At any rate, I have been spoken to about it.”
“Were you really asleep.”
“I don’t know, George, I have been filled with such distressing doubts about you, that it must have caused my singular actions. It seemed I couldn’t help it, and Iwasafraid I would go crazy. Perhaps I have already,” she laughed, looking up into his face.
“I am glad and yet very sorry to hear this, Irene,” said Kingman, pressing the affectionate girl to him and drawing her head down again upon his shoulder. “I am glad for it shows me unmistakably that my love is returned; and I am sorry because it shows that it may have had a sad effect upon your system. You must get over it now.”
“I hope I shall, as the cause is removed.”
“Not removed, for it strikes me that he is nearer you this moment than he has been for a number of days.”
“Then if the cause is not removed, the cure has been applied, I suppose,” smiled Irene.
“Yes, once or twice; another application cannot hurt,” added Kingman, applying his lips to the cheek of his fair companion.
“But, George, you have not told me yet the whole particulars of the battle with the Indians, and the terrible suffering you must have undergone. Let me hear it now, will you?”
“Just sit a little closer, then, as I do not wish to talk too loud.”
Irene offered no resistance as Kingman drew her close to him, and, twining one arm around her, commenced the recital of his adventures. The night had now come on, and the room was dark, save where the mellow moonlight streamed within the half open door. Not another soul was in the house, save the two lovers. There was a delicious feeling that came over both, as they were together,alone!where no curious eyes were gazing upon them, and no inquisitive ears were bent to catch their sacred words. Kingman proceeded, and, in a low tone, related all that has been given to the reader. As he spoke of the fearful escapes he had passed through, he could feel the heart of Irene flutter painfully, and she would start involuntarily when he referred to the sudden deliverances from all of them. The hours unnoticed flew by, and still they sat and conversed.