"It makes no difference to me whether you believe it or not. If you make much more noise, like enough you'll find out who I am."
"Be you really the leader of the Riflemen?" queried Zeke Hunt, not noticing the warning which had just been uttered.
"I've told you once, so let's hear no more about it."
"My gracious! you don't look much like one. 'Pears to me you and I look a good deal alike. Don't you think so?"
"Heaven save me, I hope not."
"Oh, I'm willing that it should be so. I ain't offended."
The impudence of the countryman was so consummate that Dernor could not restrain a laugh at it.
"They always considered me good-looking down hum," he added; "and there wasn't a gal I wasn't able to get if I wanted her."
"I should think you would be anxious to get back again."
"Would be, if it wasn't for the old man. He was awful on me. Didn't appear to be proud of me at all."
"Queer, sure. I don't see how he could help it."
"Me neither. Dad was always mad, though, and used to aboose me shameful. The fust thing in my life that I can remember was of gettin' a lickin'."
"What was it for?"
"Nothin' worth tellin'. I was a little feller then, and one day heated the poker red-hot, and run it down grandmother's back. But there! didn't he lam me for that! Always was whippin' me. School-teacher was just as bad. Licked me like blazes the fust day."
"Did he lick you for nothin'?"
"Purty near. Didn't do any thing except to put a handful of gunpowder in a dry inkstand, and then touch it off under his chair. Haw! haw! haw! didn't he jump? and oh gracious!" he added, in a solemn tone, "didn't I jump, too, when he fell on me."
"You seem to have been about the biggest scamp in the country. Why did he whip you this last time when you run away?"
"Hadn't any more reason than he had at other times. I tried to take Ann Parsons home from singing-school, and she wouldn't let me. That was the reason."
"He couldn't have whipped you for that."
"Well, it all come from that. I followed her home, and jest give her my opinion of her, and when her old man undertook to say any thing, I jest pitched in and walloped him."
"You had a sensible father, and it's a pity he hasn't got you now, for I don't care any thing about your company."
"You going to turn me off? You said you wouldn't."
"And I shan't, I tell you agin, as long as you behave yourself. If you cac'late to go with me to the settlement, you must not have too much to say. Remember that we are still in dangerous territory, and a little foolishness by either of us may bring a pack of the red-skins upon us."
"Just what I thought. I'm sleepy."
And without further ceremony, he lolled over on the ground, and in a few minutes, to all appearances, was sound asleep. Intently watching his face for a time, the Rifleman now and then saw his eyelids partly unclose, as if he wished to ascertain whether any one was scrutinizing him. The somewhat lengthy conversation which we have taken the pains to record, had about disarmed the hunter of the suspicions which had been lingering with him for a long time. He believed Zeke Hunt an ignorant fellow, who had been left along the Ohio river, as he had related, and who had not yet learned that trait of civilized society, carefully to conceal his thoughts and feelings when in conversation. The impression which he first felt, of having met him before, might easily arise from his resemblance to some former acquaintance.
Still, the Rifleman was by no means so forgetful of his charge as to indulge in slumber, when there was the remotest probability of danger threatening her. Inured as he was to all manner of hardships and suffering, it was no difficult matter for him to spend several nights in succession without sleep. He therefore watched over her through the second night, never, for a single moment, allowing himself to become unconscious. Several times he saw the countryman raise his head and change his position, and when spoken to, heard him mutter something about it being "derned hard to sleep with his head on the soft side of a stone, and one side toasted and the other froze."
The hours wore away without any incident worth mentioning, and at the first appearance of day Edith was astir and ready to resume the journey. Enough of the turkey, slain on the day before, remained to give each a sufficient meal, and with cheerful spirits upon the part of all, the three again took up their march through the wilderness.
The route which the information of the countryman led the hunter to adopt was such that he expected to reach the settlement in the course of the afternoon. It will thus be seen that it was a very circuitous one – they, in fact, being already several miles north of their destination. As yet, the eagle eye of the hunter had discovered no danger, and their march was continued without interruption until noon, when they halted for a few minutes' rest.
"If you haint no 'bjection, I'll try a shot with your gun," said Zeke Hunt, "bein' as you thought I couldn't shoot any."
"I'd rather not have my rifle fired at present, youngster, as ears that we don't fancy might hear it."
"You're only afeard I might beat you, that's all."
This remark so nettled the hunter that he resolved to gratify his disagreeable companion.
"Put up your mark, then," said he, "and as far off as you choose."
The countryman walked to a tree somewhat over a hundred yards distant, and with his knife clipped off a small piece of bark, leaving a gleaming spot, an inch or two in diameter.
"You fire first," said he, as he came back.
The hunter drew up his rifle, and pausing hardly a second to take aim, buried the bullet fairly in the center of the target.
"Whew! that's derned good; don't believe I can beat it much; but I'll try."
The gun was quickly reloaded, and, after taking aim and adjusting it nearly a dozen times, Zeke Hunt fired, missing the tree altogether. As he ran to ascertain the result of his shot, instead of handing the rifle to Dernor, he carried it, apparently without thinking, with him. When he had carefully examined the mark, he proceeded to reload it, before returning. This was so natural an occurrence, that the hunter received his weapon without noticing it.
"Want to fire again?" asked the countryman.
"No, it isn't worth while."
"I give in, but think I'll be up to you after a little practice."
About half an hour afterward, as they were walking along, Dernor, by a mere accident, happened to look at the pan of his rifle and saw that the priming had been removed. A moment's reflection convinced him that this had been done by Zeke Hunt, not accidentally, but on purpose. The hunter managed to reprime without being noticed, and he made a vow that this apparent lubber should henceforth be watched with a lynx-eye.
They had gone scarcely a half-mile further, when the latter came up beside Edith, and remarked that he had been taken sick.
"Don't you feel able to walk?" she asked.
"I'm dreadful afeard I shall have to ax you to pause for a while," he said, manifesting that peculiar repugnance to receiving kindness, which, singularly enough is manifested more or less by every person in similar circumstances.
"What's the matter?" gruffly asked Dernor, who was still meditating upon the incident we have mentioned above.
"Sick," groaned Zeke Hunt, apparently in great misery.
"What has made you sick?"
"I don't know; allers was considered delicate."
"How do you feel?"
"Jest as though I wanted to whistle!" was the curious reply and placing his finger in his mouth, the fellow gave a sound that would have done credit to an ordinary locomotive.
"If you make that noise again I'll shoot you," said the Rifleman, now fairly convinced that mischief was intended. Without heeding his threat, the sick man arose to the upright position, and with flashing eyes, repeated the sound.
"I gave you warning," said Dernor, raising his gun, pointing it at his breast, and pulling the trigger. It missed fire!
"I guess you'll have to fix up that load a little," said Zeke Hunt, "and afore you can do that, you're likely to have visitors."
The Rifleman clubbed his gun and advanced toward the man. The latter drew his knife, and said:
"Keep off, Lew Dernor; don't you know me?"
"I've been a fool," said the hunter. "Yes, I know you through your disguise, Simon Girty. I see what you have been trying to do, but you will never take one of us alive. I hear the tramp of the coming Indians that he has signaled," he added, addressing Edith, "and there is not a minute to lose."
So saying, he placed his arm around her waist, and started off at a rapid run.
CHAPTER VIII.
THE FLIGHT
The pass was steep and rugged,
The wolves they howled and whined;
But he ran like a whirlwind up the pass,
And left the wolves behind.
– Macaulay.
Moments like these,
Rend men's lives into immortalities.
– Byron.
For a few minutes, the Rifleman ran "like a whirlwind," supporting entirely the weight of Edith, for none knew better than he the imminent peril that menaced both. The wood was quite open, so that his way was not much impeded, and he went at a terrific rate, well aware that all depended upon gaining an advantage over the Indians at the start.
He had gone but a short distance, when he became convinced that his only danger was from falling into the hands of his pursuers, as it was their sole object to make him and Edith prisoners; as a consequence, there was no danger from being fired at by them. When he deemed it prudent, he released his hold upon her, and she, half running and being half carried, flew over the ground at a rate as astonishing to herself as it was to her pursuers. The latter kept up a series of yells and outcries, amid which the discordant screeches of Zeke Hunt, now Simon Girty, the renegade, could be plainly distinguished. Several furtive glances over the shoulder gave him glimpses of some eight or ten savages in pursuit, the renegade being among the foremost.
As Dernor was thus hurrying forward, he recalled that, less than half a mile distant, the woods were broken and cut up by ravines and hills, as though an earthquake had passed through that section; and, believing that this would afford him a better opportunity of eluding his foes, he turned in that direction and strained every nerve to reach it. As for Edith herself, she seemed fired with supernatural strength, and sped with a swiftness of which she never dreamed herself capable. Seeing this, the Rifleman attempted to draw the charge out of his gun and reload it. It was a work of great difficulty to do this while running, but he succeeded in accomplishing it at last.
Constantly glancing behind him, in order to see his chance, he suddenly whirled and fired with the rapidity of thought. Without pausing to reload, he again placed his arm around Edith, and dashed forward almost at the top of his speed.
Finding that the Indians, if gaining at all, were gaining very slowly upon him, he half concluded that it was their intention to run his companion down, well knowing that, although he was fully competent both in speed and in bottom to contest with them, it could not be expected that she could continue the rate at which she was going, for any length of time.
"Ain't you tired?" he asked, hurriedly.
"Not much; I can run a great deal further," she replied, in the same hurried manner.
"Keep your spirits up; we'll soon have different ground to travel over."
Almost as he spoke, they came to the edge of a sort of ravine, too broad for either to leap, and too precipitous to admit of an immediate descent by either. Still retaining his hold upon her, Dernor ran rapidly along the edge, until reaching a favorable spot, he lifted her bodily from the ground, and bounded down to a rock over a dozen feet below, and then leaped from this to the bottom of the ravine, Edith sustaining no more of a shock than if she had been a feather.
Being now in the bottom of the ravine, where the ground was comparatively even, the hunter placed the girl once more upon her feet, and side by side they continued their flight from their merciless pursuers. Their loud, exultant yells continued reverberating through the woods, and glancing upward, Dernor saw the form of a huge Indian suddenly come to view, on the edge of the ravine, some distance ahead of him, and make some menacing motion toward him. As the ravine at this point was a sheer precipice, the hunter did not believe he would attempt to descend it, and feeling there was no danger of being fired upon, he kept steadily onward.
But he was mistaken. Before he was opposite the savage, he came sliding and tumbling down the ravine, as though some one had pushed him from behind. However that may have been, he alighted on his feet without injury, and made directly toward the fugitives, with the manifest intention of checking their flight.
Lewis Dernor saw that a collision with the Indian was unavoidable, and without the least hesitation prepared himself for it. The savage was a Miami – a brawny, muscular warrior, fully six feet in height, of matchless symmetry and formidable strength. When the combatants were perhaps a dozen yards apart, he raised his tomahawk over his head, and poising it a moment, hurled it, with a most deadly force, full at the head of the hunter. The latter had not expected such a demonstration as this, but had detected it in time to avoid it. He dropped his head the instant the weapon left the savage's hand, and it whizzed over him, going end over end, until it struck the solid rock, where the terrible force of the concussion shivered it to atoms. Seeing this, the Miami whipped out his knife and stood on the defensive.
"Now, my good friend," muttered Dernor, between his clenched teeth, "it is my turn."
He handed his rifle to Edith – who had paused, now that they were so close to their enemy – and, drawing his own knife, made a sort of running bound, coming upon the Indian with a panther-like spring, that nearly drove him backward off his feet. There was a clashing of knives, the scintillation of steel against steel, the deadly embrace, and hand-to-hand struggle; and, as the Rifleman recoiled clear of his fallen adversary, he reached out to Edith for his rifle.
"Come on," said he, in his ordinary voice; "I guess the way is clear."
"I – I am afraid," faltered Edith, "that I can not run much further."
"There ain't any need of it," said the hunter. "Lean on me, and we'll walk awhile, if there's a thousand tearing Injins after us."
Edith panted and trembled violently from the exhausting efforts she had been compelled to make, while the mortal terror she felt at the Miamis, made her nearly wild with excitement. Their chilling yells, so different from any thing ever heard among civilized beings, would have crazed almost any person, but Dernor listened to them with as much composure as he would to the songs of so many birds.
He became aware, shortly after, from the direction of these sounds, that the Indians had entered the ravine, and were now coming along again, at the top of their speed. He paused a moment, to determine precisely the distance of these, and then looked into the gloomy, terror-stricken face of Edith.
"I have rested," said he, "and if we don't get over ground faster than this, them red-skins will have us both, in less than ten minutes. Let me carry you."
She made no resistance, for she was barely able to stand, and supporting her in such a manner that her feet hardly touched ground, Dernor once more threw all of his astonishing energy into the flight. Fully a quarter of a mile he ran directly through the ravine, and then, reaching a point that would admit of it, he made a running leap, and came up out of it, like a diver emerging from the sea.
He was now in the woods again, after having gained a considerable advantage over his pursuers; but the Indians behind him were still uncomfortably close, and he could not hope that all would pass the point where he had left the ravine, without discovering the signs he had left there of his flight. Knowing this, he was aware that the golden moment was the present. The Miamis – to whom most of the pursuers belonged – were "thrown off the scent" for the time. After having gone a considerable distance, and having satisfied himself that they had not yet regained it, Dernor determined to take advantage of this to give Edith a portion of the rest she needed so much.
"I am not used to running like this," said she, leaning heavily on him, "and I am afraid I can not bear it."
"I ought to be shot and scalped, for making you take this journey," said Dernor.
"Why, you did it for the best," she added, in surprise.
"Yes, I thought so – perhaps, the best for myself. I had no idea of being pursued in this manner. It seems I have been a fool. I let that Simon Girty make me believe he was an awkward countryman, and lead me into this muss."
"You think we can keep out of their hands?"
"I trust so; the night ain't many hours away, and if we can only keep clear till then, why, all right. I hain't seen the Injin yet, Miami or Shawnee, that could foller a track in the night-time."
"They did not see us come out of the ravine. How will they know enough of our direction to keep up the pursuit?"
"Injin is Injin, and the dirt I made in scratching out of there will be seen by a dozen of their snaky eyes."
"How far, dear friend, did you say it is to the settlement?"
"Full twenty miles."
"We can reach it, then, by traveling all night?"
"Yes, very easy, if you can hold out till the darkness comes on."
"I hope I can, but I am so terribly worn out that I must go very slowly. You said it was the best for you that we should undertake this journey alone, through the woods. What did you mean by saying that?"
"I will tell you some other time," replied the hunter, in great embarrassment. "I done so that I might be alone with you."
Edith looked earnestly at him, as though she would read his very soul. She was about to speak, when the appalling yells of the human bloodhounds sounded so fearfully near, that her very blood seemed to curdle in her veins.
"Where shall we fly?" she asked, looking up imploringly in the face of the hunter.
"Come on as rapidly as you can," he replied, again supporting her.
Great as were the apprehension and terror of Edith, she could but notice the singular conduct of her companion. He kept constantly looking around, not as though he expected danger, but as if searching for something. The cause of this was soon manifest.
"Edith," said he, "it will be full two hours afore there'll be enough darkness to do us any good. Can you stand it till then?"
"I can stand it," she answered, with a sad laugh, "but I can not run it."
"We must either run or be took. Now, my dearestone, you've done enough to kill a dozen common women, and you shouldn't try to do more, and I don't intend to let you."
"But how can – Oh, Heavenly Father! hear those shouts – but how can you prevent it?"
"I must leave you behind."
Edith's eyes dilated with horror, now doubly intensified.
"Don't think for a minute," the hunter hastened to say, "that I intend to desart you. No, no; may the lightning strike me down if I could ever do such a thing. What I mean is, that I must hide you till night, when I'll come back, and we'll go on, taking things comfortably."
"It must be done quickly. Don't wait a minute."
The Rifleman led the way to some thick, dense bushes and without approaching them very closely, signified her to enter them. She did so, with considerable difficulty, and when she had entered and covered away, he could see nothing of her.
"Stay there till I come," said he, "and be careful and not put your head out, if you hear any noise."
"How shall I know whether it is you or not?"
"I'll be around as soon as it is dark enough, and will speak. Don't forget what I said. Don't let any noise make you show yourself. Good-by."
"Good-by;" and the hunter turned to attend to his own safety.
CHAPTER IX.
THE RIFLEMAN AND HURON ON THE TRAIL
The woodcock, in his moist retreat,
Heard not the falling of their feet;
On his dark roost the gray owl slept,
Time, with his drum the partridge kept;
Nor left the deer his watering-place,
So hushed, so noiseless was their pace.
W. H. C. Hosmer.
On a fine summer day, the one succeeding that upon which occurred the incident just related, one of the Riflemen of the Miami, was making his way through the dense forests that at that period nearly covered the entire portion of Ohio. His short stature, bowed legs, and round, shining visage, showed unmistakably that he was Tom O'Hara. His rifle was slung over his shoulder, and as he walked leisurely along, he had that easy, saucy air which showed him to be totally unmindful of the opinion of friend or foe. That he had no fears of disturbance was manifest from the carelessness with which he proceeded, constantly kicking the leaves before him, and when a limb brushed his face, suddenly stopping and spitefully wrenching it off with an expression of impatience. He was in a worse temper than usual, and incensed at something that continually occupied his mind.
"What can have become of the fools?" he muttered. "He oughter been home two, three days ago, and we hain't seen a sign of him yet. Can't be Lew's such a dunce as to walk into the red-skins' hands. No, no, no."
He shook his head as if displeased, and for a time continued his solitary journey in silence. The great question which he was debating was regarding his leader's whereabouts, and his ill-temper arose principally from the fact that he was unable to offer a solution satisfactory to himself.
"Let me see," he added. "If Lew is took, why the gal's took, and if the gal's took, Lew must be too; so that p'int is settled. It might be some of the Injins have got him, but somehow or other I can't believe it. Don't look reasonable, although Dick 'peared to think so."
Again he bent his head as if in deep thought. Gradually his meditations brought him nearer the truth.
"He's found out that the shortest path was the safest one – something a man is pretty apt to think when he is with the gal he loves, and so he has took the roundabout way home. That's it, sure. But hold on a minute," said O'Hara, as a new thought struck him; "I'd like to know the route which it would take them so long to travel over. It's queer, I'll be hanged if it isn't. That gal will be the death of Lew yet. I'd like to see the gal that could pull the wool over my eyes."
And, as if alarmed at the thought, he strode rapidly forward, shaking his head, and muttering more savagely than ever to himself. Gradually he regained his natural state of semi-composure, and proceeded in his audible musings:
"Whatever is up, I'm bound to find out afore I go back. Not that I care a cent for Lew – not a bit of it. If he don't know any better than to shut his eyes when Injins is about, he oughter suffer. But then I'd like to know how things is. Hello!"
The Rifleman stopped and commenced snuffing the air, like an animal when it scents danger.
"That's smoke, as sure as I live. Who's been kindling a fire at this time of day?"
Turning his head in every direction, he, at length, determined the one from which the vapor came. There being scarcely any wind at all, he rightly judged it must be close at hand. Stealing carefully along from tree to tree, he finally detected the faint blue rising through the wood, scarcely fifty yards away. Approaching still closer, he gained a full view of the fire, and also of him who had kindled it. The latter was an Indian warrior, who was seated on the ground with his legs gathered under him, and his head bowed forward as if sleeping. The hunter saw, from the nodding of his head, that such was the case. Occasionally he would incline forward until ready to fall on his face, when he would start up with a jerk, rub his eyes, look about him, and then go to nodding again.
"It seems that everybody have lost their senses," muttered O'Hara. "Now just see that Injin wagging his head at the fire, tryin' to sleep here in broad daylight. How easy I could send a bullet through him! But there's no danger of that, as we Riflemen don't fight in that style. Be careful, my fellow."
Here the Indian fell over on his face and then scrambled to his feet, looked around, seeking to appear wondrously awake, and then sat down as before.
"A Huron, as I live," said O'Hara, in pleased astonishment. "What can that red-skin mean by being in these parts? All alone, too. If he was only Oonamoo, now, I'd feel glad to see him."
Oonamoo, to whom the hunter alluded, was a Huron scout, well known along the frontier as one of the best friends the whites possessed. He had the shrewdness, cunning and skill of his people in an astonishing degree, and had many times given evidence of his faithfulness to the settlers. He was well known to the Riflemen of the Miami, having guided them in several expeditions, and with O'Hara especially he was on good terms. The anxiety of the latter, therefore, to meet him can be well understood.
"Oonamoo would unravel the whole thing afore noon," said he, "and I'd about as lief see him this minute as I would see Lew. Let me get a better glimpse of his face. I didn't suspect him being a Huron when he jumped up just now, or I'd noticed his features. It don't look like Oonamoo, to see him noddin' in that style."
He moved cautiously around, until fairly in front of the savage, when he uttered a low, peculiar whistle. The latter instantly raised his head, his black eyes open to their fullest extent, and gave a look that at once discovered his identity to O'Hara.
"Oonamoo, and no mistake," he muttered; and then repeating the whistle as a warning that he was about to approach, he stepped boldly forth and revealed himself. The Huron started with surprise, and then advanced with an expression of pleasure to greet his white brother.
"Glad to meet," he said, speaking brokenly.
"And I'm derned glad to see you, Oonamoo, for I need your help this minute. What are you doing? Out on a scout?"
The Huron shook his head.
"No scout – Oonamoo live in woods – like the deer – can't sleep near white men's houses."
"'Pears you can sleep here though, the way your head was bobbin' around. Been up late at night, I s'pose?"
"No sleep now – meet 'Hara, white brother," said he, with an expression of joy upon his swarthy countenance.
"Yes, I smelt the smoke of your fire, and follerin' it up I cone onto you. 'Pears to me it was rather careless kindling your fire here in broad daylight. Ain't there any Injins in the neighborhood?"
"Woods full of 'em – Shawnees, Miamis, Delawares, all over, like leaves of trees," replied the savage, sweeping his arm around him.
"Ain't you afeard they might come down on you?"
The Rifleman indulged in an inward laugh, for he well knew the reply that would be made. The dark face of the Huron assumed an expression of withering scorn as he answered:
"Oonamoo don't know fear– spit on Shawnee and Miami – he sleeps in their hunting-grounds, and by their wigwams, but they don't touch him. He scalp their warriors – all he meets, but Oonamoo never lose scalp."
"Don't be too sure of that; that proud top-knot of yours may be yanked off yet, Mr. Oonamoo. Many a Shawnee would be proud to have that hanging in his lodge."
"He never get him though," replied the Huron, with great readiness.
"I hope not, for I'd feel sorry to see such a good warrior as you go under when he is needed so much. You ain't on a scout or hunt just now, then?"
The savage shook his head from side to side as quick as lightning.
"Then you'll take a tramp with me?"
It now went up and down with the same celerity.
"To sum up then, Oonamoo, Lew, our leader, is in a bad scrape."
"Shawnee got him? Miami got him?"
"That's what I want to find out. Shouldn't be s'prised if both have nabbed him."
"How get him?"
There was something curious in the eagerness with which the Huron asked the questions. It was more noticeable from the fact that O'Hara spoke slowly and deliberately, so that the short, broken sentences of the savage seemed all the more short and broken.
"That I can't tell, Oonamoo," repeated the hunter, who, it will be noticed, evinced the remarkable fact of being in a good temper with the Indian. "You see, him and the gal – "
"Gal with him?" asked the savage, with amazing quickness.
"Yes; didn't I tell you that?"
"Bad – bad – gal make him blind – see notting, all time – she afore his face."
"You've got the idea this time, Oonamoo. Lew's in love, above his head and ears, and can't be to blame so much for what he's done," said O'Hara, a gleam of pity stealing through his rough nature, like a ray of sunshine entering a gloomy cave. "He's made a fool of himself, I'm afeard, 'cause there's a female on his hands."
"What want to do? Foller him – catch him?"
"That's it. The first thing to be done is to find the trail."
"Where lost? Where see him last?"
O'Hara proceeded to relate as best he could what is already known to the reader, or more properly that portion of it which was known to him. He stated that he and Dick Allmat had lost the trail in a small brook, and that their most persistent efforts had failed to recover it. Upon speculating further, he learned from Oonamoo that they were in the vicinity of the ravine where Dernor and Edith had so narrowly escaped the Indians, the latter fact of course being unknown to them. The Huron added, that there was "much track" in the woods around them, and O'Hara, thinking that perhaps his leader's might be among them, proposed that they should make an examination of them. To this the savage readily agreed, and the two moved forward through the wood for that purpose.
In the course of a few minutes they reached the ravine, and the Indian, pointing down into it, as they stood upon its bank, said:
"Full of tracks – many Injin pass there."
"Let us go down and take a look at them."
A few minutes later, they were following up the ravine, on a sort of half-run, the Huron leading the way, and evincing, at nearly every step, that remarkable quickness of sight and comprehension so characteristic of his race. Suddenly he paused so abruptly that O'Hara ran against him.