An hour after the departure of the exiles, night spread her pall over the earth, and two men scaled the stockade of Fort Strong and glided toward the hill lately tenanted by the foe.
The spies—for spies the couple undoubtedly were—boasted of white skins, and the moon, just rising and showering her light through the trees beside the river, proclaimed them Wolf-Cap and Mark Harmon.
“I can’t understand this silence,” remarked the old trapper to his companion. “Surely the demons hevn’t given over the attack.”
“Perhaps they have quarreled among themselves,” said young Harmon.
“It may be. O’Neill is a fidgety fellow, they say, and if he gets spiteful at Splitlog, why he’ll withdraw his support. Why they didn’t attack us last night when they could have won, may ever remain a mystery. But silence now—we’ve reached the hill.”
For some minutes the twain crouched at the foot of the acclivity and listened, but heard nothing. Where was the foe? Wolf-Cap was puzzled, and threw one of his queer enigmatical looks into Harmon’s face.
“Bless me! if I don’t b’lieve they’ve vamosed,” he whispered, and then, bidding his comrade retain his position, he proceeded to extend the reconnoissance to the top of the hill.
Ten minutes later he returned.
“Good news for the fort, boy!” he said, in tones of undisguised joy. “The varmints hev vamosed the diggin’s.”
“What! they haven’t retreated with victory in their grasp?” exclaimed the youth.
“They’re gone, anyhow. The red dogs marched around the hills to the river, and the Indians took a south-easterly trail. This tells the story of a family quarrel. O’Neill hasgot his back up about suthin’ and so he cut loose from Splitlog.”
“But why didn’t the Indian remain and attack?”
“He wanted to show his choler, too. He wouldn’t stay for spite, but we’ll hear from him in the Muskingum valley afore long.”
“Then let’s go back and tell the good news,” said Mark Harmon, eagerly. “Then we hunt for Huldah.”
“Yes; we’ll follow Splitlog until we find Funk, for the outlaw will, of course, stick with the chief; they’ve been old cronies for years, and Funk isn’t the man to trust himself among a British regiment with a pretty woman. O’Neill might want Huldah, you see, and, backed by his men, Funk wouldn’t hev the ghost of a show as his rival.”
The spies now set out on their return to the fort, and Wolf-Cap rapped heavily on the gate with the butt of his gun.
“Don’t be afraid to fling ’er wide, boys,” he cried, in a loud tone. “The devils hev got scared at their own shadow, and the old fort is saved!”
“Saved! saved! the foe has fled!” shouted the guard, as he opened the gate, and then cheer on cheer shook the old structure to its staunch foundation logs.
Fathers dropped their weapons and embraced wives in the transport of joy, and mothers kissed their children a hundred times, and thanked God for deliverance with tearful eyes.
“We’re going now, Mark, and I,” said Wolf-Cap to Levi Armstrong, in the midst of the rejoicings, “and we’re going to fetch your girl back, too.”
“You shall not go alone, Belt. I will—”
“You will stay right where you are!” interrupted the hunter, imperatively. “You are needed here. Some band of dusky fellows may attack the fort during my absence, and these helpless women and children can not spare you. Did I say that Mark and I war going alone? Yes. But we are not. Silver Hand and Golden Cheek will join us somewhar in the woods, and those two fellows kin outwit a thousand Night-Hawks.”
Armstrong reluctantly consented to remain in command of the fort.
“When will you return, Belt?” he asked.
“Within five days, or more.”
“Shall we keep Strong untried for five days?”
“No; put him on trial to-morrow. If he is proven a traitor, deal with him accordingly. You can testify for me, for I have told you all that I know bearing on the case. But we must be off, Armstrong.”
The trapper put forth his hand, and with many good wishes for the journey, Armstrong pressed it and saw the twain pass out the gate.
“I may never see him again,” said the old settler, pausing suddenly as the ponderous gate swung back. “He ought to know all now. I will tell him; it will make him more cautious, and he will hate me, I know. Yes, I will disclose the secret.”
Quickly then, he turned to the gate again, and bade the sentry open.
“I want to see Wolf-Cap again,” said Levi, and then he stepped without.
The dusky forms of the two men were still visible toward the river.
He hurried forward; but his heart failed him, for he suddenly returned to the fort without hailing the trapper.
“I can’t break the spell,” he said, slowly and in an undertone, shaking his head. “I still hold the blessed belief into which I have schooled my heart for many years. When Wolf-Cap brings her back, I’ll tell him all. God give her back to me, for I love her. Though he kill me, I will tell him all.”
It was the earnest prayer of a brave man, and he soon rejoined the settlers, still happy over the unexpected deliverance.
But we must return to the British colonel.
At a certain point two miles below the bend in the river, mentioned at the conclusion of the preceding chapter, several large trees lay on the ground, hurled down by the fury of some storm-demon. These trees furnished a natural ambush, almost entirely impenetrable by the human eye, and from their leafy coverts a company of soldiers could sweep the stream either way, for a great distance.
The ambush was not untenanted when Roy Funk and his companions left the Indians, and turned the prows of their canoes toward Lake Erie.
The moon, as she scaled the horizon, looked down upon scarlet uniforms beneath the leaves, and the night-winds heard low voices.
“Colonel, do you think Gosnoke equal to the emergency?” asked a soldier, looking at the British colonel peeping through the boughs.
“I do. Ere this, he has obeyed orders, and peacefully too, for we have heard no noise. Splitlog knows now, that I am not to be trampled, and spit on with impunity. I played the red-skin devil a British trick to-night, and he will never forget it. But I’m tired of waiting here. It is almost time for Gosnoke’s appearance, and here Funk and his accursed hounds have not hove in sight.”
The officer never took his eyes from the shining surface of the water, while he answered the private, and his nervous actions proclaimed his impatience.
The reader can guess the motive that led the Briton to the ambush. He intended to intercept the exiles, and finish the rivalry that existed between himself and the Night-Hawk for the face of Huldah Armstrong. He selected a dozen soldiers whom he could trust, and while the outlaws were preparing to depart, he led his men to the ambush.
Major Gosnoke was left at the hill to withdraw the British forces from co-operation with Splitlog’s warriors. He—the colonel—dared not carry out his treachery in person, for the Wyandot sachem was an impulsive savage, and he might pay the penalty of his desertion with his life.
For many minutes after the brief conversation between the colonel and his privates, a dead silence reigned over forest and stream, but all at once this was broken by the voice of a soldier.
“The boats are coming!”
Colonel O’Neill started and looked up the river. Two black spots were visible on the shining water. Undoubtedly the canoes belonged to the Night-Hawk’s party.
“Ready, men?” whispered O’Neill, turning to his troops. “The devils are sailing right into our clutches. We want nonoise now. Murphy, you are to do the hailing—recollect.”
The soldier nodded, and all eyes were fastened on the approaching boats.
The muskets were at full cock, ready, if needed, to pour a deadly fire into the barges.
Colonel O’Neill held his breath and glanced anxiously from the boats to Murphy, who, with the hailing words on his lips, awaited his commands.
“They’re in the shadow now,” said O’Neill, in reply to a look from his soldier. “When they emerge and execute four more strokes, you may speak.”
A group of trees threw a belt of shadow across the stream a short distance above the ambush, and into this darkness the two boats had glided.
All at once they drifted into the moonlight again, and the studied words were on Murphy’s tongue, when he suddenly started back, and threw a look of amazement into the colonel’s face.
The boats were empty!
The men in the ambush exchanged looks of surprise, mingled with superstition.
Colonel O’Neill was so chagrined that he could not speak for several moments.
He riveted his eyes upon the boats, reluctantly believing the evidence of his senses.
“Tom Murphy, swim out and intercept the boats!” he suddenly roared. “Hell and furies! we have been betrayed!”
Murphy obeyed, and with the aid of several comrades drew the barges ashore.
To the bottom of one canoe a piece of paper was pinned.
“Take care of my boats, colonel,” it said. “I will take care of myself.”
Roy Funk’s name was appended to the writing!
Colonel O’Neill’s face grew red and white by turns with rage.
He looked at the writing until the letters swam before his eyes.
His prey had escaped, and he swore roundly for several minutes before a gentlemanly word passed his lips.
“Murphy,” he said, his anger slumbering but not appeased. “Murphy, you, with two men, will await the arrival of the command at this point, and will proceed with it to the destination communicated by me to Gosnoke.”
“Pray, where does our colonel go?” asked Murphy, who ventured because he was on familiar terms with O’Neill.
“I’m going after Funk. By heavens! that scoundrel shall not escape me. He’s abandoned the boats somewhere up the river, and taken to the forest trails. But how did he know that we were waiting here?”
“Ah! that puzzles the b’hoys, kurnel,” said an Irish soldier. “Faith an’ they must hev smelt us, fur devil a noise did we make among the trees.”
“Some dastardly red-skin has betrayed us, Teddy,” said O’Neill, coloring again. “Now, Murphy, mind what I have told you. The trail they would take, I think, leads in a north-westerly direction to the lake shore. It can be reached by marching due west from this point; but I am not acquainted with the forest hereabout.”
“Methinks, I can lead you to the trail,” said a man who, though clad in English uniform, was no soldier. “I’ve tramped these parts several times. By good marching, we can reach the falls of Beaver river by eleven. There we will strike the Detroit trail and discover something of Roy Funk.”
The Briton was pleased, and a few minutes later disappeared with his men in the funereal recesses of the wood.
“I agree with the Indian. There’s no use in running our legs off after we have eluded the foe. It’s a long way to Detroit, and we might as well rest here as on the lake shore. Boys, I apprehend no pursuit. Splitlog, of course, will not follow, and O’Neill will lead his regiment to the lakes when it joins him on the river. The Indian counsels a rest till morning. He has walked us fast, and Miss Armstrong is greatly fatigued.”
The words just written fell from Royal Funk’s lips, several hours after O’Neill’s disappointment in the ambush.
He stood on the bank of a narrow stream which, in those days, bore the rather pretentious cognomen of Beaverriver. At this point a beautiful cascade added to the wild scenery, and he faced his Night-Hawks, who had just halted from a fatiguing march.
“Of course we are willin’ to rest, cap’n,” said one of the men. “That is, if you really think it best to do so, and of course you would not talk as you hev if you did not. A rest till daylight will do us no harm; but,” and the speaker approached Funk and glanced at a half-naked Indian leaning against a tree, as he lowered his voice, “but, cap’n, do you fully trust the Wyandot?”
“Why should I call him a traitor? Because he has just saved our lives, Whalley? He’s a genuine Wyandot; I’ve seen him a hundred times with Splitlog. But what have you against ’im?”
“Nothin’, cap’n, nothin’,” answered Whalley; “only I wanted to know if you thought him sound.”
“Don’t fear for Spagano,” said Funk. “He’s a faithful fellow. Remember, we would have rowed into O’Neill’s muskets if it hadn’t been for him.”
The Indian upon hearing his name pronounced left the tree and came forward.
He was a tall, muscular fellow, naked to the waist, and wore a crest of painted dove feathers.
“What Night-Hawks want with Spagano?” he asked, in broken English.
“Nothing. But hold, chief. Where had we best camp to-night—here or across the river?”
“Here,” and, with a curious smile, the Indian described acircle with his hand. “We safe this side Beaver—not so safe, p’r’aps, on other side.”
Preparations for a sojourn till day, on the bank of Beaver river, were at once inaugurated by the party, and several of the outlaws employed themselves in catching fish below the falls.
Spagano, the Wyandot guide, lingered about the little camp.
To him the outlaws owed their lives. It was in this manner:
Immediately after rounding the bend that shut the exiles from Splitlog’s sight, an Indian made his appearance on the river-bank, and Funk was induced to take him in. He proved to be the bearer of startling news, and declared that he was acting in accordance with the wishes of the Wyandot sachem—Splitlog.
Colonel O’Neill and two hundred soldiers (the Indian’s exaggerated statement) were waiting for the outlaws at Dead Tree Bend. They were well armed, and the colonel was determined to rid the “fire-lands” of the Night-Hawks at one blow.
Royal Funk believed the Indian and ran his boats ashore. Then debarking, he wrote the message that so irritated the Briton, and sent the canoes adrift.
The journey to the lake-shore had now to be performed overland, and as the Wyandot was desirous of visiting Detroit, he was made the head guide of the party. Before the brave’s appearance, Funk felt that his red-coated rival lay somewhere in ambush; but now he believed that he had successfully eluded him, and that they would not meet in the forest again.
Spagano was impatient, and ill at ease as he helped prepare the camp.
More than once he glanced furtively at Huldah Armstrong, reclining on a robe at the foot of a sturdy oak, and often paused in his labors as if to catch certain sounds for which he seemed to be waiting. While gathering brushwood, for the fire, he made several lengthy journeys into the forest, and in the dim light, he practiced the old savage habit of listening with the ear applied to the ground.
Once Roy Funk came suddenly upon Spagano in this attitude of detecting sounds, and inquired into his action.
“Indian listening for British footsteps; but none come to his ears.”
Funk was satisfied with the reply, and commended the Wyandot’s watchfulness.
It was ten or perhaps quite eleven o’clock before the rude camp was finished, and after midnight but three persons therein appeared awake. The trio consisted of Spagano and two Night-Hawks. The recumbent forms of the remaining outlaws, including their leader, lay in the light of the dying fire, and resembled wooden statues more than breathing clay.
The white guards sat at the foot of a large tree; Spagano stood erect and wide-awake, a few feet to their right.
“Whalley, I’m as sleepy as a winter-treed b’ar,” said one of the men, in his uncouth tongue. “Say, haven’t I nodded a little within this past hour or such matter? I don’t see what’s come over me to-night. I know my chin has pounded my knees while we’ve been sittin’ here. But I can’t help it, Whalley; and if I do drop asleep, you’ll let me go, and keep mum to the captain, won’t you?”
“Yes, but keep awake if you can, Zigler,” returned Whalley, and a yawn stretched his mouth to its greatest dimensions. “Mind ye, if we go to sleep, that Indian kin do as he pleases, and we might wake up and find ourselves as dead as a herrin’.”
“Dead or no dead, Whalley, I’ve got to sleep,” drawled Zigler. “Wonder where that Injun got his whisky? Never had any to affect myeyesafore.”
Whalley here glanced at the Wyandot, who stood immobile against the tree, looking into the darkness of the wood.
“If I thought he had drugged the whisky, curse me if I wouldn’t—”
He paused suddenly, for Zigler was asleep!
“Zig, this won’t do!” he said, with a smile, shaking his companion’s shoulder lightly. “We’re in the frying-pan yet. Wake up!”
Zigler responded with a swinish grunt.
“Well, sleep then,” said Whalley, supplementing his words with an oath. “I’ll watch the Indianmyself!”
He fastened his eyes upon the Wyandot; but soon the Indian faded into a bluish mist, as it were, and the watcher was asleep, like his comrade!
Spagano looked at the sleepers, and glanced from them to the flask hanging at his waist. The glance was fraught with triumph, and breathed of the red-man’s proverbial treachery to the white.
He watched the guards for several minutes and then approached. The scrutiny pleased him, and he crawled from the camp and disappeared in the forest. He moved down the trail which the Night-Hawks had lately traversed, and thirty yards from the camp paused and put his ear to the ground.
All at once he started to his feet, and sprung toward the camp.
Excitement burned in his swarthy face; but he was calm withal, and when on the edge of the light of the dying fire, he dropped to the ground, and after listening a moment with head turned toward the wood, crawled forward to Huldah Armstrong’s cot.
Spagano was proving himself a traitor, and his bearing told that this was not his first Judas act.
He reached the robe-couch, and bent over the sleeping girl.
She lay near Roy Funk, who tossed uneasily about, the victim of some terrible dream.
It seemed impossible for Spagano to steal the girl, if theft was his intention, without rousing her, but he proved himself equal to the emergency.
Suddenly stooping, he clapped one brawny hand over the bright-red lips, while the other snatched their owner from the ground, in the twinkling of an eye!
Then he sprung backward over the sleeping Night-Hawks; but was brought to an abrupt stand by the sound of rushing feet.
He leaned forward and looked with an expression of satisfaction, which was soon transformed into one of horror.
For Colonel O’Neill appeared, like a giant, in the flickering light, and the savage caught a glimpse of a phalanx of red-coats in his rear.
What would be done?
It was evident that Spagano was aiding parties other than O’Neill and Royal Funk, and that he had mistaken a deadly footstep for a friendly one.
He looked into the Briton’s eyes a moment, and then glanced at the sleeping outlaws.
The next instant he threw Huldah before his heart, and sprung toward the forest, a wild yell pealing from his throat as he executed the latter action.
The effect of spring and yell was electrical!
Royal Funk and all his comrades, save Whalley and Zigler, leaped to their feet, to be greeted with a volley from the British muskets.
It was a telling volley. Every Night-Hawk sunk back, either killed or wounded, and Spagano, the girl-stealer, reeled like a youthful drunkard.
Huldah Armstrong fell from his grasp, and the next moment Colonel O’Neill was at her side. As he stooped to lift her up, the Wyandot darted to his feet and hurled him back with the strength of a tiger.
Soldiers sprung to their leader’s aid; but ere they reached the spot Spagano and the girl were gone!
The red-coats caught a glimpse of the Indian’s dusky figure as he disappeared, and started to pursue. For several minutes his footsteps guided them, and then those sounds ceased. Colonel O’Neill was resolved that Huldah Armstrong should not escape him.
He had the fire fanned into a new existence, and soon a dozen torches flashed their lurid flames throughout the forest.
The soldiers knew that it was poor policy to hunt a hidden Indian with torches, but it was evident that Spagano was desperately, ay, mortally, wounded, and had fallen somewhere in the neighborhood. This conjecture, advanced by the colonel, was soon confirmed.
The Wyandot was found dead at the bottom of a forest knoll; but Huldah Armstrong was still missing!
“Blast the Indian!” hissed O’Neill, spurning the corpse with his foot. “He’s past torture, curse ’im! But the girl—we’ll find her yet. We must find her! A hundred guineas to the soldier who first discovers her.”
Spagano bore Huldah Armstrong to the knoll where his strength suddenly deserted him, and he sunk to the earth.
“White girl go,” he said, looking at Huldah, who stood over him undecided how to act. “Indian got to die here. English bullet cut life-string. The red-coat soldier want girl; he come here soon. Look, there burns his soldiers’ fires. Quick, girl! keep from him. Wolf-Cap in the wood; he find you soon.”
“Wolf-Cap,” cried Huldah. “Was you working for him?”
The Indian nodded, unable to speak.
“Where is he?”
A feeble red hand pointed to the south-east, and the Indian fell back with a groan.
The settler’s daughter bent over him, but the red-man’s soul was pursuing the trail to his happy hunting grounds, far, far away from the death-freighted wood.
“Dead—my only friend gone!” exclaimed the girl. “What shall I do? Give myself to the Briton? No, no! a thousand deaths in these forests are preferable to a life with him.”
The torches of the red-coated hunters flashed in her face, and snatching up Spagano’s rifle, she turned, and fled in the direction lately indicated by the Indian’s finger.
The moon had reached the meridian now, and the faint light which she showered through the trees, enabled the flying girl to pick her way without great difficulty. She was confident that she was hurrying toward the Huron, and she knew that by following the river-trail, she would eventually reach Fort Strong. This hope nerved her to great endurance, and at last, as the day was breaking, she saw the murky water rushing lakeward.
A thrill of joy shot through her heart, and lifting her eyesto heaven, she thanked God for guiding her to the water, which was to her, at that hour, a synonym of safety.
She felt fatigued and threw herself upon the ground to recruit her strength. She felt herself alone by the river, and the birds performed their matutinal antics about her, perfectly happy and unconcerned.
Lighter and lighter grew the forest, but Huldah Armstrong saw it not. A desire to rest was to her but the precursor of a doze, and she reclined on the river-bank with closed eyes and half-shut hands.
Suddenly a boat rounded a bend a few yards above her place of repose, and came rapidly toward her.
It was a small boat, and contained a man, who handled the oars like one accustomed to their use. He was a white, and wore the oft described garb of the settler; but a sword lay at his side, and rifles and pistols. He glanced uneasily at the banks, as he kept his canoe in the middle of the stream, and seemed eager to reach a certain objective point still far away.
But all at once his gaze fell upon Huldah Armstrong, plainly seen from the river, and a moment after the discovery, he ran his canoe cautiously to the bank.
At first, after striking the shore, he was inclined to believe the maiden a decoy; but after a close scrutiny of the vicinity, he became bolder and crept up the bank.
His large black eyes burned with a hateful triumph, not unmixed with the baser passions, and his first care was to remove the rifle from Huldah’s feeble grasp.
Then, precisely as Spagano had done a few hours before, he lifted her from the ground; but held her at arms’ length that he might enjoy her horror and surprise at finding herself captive again.
Huldah opened her eyes with a spasmodic start, and the bright color of life deserted her cheeks.
“Captain Strong, what does this mean? and how came you here?” she cried, staring into his face, covered with a fiendish smile.
“I boated it, girl,” he answered; “but I can’t tell all now. We’ll continue my voyage, and when I get the craft under way again, I’ll tell a little story.”
“But whither are you going?”
“’Tis very natural that you should put that question, seeing that I’m Captain Strong, and you Huldah Armstrong,” he said, with a light chuckle. “I’m going to Detroit, I guess, and you’re going along.”
“No, no! Is it possible, Captain Strong, that you possess the inhumanity of the savage?”
“It is, if you would think so. But we’re losing time here. I want to overtake the barges; they’re traveling slowly, being heavily loaded, and I guess we can come up with them at the mouth of the Huron.”
With the last word he started toward the river with his prize, and presently, with her hands fastened upon her back, the settler’s child faced the captain in the craft.
“Now, my girl, we’re fairly under way,” he said, when they had proceeded some distance, “and I’ll tell you the promised story.”
“I should like to hear it, Captain Strong. I can not conceive how you escaped from the fort.”
He smiled.
“Men relent, sometimes,” he answered. “After the abandonment of the siege, they placed me on trial, and I found that a current had set in in my favor. But many cried like wolves for my death—among them, one Levi Armstrong. But a vote was taken, and a meager majority pronounced in favor of my exile. I swore never to return to the “fire-lands,” and they marched me down to the river and shoved me off with every thing I called my own. I was glad to get off, for, girl, I expected to die. If it hadn’t been for you and your father, I’d have been with the king’s soldiers now.”
“How did I prevent you?” asked Huldah.
“You told your father that you heard me whispering to Sawyer at the gate, and the old man resolved to nab me then.”
“Then, Captain Strong, you really are a traitor?” said the girl, bitterly.
He bit his lip and looked daggers at her before he spoke again.
“Well—yes; but it is a hard name to bear.”
“You poisoned the well.”
“Yes—but Matt Hunter stood by me on that.”
“You thought the men would surrender before being burned alive?”
“They would. Oh, we had our plans perfected, Huldah Armstrong. Your father arrested me in the nick of time. Twenty minutes more of freedom and I would have flung wide the gates to the Indians.”
“And what reward was you to receive for your Arnold trick?”
“My life and yours!”
“I was to have been the price of a massacre?”
“Yes. I’m talking plainly now,” he said. “The three pistol-shots on the hill told me that O’Neill accepted the propositions which I sent him by the deserter Sawyer; but our plans failed.”
The girl did not reply; her eyes wandered from his expression of triumph, and she thought of her perilous situation.
Captain Armstrong hated her, and to humor his hate he would make her a hopeless captive. Mercy at his hands was not to be thought of; he would shoot her down before he would surrender her into other hands, and she upbraided herself for not allowing O’Neill to capture her in the forest. The colonel, a monster though he was, possessed several good traits; Zebulon Strong, the traitor, could boast of none.
“You’re tryin’ to catch the British troops?” she said, after a long silence.
“Yes.”
“Then what?”
“Why, we’ll go to Detroit, thence east. I shall enter the army, probably; but build no hopes on my words; they’re poor foundations, girl. You shall never leave me until the hand of death falls heavily on one or both of us. I swear it by all that is good and bad! It is the oath of Zebulon Strong, and he is a desperate man. There—girl, what do you see?”
A strange light had suddenly flashed in Huldah’s eyes, and quickly the traitor turned his head and looked up the river.
A boat containing three men was bearing down upon him!
An oath shot from his throat as he turned again.
“By the eternal world! I’ve seen them in time!” he said, “and they might as well turn back, for they can’t catch Zeb Strong.”
Relinquishing the oars for a moment, he doffed his coat and the next minute the canoe was flying down the stream like an arrow.
The figures in the pursuing boat were seen to spring to the oars with new life, and the race soon became one of the most exciting character. Captain Strong possessed the strength of a giant in his iron frame, and his oars lashed the waves into foam, as he drove the boat toward his goal, lake Erie, distant many miles.
“You needn’t pray for their success,” he cried, looking up into Huldah’s wishful, hopeful face, “for they can’t catch us! It’s impossible. Your father gave me a splendid boat with oars that can not break. By heavens! with this canoe I could shoot the fury rapids of perdition. With these sticks—”
Snap went an oar!
A cry of horror rung from the captain’s throat, and he tried to use the broken paddle, but without effect.
The boat began to become unmanageable, and he tried to guide it ashore with the sound oar, swearing like a trooper all the time.
“Didn’t I say that nothing but death could separate us?” he asked, darting Huldah a look of despair. “I’m Zebulon Strong—don’t forget that. I’m a traitor, too, and a devil!”
The canoe struck the bank at last, and the captain looked at his followers, now within rifle-shot. He saw three weapons leveled at his breast; but he was shielding it with the girl, and they dared not shoot.
“Drop the girl!” came a voice from the boat.
Strong greeted it with a laugh.
“I’m no fool!” he cried. “I’m Zebulon Strong, I am. So good-by, boys! we’ll meet again, mebbe,” and he waved his hat at the occupants of the boat, then sprung into the forest.
A minute after his disappearance, the trio reached the spot and sprung upon his trail. They were Wolf-Cap, Mark Harmon and an Indian well known to the reader, as Silver Hand. Already the traitor and his prize had vanished among the trees,and his trail led toward the spot where Colonel O’Neill had lately surprised the Night-Hawks’ camp.
Undoubtedly the captain knew but little of the intricacies of the wood he was treading; perhaps he was bewildered, for he was runningfromDetroit, having turned his back upon the walls surmounted by the British flag.
The trio were confident of catching him, for the trail was plain, and certain signs told them that he was giving out.
“He’ll never turn traitor again if we catch ’im,” said Wolf-Cap, with determination.
“Never, Wolf-Cap,” echoed young Harmon.
Three seconds later the crack of a distant rifle fell upon the pursuers’ ears.
They did not pause; but exchanged meaning looks, and quickened their gait.
The drama that followed the surprise of the Night-Hawks’ camp was enacted over again.
Wolf-Cap and his followers at last came up with Zebulon Strong.
But the captain lay full length on the ground, with a bullet in his brain!
Sooner than he had expected, death had separated him and his captive.
Tired and disheartened in his search for our heroine, Colonel Argent O’Neill rejoined his soldiers in the Night-Hawk’s camp an hour or so before day.
He found Royal Funk but slightly wounded, and, with Whalley and Zigler, the two guards drugged by Spagano, closely watched by the troops. Funk looked daggers at the officers as he approached and a smile of satisfaction stole over his bronzed face when he noted that Huldah had escaped.
“So you spoke truly when you prophesied that we wouldmeet again,” exclaimed the colonel, halting before the outlaw with drawn sword. “Fire and furies! I’m rejoiced that we have met, and fortune has given me the best hand, as you see. It’s a hand of trumps, too.”
“But, colonel, where’s the girl?”
The words were quietly but tauntingly spoken, and the smile grew broader on the Night-Hawk’s face while his lips moved.
O’Neill did not reply, but allowed his face to become livid with smothered anger.
“Yes, colonel, where is the girl?” he asked, again. “If you hold such a superb hand, why didn’t you capture my queen with one of your trumps?”
“Because your knave—that infernal Indian—baffled me,” said O’Neill, apparently a little calmer.
“Ah, then, he’ll keep the prize.”
“No, we found him dead in the woods; but the girl was gone!”
A flash of hope lighted up the renegade’s eyes.
“You should find her, then.”
“Alas! I have no good trailer with me.”
“I could track her.”
“But you won’t!” retorted the colonel. “Roy Funk, I’m not going to set you free and trust to your guidance. Colonel Argent O’Neill is not a condemned fool! But you’ll be free directly—free forever,” and the old malignant look came back to the red-coat’s eyes. “We’re going to leave this place. Curse the winding paths of this American wood! No such forests in England; that is God’s land; this the devil’s. Our guide got bewildered, else we would have been here long ago, and we would have had the girl, too.”
“She will never be yours now, sir.”
“Never! how do you know that?”
“I need not explain. Suffice it to say, Colonel O’Neill, that she will never in this world become your property.”
“Will she ever become yours?” asked the soldier, with a devilish leer, as he leaned forward.
“That remains to be seen,” was the outlaw’s calm reply.
“What! do you plot in the very jaws of death?” criedO’Neill, springing back. “Fire and furies! I’ll settlethatquestion before the break of day. Boys, are your muskets loaded?”
A tall sergeant answered in the affirmative.
“I’m going to exterminate the Night-Hawks of the fire-lands,” continued the angry colonel, turning to Funk again. “As you are their leader, you should be the last survivor. Kings often witness the destruction of their kingdoms. Ready to die, I suppose, Roy Funk?”
“Ready!” was the firm response.
“What would you do did I stand in your shoes and you in mine?”
“I’d shoot you down like a dog!”
“But I’m more merciful. I’m going to grant you a soldier’s death, for you have fought for the flag of our king.”
Then six soldiers were selected as executioners, and Whalley and Zigler were placed side by side, fifteen paces from the muzzles of the leveled muskets. Royal Funk was taken aside and closely guarded on a spot from whence he could witness the death of the last of his band.
He spoke to the doomed men and bade them die game, which they promised to do.
Whalley and Zigler were brave men. They had faced death in the covert, before stern vigilance committees, and the field of battle, and they were not the persons to become frightened at the monster’s hideous visage now.
Colonel O’Neill conducted the execution. He gave the command of death in a stern tone, characteristic of the disciplined soldier that he was, and the leaden volley stretched the Night-Hawks dead upon the leaves.
“Well done, was it not?” he said, turning to Funk who had witnessed the murder without an outward sign of emotion. “My men shoot well.”
“Quite well,” was the reply, and as the outlaw’s glance fell upon the still forms on the ground, for the first time, a tear of affection stole to his eye.
“Braver men than they never lived,” he murmured; and then, in a lower tone: “I am the last.”
He was now led forward, and halted between the corpses of his two last followers.
“I accord you a liberty,” said O’Neill, admiring, despite his hate, the unflinching courage of the man with whom he was dealing. “Raynor, untie his hands.”
The soldier addressed drew a knife and obeyed the command.
Funk’s hands crept around to his side, and seemed to hang listlessly there.
“Royal Funk, would you see the deadly flash?” asked O’Neill.
“I am a soldier, I would die as one!” was the reply.
The colonel drew a large handkerchief, and tossed it to a soldier saying:
“Blindfold him, then. As a soldier, shall the outlaw die,” he said, sarcastically.
Two soldiers, one bearing a musket, now stepped forward to blindfold the Night-Hawk’s black eyes. One stepped behind him and was in the act of drawing the kerchief into position, when Funk’s hands left his side. They shot upward like rockets, and the soldier who stood before him with bayoneted gun was hurled backward, like the covering of an exploding rocket. His musket was wrenched from his hand at the same moment, and the blindfolder was brained with the stock before anybody could realize the terrible state of affairs.
Roy Funk was free, with a musket in his hand!
Like a tiger he leaped upon Colonel O’Neill, who retreated a step, and threw up his sword to ward off the glistening bayonet.
But as well he might have tried to stop the descent of an avalanche with a straw.
The bayonet came down upon his breast with giant force, and the next instant he staggered back with the shining steel buried among his vitals!
“There, take that, colonel,” cried Royal Funk, as he sent the bayonet home, and then he hurled to the earth the only soldier who had presence of mind enough to attempt to impede his further progress.
“Hurrah! Roy Funk is free again! Another band of Night-Hawks shall gather at his call, and woe to the Briton who crosses his path then.”