THE PHANTOM HUNTER;
                                   OR,
                            LOVE AFTER DEATH.

                            BY EDWIN EMERSON,
                     AUTHOR OF “THE WOOD WITCH,” ETC.

                                NEW YORK:
                      BEADLE AND ADAMS, PUBLISHERS,
                            98 WILLIAM STREET.

        Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1871, by
                            FRANK STARR & CO.,
        In the office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington.




THE PHANTOM HUNTER;

OR,

LOVE AFTER DEATH.




CHAPTER I.

BACKWOODS JUSTICE.


Among the earliest settlements of Kentucky was that which figures in
our story. At the time of the following events it contained some fifty
dwellings, surrounded by strong palisades to defend them from the
savages, besides a well-constructed block-house, which was not only
strongly garrisoned, but claimed the additional protection of a brass
field-piece. This last-named instrument presented quite a formidable
appearance to prowling Indians, as it sat on the summit of the
block-house reflecting every sunbeam from its polished surface.

One bright afternoon, early in the month of August, there was an unusual
commotion at the Indian frontier post.

The entire population, men and women, old and young, had assembled on a
broad, level spot just beyond the limits of the fort, many of them to
look upon a scene such as they had never before witnessed. This spot was
known as “the green,” and it was where the youth of the settlement were
wont to repair for their sports, but those gathered there now wore sad
faces, and conversed with each other in low, serious tones. And well they
might, for they were there to see a man hung for murder!

Russell Trafford was one of the most honored and highly esteemed young
men of the place, and yet, on this bright August afternoon, he was to be
put to death for the willful murder of another person, who had enjoyed
a like reputation. Being an orphan, the young man had lived with his
uncle, Doctor Trafford, in the largest and most substantial cabin in the
settlement, the worthy doctor being a kind but eccentric individual, who
could not have loved his nephew more had the latter been a son instead.
These two had never been known to be at odds until very recently, and in
fact the peace, harmony and happiness with which they had always lived
together, had been a subject of remark on more than one occasion.

But one night, at a late hour, an alarm of fire was raised. The excited
settlers, rushing out of their houses, made the startling discovery
that the dwelling of Doctor Trafford was in flames. It was readily
perceived that the fire had already made such headway as to be past
extinguishing, but, notwithstanding that fact, crowds of people rushed
to the spot to watch the doomed cabin as it burned, and to learn the
cause of the catastrophe. Arriving on the scene, the only person they
found there was Russell Trafford. The young man was standing in front
of the burning structure, with an _open tinder-box_ in his hand, gazing
up at the flames, pale and silent. When spoken to he started violently,
and then, quickly thrusting the tinder-box in his pocket, he clasped his
hands and cried out in tones of mental anguish, that his poor uncle was
dead—murdered—burned alive in his own house! Somebody asked him how he
came to be outside of the cabin with an open tinder-box in his hand, and
he replied in an absent sort of a way, that he didn’t know—the box was
not his—he had found it, he supposed, and begged them to let him alone.

The idea of the esteemed Doctor Trafford being burned to death in his
own house and bed, aroused the indignation of all. Somebody had done the
deed, and somebody must suffer for it; and the finger of circumstantial
evidence pointed to the victim’s nephew, Russell, as the guilty one.
Suspicion was fastened strongly upon him, despite the good name he had
hitherto borne. On the following day the remains of Doctor Trafford were
looked for amid the ruins of the demolished domicil, and the search was
rewarded by the finding of a skull and the rest of the bones that belong
to the human body, all totally destitute of flesh. These were decently
interred, as a last tribute of respect to the dead.

Russell Trafford was arrested, and allowed to go through a mock trial.
An Irish boy named Mike Terry—a lad of some fourteen summers, who had
lived with the doctor in the capacity of servant—testified that Russell
and his uncle had quarreled on the morning preceding the tragedy, and,
moreover, that he himself had _seen_ Russell set fire to the building,
and he (Mike) had barely escaped with his own life.

This was sufficient. Russell Trafford was declared guilty of firing the
cabin with intent to kill his uncle, and he was sentenced to be “hanged
by the neck, until dead.” And the sunny afternoon in question was set
apart for the punishment of the offender, and many of those who gathered
on the green to witness the execution wore sorrowful faces as they looked
on the doomed man for the last time. For it was hard to believe that he,
who had always been so honorable, upright and noble, could commit such a
horrible crime as that ascribed to him. Instead, however, of hanging him
by the simple means of a rope and a tree, after the Lynch-law custom of
that day, a rude scaffold had been hastily constructed, and the evident
intention of the people was to have the affair conducted in proper style.
The executioner was an old hunter, ranger and scout, who gloried in the
euphonious appellation of Kirby Kidd. Grizzled old borderman that he
was, fearless, true-hearted and kind, he formed a good specimen of his
class, and his sturdy, Herculean frame showed to good advantage as he
stood at his post. His keen black eyes roamed over the crowd with seeming
indifference, and occasionally he was observed to address a few words to
the prisoner. He was leaning carelessly on his rifle, holding in one hand
a tall death-cap, made of undressed bear-skin. There was still a third
party on the scaffold. This was a friendly Wyandott Indian, of the name
of Wapawah, who was the constant companion of Kirby Kidd when hunting
or on the trail, and who had rendered valuable service to many of the
frontier posts along the Ohio. Wapawah was as brave a warrior as ever
trod Kentucky soil, and possessed all the cunning, vindictiveness and
reticence, characteristic of his race. Just now he stood beside his white
friend like an image carved in bronze, with his arms folded over his
tawny breast, watching the proceedings in stoical silence.

While the spectators were waiting nervously for the _finale_, the
attention of many was attracted to a rather curious-looking individual,
who suddenly made his appearance among them. This was a man of medium
size, clad in the ordinary garb of a hunter and ranger, who trailed
after him a long, black rifle as he walked. There was not the sign of
an expression on the fellow’s face. A red, straggling beard covered his
mouth and chin; long hair of the same color brushed his shoulders at
every movement of his head; an ugly patch disfigured his left cheek;
and a rough bandage concealed his right eye. Altogether his was not the
most prepossessing face ever seen. Nobody seemed to know him, nor did
he return any of the searching glances directed at him. He was pressing
through the crowd toward the scaffold, looking neither to the right nor
left, but straight ahead.

When the stranger had pushed himself through the wondering throng, he
unhesitatingly ascended to the elevated platform, and confronted Kirby
Kidd, the hangman. For some minutes the two hunters conversed together
in low, earnest tones, the friendly Indian standing near, and evidently
drinking in every word that was uttered. When the secret conference had
been kept up so long that the mob began to show its impatience by angry
shouts, it was promptly ended, and the stranger turned away. Then the
hangman spoke out loudly, exclaiming:

“Wal, Nick Robbins, ye know it’s my way. I allers try to do my duty,
whether it be pleasant or no.”

“Sartinly, Kidd,” returned the person called Nick Robbins. “Go ahead an’
string the cuss up. I know yer wouldn’t have nothin’ to do with the thing
ef yer thought he didn’t desarve it.”

With this, the stranger with the bandaged eye turned and descended to the
ground, still dragging his gun after him. Wapawah, the Wyandott, followed
him, and the two withdrew to a spot apart from the crowd, where they
might talk unheard.

A few of the settlers went forward to shake the hand of the young
convict, and bid him a last farewell. Among these were three persons
who attracted considerable attention—a man and two women. They were Mr.
Moreland, his wife and daughter. Mr. Moreland was one of the first men
of the settlement, a sensible, industrious and stout-hearted pioneer,
who knew well why God had given him health and a pair of strong arms,
and who acted accordingly. He had a wife of the same disposition, kind,
charitable and self-sacrificing, and their daughter resembled them both.
In point of beauty, Isabel Moreland certainly had no superior in all
Kentucky, and in those days real beauty was not so scarce as in this age
of fashion and folly. She was the betrothed of Russell Trafford, and
people had said they would make an excellent match, but that was all
over now, and here stood the young man under the gallows, on the eve of
a felon’s death, while his affianced wife wept bitterly as he bid her a
final adieu.

This affecting scene over, Russell Trafford was asked if he had any thing
to say before dying. He replied that he desired a very brief hearing, and
then stepped to the edge of the scaffold to speak. He was strangely calm
and collected, and his voice was clear, steady and distinct. He said:

“Friends and former friends: it affords me extreme happiness to know
that there are those among you who still have faith in my innocence, in
spite of all evidence to the contrary. On the heads of such I invoke the
blessing of God as I die. For you who believe me guilty I bear no malice,
nor even reproach, but trust that a just Heaven will undeceive you after
I am gone, and bring the true offender to the retribution he deserves. I
am ready to die.”

He stepped back as he made this last declaration, and the old ranger
immediately placed the death-cap over his head.

It is not necessary to inflict upon the reader a detailed account of the
sickening scene which followed. Sufficient to say, that Russell Trafford
was hung before the eyes of his former friends and the grieved maiden who
had promised to become his wife. The body of the young man was lowered
from the gallows, and placed in the coffin that awaited it, which was
nothing more than a rude pine box constructed for this purpose. Old Kirby
Kidd, the Wyandott Indian, and their friend, Nick Robbins, volunteered
to take the corpse in custody until the morrow, and protect it from the
enraged mob, who, it was feared, not being satisfied with the murderer’s
death, would further vent its wrath upon the dead body.

On the following day a grave was dug in a pretty glade just outside of
the settlement, and burial services were performed.




CHAPTER II.

JONATHAN BOGGS, FROM MAINE.


Isabel Moreland stood in the doorway of her father’s cabin one morning,
two or three days after the execution of her lover, Russell Trafford. She
was very pale, but very calm. The roses, which had been the admiration
of all, were gone from her cheeks, and her dark, soulful eyes, which had
been the particular admiration of her ill-fated lover, were hollow and
unusually large. A sad, pitiful, expression dwelt in their clear depths,
and the lines on her forehead told a tale of mental suffering. The
settlers who passed that way, seeing her standing there, marveled at the
change that had taken place in her since the death of young Trafford, and
felt their hearts moved to pity for the broken-hearted girl.

Presently a man sauntered up to the door, attracted thither by the
charming one who stood there. He was a big, burly fellow, with the
brute plainly stamped on his coarse, red face, and an air of reckless
depravity about him that proclaimed him any thing else but a man. He
wore a slouched hat, pulled carelessly down on one side of his head,
completely hiding his right eye. This was Jim McCabe, the veriest bully
and profligate in the settlement, who, it was said, was so devoid of
principle that no piece of deviltry was too great for him to commit. He
had been one of Russell Trafford’s rivals in love, and of all the rivals
he had been compelled to contend with, Russell had regarded Jim McCabe
as the most insignificant. But, now that his successful competitor was
out of the way, McCabe seemed to think it possible to thrust himself into
the vacant place, and seeing her this morning at the door of her home,
he determined to seize the opportunity of renewing the contest for the
much-coveted hand and heart.

“Good-morrow, Miss Moreland,” said he, with a profound bow, and an
attempt to smile pleasantly.

“Well, sir?” returned the girl, coldly.

“Perfectly well, I thank you,” replied the rogue, choosing to
misconstrue her words. “But, really, Miss Moreland, you are looking
decidedly unwell to-day. What can be the matter, if I may ask? Are you
ill?”

“Not particularly.”

“No? Now that is strange. One would suppose that you had just risen from
a prolonged illness. You see I am naturally concerned for the health
of one so dear to me. By the way, that was a sad affair about Doctor
Trafford and his ingrate of a nephew, wasn’t it?—a sad affair all round.
As a friend, I feel for you deeply, but I think you were fortunate in
thus finding out the character of your intended husband before—”

“Sir, I must trouble you to drop this subject now and forever.”

Isabel Moreland turned her flashing eyes upon the man as she spoke, and
gave him a look that made him recoil. But, quickly recovering himself, he
replied, in a tone of apology:

“Why, I did not suspect that I was treading forbidden ground. I only
wished to express my sympathy for you, and you certainly need it, since
your favored suitor has proven himself only fit to grace the end of a
rope.”

“Do you persist in talking of this?” demanded Isabel.

“Not at all—not at all,” was the humble rejoinder. “It being your desire,
the subject shall be dropped immediately. I would merely observe, what an
inhuman wretch that man was to deliberately kill his own uncle, and that
in the most horrible manner conceivable.”

“If you have come here to jeer and mock at me, you must continue your
insults without my presence,” interrupted our heroine, and so saying
she entered the house, and quietly closed the door between her and her
tormentor.

Jim McCabe ground his teeth with rage. Was this to be the result of
the new game he had so hopefully commenced? Did she, then, hate him so
bitterly? and was her love for Russell Trafford so great that his death
had produced this marked change in her lovely face? But Jim McCabe was
not the man to submit thus tamely. He shook his fist at the door which
shut the maiden from his view, and muttered:

“This is all very fine, my proud lady, but the time is not far off when
you will look at Jim McCabe with a much softer expression in those eyes.
I have played none but my loose cards as yet, but there are trumps to
follow that are certain to win, and two weeks shall not pass away before
I shall have the pleasure of seeing this haughty jade at my feet.”

He hissed the last words through his clenched teeth, and his usually red
face grew still redder with anger.

He was walking away from the spot, when a peculiar voice behind him
arrested his footsteps.

“Hello, you! Jest draw rein a minute, ef you please.”

Instinctively guessing that he was the one accosted, McCabe stopped
to see who the presumptuous person was. A tall, angular specimen of
humanity, with long, dangling legs and ungainly feet, was coming toward
him with awkward strides. He was an utter stranger to McCabe, but the
latter saw at a glance that he was a Yankee, of the raw sort, evidently
just from his native State. His dress alone would have proven that fact,
to say nothing of the nasal twang in his voice, and the “down-east”
peculiarity of speech. He wore a tall, white hat, the nap of which stuck
straight out; a pair of striped trowsers, which clung tenaciously to
the awkward members they protected; and a blue, threadbare coat, whose
swallow-tails reached nearly to his heels.

“How d’ye dew, stranger?” drawled the specimen, as he came up. “Right
nice weather we’re havin’ nowadays, ain’t it?”

“Splendid. But what do you want of me?”

“What dew I want? Law, now, you’re jest like all the rest o’ the western
folks—want a feller tew come tew the p’int instanter, without the least
bit o’ prevaricatin’ or dodgin’ round the stump, as Tabitha Simpson used
to say. Tabitha Simpson was my third cousin, stranger, on my mother’s
side, a gal o’ the femenine persuasion, by the way, and I swan tew man,
there never was a couple in all Christendom as had more fun than Tabitha
and me used to have. There was one time in partic’lar—”

“See here,” interposed McCabe, crustily, “before you continue your
nonsense I should like to know who you are?”

“Me? Darn my buttons! mother allus said I was the most forgitful child
she had, and I’m forever provin’ the fact to myself in this very way. Me?
Why, bless you, I’m Jonathan Boggs, all the way from Maine! Jonathan
Boggs, stranger, a first-rate feller on the whole, who was considered the
smartest member of his father’s family, until he robbed neighbor Green’s
hen-roost and had to turn tail on the old humstead.”

Jim McCabe began to regard the Yankee with some curiosity.

“When did you arrive here, Mr. Boggs?” he inquired.

“I brought up in this hamlet yesterday,” replied the Yankee, squeezing
his hands with difficulty into the pockets of his “tights.”

“Yesterday,” repeated the other. “It may seem strange to you, but I
really think I have seen your face somewhere.”

“Dew tell? I s’pect you have, mister, for I often go there,” said the
“specimen,” with provoking coolness. “As Tabitha Simpson used to say,
‘Cousin Jonathan must be known to be liked,’ and I’m glad to l’arn as how
my phiz ain’t unfamiliar tew you—”

But Jim McCabe was too thoroughly exasperated by the _sang froid_ of his
interlocutor, to let him go on in this strain.

“Well, well!” he exclaimed, “if you have any thing of importance to say,
I wish to hear it at once.”

“Want to know!” returned the stranger, elevating his eyebrows. “Now
that’s what I call right down mean, bluffin’ a chap off in that ’ere
style when he’s talkin’ ’bout the land of his birth, and old-time
associations. I find I can’t talk enough to please you, but I calkilate
you’ll ’scuse me on the score that natur’ neglected to put the gift o’
gab in my blamed noddle.

“Now, in that respect, I ain’t one iotum like the old woman, ’cause why?
she can talk the ha’r right off o’ your head in three jerks of a possum’s
ear, and ef you’s with her from Sunday mornin’ till Saturday night, you
wouldn’t find a chance to crowd in a word edgewise. But I did forgit my
business, that’s a fact; thereby givin’ further proof that mother told
no lie, when she said as how I was etarnally disrememberin’ every blamed
thing of importance. But now tew the p’int, as Tabitha allus said, when
tellin’ one o’ her long-winded yarns. Tabitha had been childerns’ nuss at
some time of her life, and so had acquired a habit o’ story-tellin’ that
clung to her through the hull course of her existence—”

“Curse you for an idiot!” growled McCabe, irascibly, and with an oath he
started away.

“Hold on, mister,” said Jonathan Boggs, coolly laying his hand on the
other’s shoulder. “Don’t go off ’thout hearin’ me through.”

“Hands off, scoundrel!” commanded the settler, fiercely. “I’ll knock you
down if you repeat this insult.”

“I wouldn’t dew that, mister, I swow I wouldn’t. It takes such a hard
lick to knock me down that ye might cripple your hand for life. Besides,
when I was a boy it wa’n’t considered healthy tew undertake sech a
rash job, and even now you might not be dewin’ the right thing toward
yourself.”

Jim McCabe was a coward, like all other bullies. So these words, and the
manner in which they were uttered, alarmed him not a little.

“Who the deuce are you, anyway?” he demanded, sullenly.

“Jonathan Boggs, from Maine,” was the quiet reply.

“And your business with me?”

“Now that’s what I’ve been trying to tell you all along, but you wouldn’t
listen. I sell clocks for a livelihood. I’ve rented a room in the
block-house yonder, and by Jupiter! it’s e’na’most filled up with my
clocks. Reckon you’ll buy a clock, won’t you?”

“Fool!” McCabe stamped his foot with vexation, and again turned on his
heel to leave his persecutor. But again that opposing hand was laid on
his shoulder, and he was once more detained against his will.

“Ain’t you gwine to buy a clock?” asked the Yankee. “I tell you, mister,
they’re the nicest thing under the sun and jest presactly what you want.
I swow, by gravy, it’s the most complete invention in existence. Why, the
man as made them clocks _died_. He was tew confounded smart tew live—”

“Stop!” said the settler, imperatively. “I don’t wish to buy, and you
will oblige me by discontinuing the subject.”

“You don’t tell me! Wal, I don’t wish to impose on the patience of an
indulgent audience. I’ve sold so many clocks since I come, that I ain’t
spilin’ for your patronage nohow, so we’ll drap the topic. I say, mister,
that was a bad thing ’bout your feller-citizen, Doctor Trafford, bein’
killed in his own house, wa’n’t it?”

“It was indeed,” was the brief answer.

“It was, sure’s shootin’,” continued the Yankee; “but the wust part o’
the hull sarcumstance was the awful mistake of arrestin’ the doctor’s own
nephew, and hangin’ him for the murder.”

“Mistake!” echoed McCabe, looking sharply at the speaker. “Why, sir,
there was no mistake about it. Russell Trafford was found guilty before
he was punished. He _did_ do the deed.”

“Did he though? Now that beats me. I s’pose you was there, and see’d him
dew it?”

“Not I, sir, but a small boy, who had been in the doctor’s employ, saw
the doctor’s nephew set fire to the building.”

“Wal, the lad might have been bribed tew tell all that, you know. I’ve
hearn the hull story two or three times, and I hope I may be shot for a
chicken-thief ef the young man done the job.”

“Dare you assert that he did not do it?”

“Yas.”

Jim McCabe started visibly at this cool affirmation, and for an instant
his naturally red face was almost pale. But he was quickly himself again,
and with an incredulous smile, he muttered:

“Pshaw! the cursed fool don’t know what he’s talking about.”

Then he turned on his heel again, and this time he was off and walking
briskly away before the Yankee could detain him. Jonathan Boggs looked
after him for a moment with a curious expression on his face, and then
turning aside, he boldly entered the house of Mr. Moreland, without so
much as knocking at the door.

Jim McCabe had not proceeded far, after leaving his new acquaintance so
abruptly, before he met another person who stopped him. This was a small
boy, about fourteen years of age, who wore a jaunty cap, a green jacket,
and corduroy knee-breeches, which revealed his nationality as plainly
as did his face. He was a bright-looking little fellow, with intelligent
blue eyes and rosy cheeks, and, in fact, was no less a personage than
Mike Terry, the former servant of Doctor Trafford. He it was who had
furnished the evidence that convicted his master’s murderer.

“The top iv the mornin’ to yeez, Jamie,” said the young Hibernian, as he
met McCabe.

“Well, what do you want?” gruffly demanded the man, as the boy seized his
arm to prevent him from passing on.

“An’ is it that same quistion ye’d be askin’, sure? Phat w’u’d I be
afther wantin’ but money?”

“I haven’t any money,” declared McCabe, angrily.

“I know yeez have,” asserted the boy, firmly, “an’ be gorra, ef yeez
don’t give it to me, sorry the day yer honor iver timpted me to desart
me colors, intirely. Av I wasn’t yer cousin, Jamie, I should niver have
done that wicked thing, no more w’u’d I. An’ av it was all to do over, it
isn’t the likes iv Mike Terry that ’ud play false to a kind masther for
love or money. For Doctor Trafford and Masther Russell were good to me,
Jamie, an’ but for you—”

“Hush, Mike,” continued the man, glancing uneasily around. “Have you gone
crazy, or do you wish to expose me?”

“I ain’t carin’ much phat I do. Av yeez don’t kape me in money I won’t
hold yer saycret a day longer; divil a bit will I. Ye’ve med a bad b’y iv
me, Jamie, an’ ye’re me own cousin, too.”

“Here; take this, boy,” said the angry man, handing him a coin, “and for
heaven’s sake let it seal your lips. I can’t afford to give you money
every day. Now go.”

So Jim McCabe and Mike Terry parted, both of them looking very much
discontented as they walked away in opposite directions.

When they were well gone, a man rose from behind a pile of logs within a
few feet of the spot where they had stood conversing. It was the man of
the bandaged eye and red, straggling beard, of whom we made mention in
the foregoing chapter, and as he strode away, dragging his gun after him,
his face was still expressionless.

The eavesdropper was Nick Robbins.




CHAPTER III.

LOVE AFTER DEATH.


As we have already stated, the grave of Doctor Trafford’s supposed
murderer was in a pretty little glade just outside of the settlement.
Those who had known and liked the young man were only too glad to perform
any office of respect to his corpse, and the grave had been dug so deep
that there was no possibility of the body being reached by wild animals.

To this lonely spot the intimate friends of Russell Trafford would repair
at times to lament, in solitude, the loss of one so good, noble, yet
unfortunate.

That night, after his interview with Isabel Moreland, and the provoking
stranger, Jonathan Boggs, Jim McCabe was seized with a strong inclination
to pay a visit to the tomb of his ill-fated rival in love. Of course
this inclination was not born of any such feeling as grief or regret for
the lost one, but, rather, of a desire to exult over his fallen foe, and
glut his greedy eyes on the last resting-place of the man who would never
more stand in his way. He had not seen it as yet—in fact, he had not been
outside of the palisades since the day of the execution—and he now felt
as if he must see the place where the man was buried, before he could
fully realize that his most dangerous rival was indeed out of his way.

The thought struck McCabe while he was sauntering through the settlement.
It was night, but not a dark one by any means. The moon was shining in
all her glory, and not a cloud obscured the star-studded sky; and, as
Jim McCabe seldom turned a deaf ear to the voice of his inclination, he
was not long in determining to follow it on this occasion. The hour was
late, and none of the inhabitants were out, save a few who sat in their
doors, and they would suppose he was merely going out for a stroll in the
moonlight. But, pshaw! even if they should see where he went, would they
not think he had gone there to drop a silent tear on the sod that covered
the remains of a noble man?

He went. He told the man at the gate, as he passed out, that he would
return in a few minutes, and then he walked slowly away into the shadows
of the forest. He was musing on the events of the day as he wandered on;
of the freezing coldness with which Isabel Moreland had met him; of the
eccentric character, Jonathan Boggs, from Maine; and not a little of his
cousin, the Irish boy, who had demanded money of him.

Thus meditating, Jim McCabe arrived at his destination. Emerging from the
darkness of the woods, he paused on the edge of the glade to contemplate
the scene before him.

Yes, there was the grave of the man he hated, in the very center of the
open place—the small, grassy mound he had come to gloat over. He saw it
now, and was satisfied; but why did the villain start back and stare, as
his gleaming eyes alighted on the object he had come here to see? Why
did he seem so surprised, and even alarmed? Well he might, for he saw at
a glance that he was not the only person in that lonely spot. A man was
there—a tall, finely-formed man, standing by the grave, with his head
bowed upon his breast! He was motionless as a statue of stone. Who was
this man—this mourner—this night visitor at the tomb of Russell Trafford?

Jim McCabe asked himself this question over and over, gazing keenly
at the stately figure before him for an answer. Had he not seen that
tall, graceful form before? He thought at first that he had, but, as
he called to mind every person of his acquaintance, and compared them
with this one, he was compelled to admit that this one was a stranger to
him. Just as he arrived at this conclusion the unknown moved. He turned
half around, which gave the silent watcher a full view of his face. The
moonlight fell on his bare head, revealing a noble forehead, a pair of
brilliant eyes, and features of the handsomest mold.

Good Heaven! _the man was Russell Trafford himself_!

Jim McCabe staggered backward, and grasped a tree for support. His face
changed to a deathly pallor, the perspiration poured from his brow, and
for a moment his breath came in spasmodic gasps. Russell Trafford! he
who had been hung—he who was dead and buried—now standing before him in
all his living health and manly beauty! Great God could he believe his
eyes? Had not he himself seen the man hung? Was he dreaming, or was this
some frightful delusion of a disordered brain? That face, with the mellow
light of the moon falling gently upon it, was not to be mistaken.

While the terrified ruffian was staring at the apparition, still another
figure appeared in the glade. This, more to his surprise, he observed
was not a male, but a _female_ figure. It wore a white dress, and it was
gliding toward the grave in the center of the natural clearing. Another
keen glance, and McCabe had recognized this new appearance. It was Isabel
Moreland!

Dumb with amazement, the lurker could do nothing but stand and stare. He
saw the woman go up to the man; he saw the man catch her in his arms,
and press his lips to her fair brow; and then he heard the low hum of
their voices as they began an earnest but guarded conversation. In an
instant his astonishment and consternation were transformed into fierce,
ungovernable rage. He forgot, for the moment, that the appearance of this
man, alive and well, was the most miraculous thing he had ever heard of.
He forgot that he must be dreaming or insane, or that the familiar form
before him was but a spirit from the dead. He forgot every thing, except
that Russell Trafford and Isabel Moreland were standing there within a
few feet of him, locked in each other’s arms! His blood boiled in his
veins, and his hot head swam with the demoniac fury that took possession
of him.

“A thousand curses!” he roared, in a voice hoarse with passion, as he
snatched a pistol from his breast. “I swear I’ll kill the scoundrel if he
has a hundred lives!”

Like a wild beast bursting from its covert, Jim McCabe sprung from the
shadow of the tree, pistol in hand, and bounded across the open space
toward the lovers. But he had taken scarcely half a dozen strides, when
a rough hand grasped his collar from behind, and he was jerked backward
with a violence that well-nigh precipitated him to the ground. As soon
as he had regained his equilibrium, he wheeled around to see who it was
that had so abruptly put an end to his fierce attack. In the moonlight he
saw the faces of three men, all scowling upon him as though he were the
worst person in existence! He knew them all at a glance. One of them, he
who had seized him by the collar, was Kirby Kidd, the stalwart ranger who
had acted the part of hangman in the execution of young Trafford. Another
was the friendly Wyandott Indian, Wapawah, the constant companion of the
white hunter. The third and last member of the group was Nick Robbins,
the man of the bandaged eye and expressionless face.

“What do you want of me?” demanded McCabe; “and what do you mean by
jerking a fellow about in that manner?”

“See hyur, youngster,” drawled Kirby Kidd, peering into the face of his
captive, “who in creation are you, anyhow?”

“None of your business,” was the curt reply.

“Yas, I thort so,” continued the ranger, coolly. “But, never mind; I know
who you be, now. Ye’re Jim McCabe, the chap as are known to be the black
sheep of the fort, an’ the sneakin’est hang-dog that ever set fire to a
shanty! What in all natur’ are ye—an eediot or a sleep-walker? ’cause
it’s plain to this coon ’ut ye’re one or t’other. What wur ye caperin’
round hyur fur? Hav yer treed sunkthin’?”

“Can’t you see what it is?” exclaimed McCabe, wildly. “Where are your
eyes? Don’t you see Russell Trafford and Isabel Moreland standing there,
locked in a close embrace?”

“What! When? Where?” ejaculated Kirby Kidd and Nick Robbins, in a breath.

“Why, _there_!” roared the ruffian, in the wildest excitement, pointing
toward the grave as he spoke.

“This coon sees nothin’,” asserted Kidd.

“Neither do this ’un,” echoed Robbins.

Nor did Jim McCabe himself see the apparitions now. During the brief
space of time that his eyes were averted from the spot, the two figures
had disappeared! Had he, after all, been laboring under a freak of
imagination? He stared blankly at the three men, and the three men stared
blankly at him.

“Poor cuss!” said the ranger; “he’s gone crazy, to a sartainty.”

“I haven’t—I deny it,” panted the terrified wretch. “By the Great
Jehovah, I saw them as plainly as I now see you!”

“Yer see’d who?”

“Why, Miss Moreland and that young scamp of a Trafford.”

“Poor cuss!” repeated the ranger, slowly. “He _is_ crazy, mold me into
buckshot ef he ain’t.”

“I tell you I am not,” cried the villain, with an oath.

“Look hyur, kumrid,” argued Nick Robbins, “the man ye speak of are dead,
and thar’s his grave, right behind ye. Kidd, thar, wur the coon as hung
him, an’ ’most ev’rybody at the fort wur out hyur when the buryin’ tuck
place.”

“I know all that, and yet I have not taken leave of my senses. If I did
not see the real Russell Trafford, I saw his ghost, although I was never
thought to believe in such things. He was standing yonder by the grave,
and he was joined there by a female, whom I at once recognized as the
daughter of Mr. Moreland.”

“I reckon ’twur a couple o’ spooks,” said Kidd, solemnly. “Whar wur ye
goin’ when we saw fit to detain yer?”

“I was approaching the ‘spooks,’ as you call them.”

“Approachin’ ’em? Yas, I guess ye wur, but ye may mold me into buckshot
ef I don’t think ye’re a sleep-walker. Ye started off as if yer futur’
redemption depended upon yer speed, an’ I must say ’ut ye seemed jest the
least little bit angry, or frightened, or excited, or sunkthin’ else,
’cause why? yer face was redder’n I ever see’d it, an’ ye cussed like a
trooper, an’ yer eyes shined like hot fat. What ye got that pistol in yer
hand fur?”

The ranger looked straight in the eye of McCabe as he made this last
inquiry. McCabe started nervously, and quickly thrust the pistol into his
pocket.

“I hardly know why I drew the weapon,” he answered, turning very red,
“but surely with no intention of using it. But, my friends, how came you
here at this hour of the night?” he added, not caring particularly to
continue the subject.

“How kum us hyur? Wal, ye see, Nick, thar, is a great coon-hunter, an’
me an’ the red-skin volunteered to ’kump’ny him to-night on one of his
nocturnal tramps. But that reminds me, kumrids, that it’s time we wur
movin’ on.”

“And I must return home,” said McCabe. “So good night.”

They parted, and while the three hunters went their way Jim McCabe walked
slowly homeward.

He was sorely troubled. He could not banish his strange adventure from
his mind. That he had seen either the ghost or exact counterpart of
Russell Trafford, he was morally certain, and that the female who joined
him was the beautiful Isabel, he was ready to swear. A train of horrible
thoughts passed through his mind as he walked through the dark woods, and
then he began to glance suspiciously around on every side, and tremble
unconsciously at every rustle of a leaf. Once he stopped short and caught
his breath, at sight of his own shadow on the trunk of a tree, and then
he hurried on, chiding himself for his weakness. Nor did he feel safe
until he had dashed through the gate, and found himself once more within
the stockade.

“Strange,” he whispered to himself, as he hastened home; “’tis very
strange indeed, but I know that I was not walking in my sleep. I believe
that I am haunted. It never occurred to me before to-night that I am a
double murderer!”




CHAPTER IV.

POOR ISABEL!


To say that Jim McCabe soon forgot his midnight adventure would not
be speaking truthfully, for he did not. It preyed upon his mind so
continuously that his once red face began to grow pale and haggard, and
his eyes hollow. He unconsciously acquired the habit of falling into
a deep reverie when alone, and on such occasions he started nervously
when spoken to, and stared wildly around. In his dreams he saw visions
of Russell Trafford and Isabel Moreland standing by the grave in the
glade, and sometimes it seemed as if they were joined there by Doctor
Trafford, the murdered man. He could not muster up courage sufficient
to pay that lonely tomb another visit after dark, for, though always
before he laughed at the mere idea of ghosts appearing to mortals on this
earth, he now firmly believed that he had seen the spirit of a dead man!
He could not, nor did he attempt to, explain the mysterious actions of
Isabel, and her meeting with the supposed ghost, but he thought of it a
great deal, and even told the girl’s father about it.

Yes, embracing the first opportunity that offered, McCabe related the
circumstance to Moreland. That is to say, he informed that gentleman
that he had seen his daughter meet a man in the woods; but he forbore
mentioning the resemblance of the man to Russell Trafford, for fear such
a statement would make him an object of ridicule. Mr. Moreland was sadly
grieved by the intelligence. It is hardly probable that he would have put
any faith in the testimony of such an unreliable person as Jim McCabe,
had he not heard the same story from other sources. Different parties,
happening by the glade on different nights, had come to him with the
information that they had been very much surprised by seeing his daughter
meet a man there in a very loverlike manner. None of them was prepared
to say who the man was, since they had not been able to see his face,
but that of Isabel seemed to have been plainly visible on each and every
occasion.

No wonder, then, that Mr. and Mrs. Moreland were deeply troubled, and
began to look on their daughter with distrust. Was it possible that
Isabel, always so good and dutiful, was clandestinely meeting a stranger
every night in the woods? They would fain have turned a deaf ear to every
word touching the character of their idolized child, but all of those who
had witnessed the secret meetings—we may except McCabe—were persons whom
they positively could not disbelieve. They were at a loss what course to
pursue. They decided to say nothing on the subject to their daughter, but
to devise a plan instead, of putting an end to the nocturnal meetings
without seeming to have such an object in view. The whole settlement
was soon talking about the mysterious stranger, wondering who in the
world he was, whence he came, and where he kept himself during the day.
And the men looked puzzled, and the women held up their hands with
horrified looks, as they speculated on the immodest conduct of Miss
Moreland, but not a word of the gossip reached the ear of the wronged
girl herself. All knew that the death of Russell Trafford had wrought a
marked change in her appearance, but already the roses were returning to
her cheeks, the luster to her eyes, and she was fast becoming the same
light-hearted, joyous girl that had once been the light and life of the
whole settlement. Was not this, in itself, proof that she had forgotten
her old love?

Poor Isabel! She knew nothing of the calumnious gossip that was being
indulged in at her expense. She little dreamed even that her friends
had begun to regard her with feelings of distrust, much less her own
kind parents, who had always had confidence in her self-esteem, womanly
modesty, and true dignity of soul. But, when Sunday came round, and she
went with her parents to the little log meeting-house, where the settlers
were wont to repair for worship on this day of each week, she was
surprised and pained by the strange looks and cold salutations she there
received. She spoke of this to her mother on returning home, but only an
evasive reply was offered in return, leaving her as much in the dark as
before.

Thus matters went on with the Morelands. Almost every evening, Isabel
was observed to throw a light shawl over her shoulders and leave the
house, and, on inquiry of the guards at the gate, it was ascertained
that she really did leave the fort entirely in her nocturnal strolls.
Still, neither the father nor mother was willing to broach the subject
to the misguided daughter. They tried to think her innocent of any
impropriety—to believe that she went out in the silent hours of night to
weep unseen over the grave of her dead lover. But to no purpose. They
could not discard the statement of those whom they knew too thoroughly to
suspect of fabrication. So the talk was kept up, and the cause of it all
was ignorant of the sensation she had raised.

Once Mr. Morton thought of forbidding the guard to let her out through
the gate, but, before he had decided as to the feasibility of this plan,
another one came to his mind which he liked much better. The forming of
this last plan was followed by a firm resolution, and Mr. Moreland was
not the man to break a resolution when once it was made.

“My dear,” he said, when he and his wife were alone in the house, “I am
no longer at a loss what course to take to prevent a continuance of this
imprudent conduct on the part of our child. I have thought of several
plans which I did not think proper, on careful consideration, to put into
execution, but I have devised one now which I shall certainly act upon.
About fifteen miles down the river there is a fort, as you doubtless
remember, and to this fort I propose to remove. Some fine morning we will
pack our worldly effects, and take our poor daughter to a new home. She
shall know nothing of the project until the time of starting, and then
this strange lover of hers will not know what has become of her.”

Mrs. Moreland listened calmly to this. The idea of breaking off old
associations, and turning their backs on their present home, was by no
means a pleasant one to her. But she thought of all that was in the
scales, and did not demur. Whatever her husband said was right, that
she was willing to do, she said, and then bowed her head low over her
knitting, to hide the tears that would come at the remembrance of her
child’s conduct of late. So it was decided to take Isabel far away from
the unknown scoundrel who had lured her from the path of duty, but they
studiously avoided uttering a word of their intentions in her presence.

Among the foremost of the girl’s vilifiers was Jim McCabe, who told all
of his acquaintances how he had seen her meet a strange-looking man at
an unseemly hour, in an unseemly place, and how she had permitted him to
embrace and kiss her. Of all this he had ample proof, but he began to
exaggerate the story as he repeated it, and at the end would go on to say
that Miss Moreland was no longer fit to associate with the other young
women of the fort. As may well be supposed, the scheming rascal had an
object in this. His hope was to deprive her entirely of her good name,
and then go to her with words of deep compassion and urge her to fly with
him away from those bad people!

One day, while McCabe was strolling through the settlement, he
encountered the Irish boy, Mike Terry. Somewhat to his surprise, Mike had
seemed to purposely shun him of late, and on this occasion he determined
to have an interview. So he took a gold-piece from his pocket, and
accosted the lad.

“Mike, here is some money for you,” he said, with a bland smile. “I have
not given you any for some time, and I must say that your long silence
has pleased me very much.”

“Divil a cint iv yer money do I want,” replied the boy, with a shrug of
his shoulders.

“What! Don’t you want it?”

“Divil a cint,” he repeated, firmly.

“Why, what has come over you?” asked McCabe, in surprise.

“A faylin’ iv remorse for phat I’ve been an’ done,” answered Mike,
moodily, beginning to dig his heel into the ground. “It’s yer own cousin
I am, Jamie, on me mother’s side iv the house, but, begorra, ye’ve made
me hate yeez like a kitten hates a wet floor.”

“Why so, Mike? What the deuce are you whining about?”

“Faith! don’t I have enough throuble to make me whine? Didn’t yeez do
an awful wicked thing, sure, and didn’t yeez make a tool iv me to work
yersilf out iv the scrape wid yer life? That ye did, ye bla’guard, an’
av it wasn’t yer own cousin I am, I should niver have done it, at all,
at all. Bad ’cess to yeez for takin’ advantage iv me youth, an’ our
relationship, to wheedle me into this wickedness. I’ve a great mind
to confess all, an’ let ’em sthring ye up be the neck iv yeez; it’s
desarvin’ it, ye are.”

Jim McCabe began to exhibit signs of alarm.

“See here, you little fool,” he hissed, grasping the boy’s arm, “you must
exercise better judgment than this, or things will be brought to a pretty
pass. The man is dead; both are dead, and it is too late now to remedy
the matter. All you have to do is to keep your mouth, and all will be
well; but let contrition bring you to a confession of your guilt, and,
just so surely as you stand before me now, you will hang!”

“Not I, Jamie.”

“Yes, you as well as I. Was it not your evidence that convicted _him_?
Would they not regard you as a murderer, and punish you accordingly? As
a matter of course they would, and the best thing you can do is to keep
your tongue in your head. Do you hear?”

Mike Terry heard, and it was evident, too, that he believed his crafty
cousin, for he relapsed into silence and continued digging in the ground
with his heel. At length, however, he looked up suddenly, with a strange
glitter in his eyes.

“Jamie,” he whispered, huskily, “do yeez belave in spooks?”

McCabe started in spite of himself at this unexpected inquiry.

“Spooks, boy? What do you mean?”

“Why, ghosts, to be sure. Raal ginewine ghosts.”

“Ha, ha! of course I do not. But why do you ask?”

It was plain that the laugh was forced, and that the villain was not a
little disconcerted by the question put to him. He was thinking of a
night not long gone, which would ever be fresh in his memory, should he
live a hundred years. There were a few gray hairs on his temples now, the
effects of that night’s fright.

“The raison why I ax,” said Mike, “is this: I saw one!”

“What! saw a ghost? Nonsense.”

“Yis, sur; a ginewine _sperit_. Ye know there’s a big sinsation ’bout
that Moreland gurril. They say she mates a sthranger ivery night, out
there where masther Russell’s grave is. (Wirra! wirra! phat good masthers
they were, to be sure—Russell an’ the doctor!) Well, me curiosity got
the upper hand iv me, Jamie, an’ I thought I’d thry an’ git a glimpse iv
the sthranger that iverybody was talkin’ about. So last avenin’ I went
out there in the woods all alone. I hid mesilf in the bushes, an’ while
I was layin’ there, phat d’ yeez think come along? _The ghost iv Russell
Trafford!_”

Jim McCabe closed his white lips tightly over his teeth, with a mighty
effort to control himself. This conclusion of Mike Terry’s recital was
just what he had expected, but it was none the less startling for that
fact. Up to this time he had thought it possible that he was laboring
under a mysterious illusion, but, now that another had seen the same
thing, every doubt fled.

“You positively saw this?” he said to Mike.

“Yis,” said Mike, “an’ I was dridfully scairt.”

“Was the ‘ghost,’ as you call it, alone?”

“Entirely alone; an’ I was scairt half out iv me wits.”

“Did nobody join him there?”

“Faith! I didn’t wait to see. I took to me heels like a strake iv gr’ased
lightin’. Musha! musha! I niver was so scairt before.”

McCabe mused awhile, and then asked:

“You don’t believe in ghosts, Mike?”

“Och, but I do, though,” asserted the Irish boy. “Me father used to
belave in ’em, ye know, an’ he used to till long sthories about ’em that
’ud raise the hair iv me to hear.”

“Pshaw! your father was a drunken sot.”

“Yis; he resimbled, in that respect, yer own dear silf,” said Mike, with
a flash of his old jocoseness. “But, Jamie,” he added, seriously, “av I
had niver belaved in sperits before, I couldn’t help doin’ it now, afther
phat I’ve been an’ seen.”

“Come with me, cousin,” said McCabe, in a changed tone of voice. “Let us
go to my house and talk this thing over.”

He linked his arm in that of the lad, and the two walked slowly on
together.

No sooner were they gone from the spot where they had been conversing,
than a man stepped out from behind a tree, and stalked away as calmly as
if nothing had been said in his hearing.

Again it was Nick Robbins!




CHAPTER V.

CLOUDED HEARTS.


The day soon came that was to witness the departure of the Morelands, and
there was much ado in preparing for the down-river journey. They were not
to start until nightfall, as they had been repeatedly advised to travel
wholly by night, and lie in concealment during the day. The woods at that
time were swarming with hostile Indians, who, indignant at the increasing
tide of white humanity that was flowing westward and spreading over their
broad domains, were watching continually for flatboats and overland
emigrants. Many and horrible were the massacres perpetrated on those
daring souls who turned their backs on civilization to brave the dangers
of the great western wilderness and clear the way for those to come
thereafter. At such a time as this, then, it was well understood that
the voyage of the Morelands would be beset with innumerable dangers,
but to undertake it in the broad light of day, would seem almost like
throwing their lives away. But even under cover of darkness they were not
permitted to go alone. The commandant at the block-house selected a dozen
good men to accompany them down the river as an escort.

Isabel was not apprised of the project in view, until the afternoon
preceding the evening of their departure. When informed that they were
going to take up their abode at another fort, miles away, she took
no pains to conceal her astonishment, but prudently refrained from
asking questions. It was plain that she suspicioned the true cause of
this strange decision on the part of her father, but the troubled look
she wore, as she saw herself an object of distrust in the eyes of her
parents, was interpreted by them as deep regret at being compelled to
leave her new lover.

Isabel was standing in the door, looking very beautiful and very sad,
when Jim McCabe, who always seemed lying in wait for this sort of an
opportunity to gain an interview, stepped up to her, and doffed his hat
with an attempt at politeness. She would have retreated had she seen him
approaching, but he had spoken to her before she knew he was nigh.

“Miss Moreland,” he said, leaning against the house, and looking up at
her with a bland smile, “I hear you are about to leave us?”

“Yes, sir,” she answered, briefly.

“I—I—am really sorry, Miss Moreland,” he continued, feigning
embarrassment, “that we are doomed to be deprived of the brightest star
that lights the little world within these palisades. I presume, though,
that you have friends here with whom you are equally as sorry to part. Am
I not right?”

“It is never a pleasure to part with one’s friends.”

“Very true; and you will leave a great many friends behind you,” said
McCabe, feeling his way cautiously.

“I trust you are right,” replied Isabel, coldly. “It is not pleasant to
reflect that our pathway of life is surrounded by enemies alone.”

“And yet such may be the case,” hinted the man.

Observing nothing serious behind these words, Isabel was silent.

“Miss Moreland,” he resumed, “I suppose you know nothing of the
slanderous reports that have been circulated at your expense?”

“I do not understand.”

“Then listen. We were speaking of friends; it is my opinion that you have
comparatively few at present.”

“Explain yourself.”

“I will. But, first—begging your pardon—let me be so presumptuous as to
ask you a question. Have you recently been meeting a man, at a certain
hour of the night, out yonder by the grave of Russell Trafford?”

He looked keenly at her, but was disappointed in what he saw. Her face
expressed nothing but astonishment and offended pride.

“Sir, you are impertinent,” she exclaimed.

“I ask a simple question.”

“I say you speak in riddles.”

“Then I will be more explicit. For a week your supposed unwomanly conduct
has been the talk of the whole village. They say that you have been led
astray by an entire stranger, who has won your affections, and whom you
have been meeting at an unbecoming hour and place. I need hardly tell you
that I have met this wicked rumor with the contempt it deserves, but, I
am sorry to say, that in which I have no faith is believed by every one
else.”

Isabel Moreland bit her lip hard to stop its quivering, and the rich
color came and went beneath the transparent surface of her cheeks. It was
all plain to her now. At last she had explanation of the great change
that had taken place in her former friends, and she knew why they treated
her so coldly. She was silent for some time, and then, flashing her big,
black eyes upon McCabe, she gave him a look that seemed to burn into his
very soul.

“I know who started that report,” she said.

“What—you know who—well?”

“_You_ did it, sir!”

“Eh?”

“I say, sir, that _you_ were the originator of the malicious report of
which you take delight in telling me.”

“I beg your pardon, madam, if I see fit to dispute your word, but I must
say, in defense of myself, that you are speaking under a sad mistake. Why
do you think me guilty of this wicked thing? Ah, I know. You are thinking
of the night when I saw you in the glade, clasped in the embrace of that
stranger.”

The girl dropped her eyes in confusion. Her heart heaved tumultuously
with conflicting emotions, and a sinister smile curled his thin lips as
he observed it.

“Still,” continued the brute, “you wrong me in attributing the origin of
that report to me. I was not certain that the woman I saw that evening
was you, though it is true I noted the resemblance. On my word of honor,
Miss Moreland, I have not opened my mouth until this moment concerning
that of which I chanced to be a witness. There are several others who
have seen the same thing that I saw, and have been gossiping about it at
a fearful rate. The story has been related to me fifty times, perhaps,
and, although I have cursed the gabbling idiots, and formed numberless
excuses in your defense, they only laugh at my skepticism and declare
that I am in love. Believe me, I have tried to be your friend through
this ordeal, and I feel that I am only doing the duty of a friend in
letting you know to what a humiliating extent you are being imposed upon.”

Having relieved himself of this speech, McCabe fancied he had said the
right thing in the right place, and looked vastly important as he awaited
an answer. Isabel composed herself with difficulty, but when she spoke
again it was quite calmly.

“Does my father know of this?” she asked.

“He does. Both your father and mother have been repeatedly told of it, if
I am rightly informed.”

The girl was silent again.

“Miss Moreland,” pursued the profligate, taking a step nearer, “I have
told you how firmly I have espoused your cause, and proved myself your
devoted friend through all. I am certain that you have the best of
reasons for meeting this so-called stranger—a reason which, although it
is sufficient to excuse you from censure, you are not yet at liberty to
divulge. Darling, I am the only one who has faith in your innocence. I
know you are too good, too pure—”

“Cease your mockery, villain!” cried Isabel, her whole manner changing
in an instant. “Leave me at once, and see that you never open your foul
mouth to address me again! I have been blind heretofore, but I now see
your object in lionizing yourself in my presence! Be off! I hate you! I
loathe you!”

Jim McCabe was somewhat taken aback by this outburst. Passion getting the
best of him, his face became livid; he clenched his hands involuntarily,
and gnashed his teeth like a maddened brute.

“Go, execrable wretch!” commanded Isabel. “I see my father coming; take
yourself off immediately, or I shall ask him to assist you.”

“Your father, indeed,” laughed McCabe, in a sort of ecstasy of rage.
“Little does he now care for his deceitful, perfidious daughter. He
won’t think it possible for anybody to insult her after all that has
been revealed to him. Listen, Isabel Moreland; I leave you now at your
command, but, mark my word, two days shall not pass away before we meet
again; and you will be in my power!”

The next moment he was gone.

Isabel entered the house, and at once sought her little chamber, there
to be alone with her thoughts and tears. She understood now why she was
about to be taken away from her present home, and it grieved her to think
her parents had lost confidence in her. But, she could not undeceive them
now, and, since hearing what she had heard, she was glad that she was
going away, knowing it was better thus than to remain there an object of
scorn. There was no help for her unhappiness at present; none knew that
better than she; but she felt assured that all would be well in good
time, and so tried hard to be contented with her lot.

When night came she went with her parents to the river which flowed
by within three hundred yards of the settlement. On reaching the bank
they found the escort waiting—stalwart, sturdy-looking rangers, all
armed to the teeth. There were two large boats lying close up under the
river-bank, one of them being occupied by eight of the men, and the other
by the remaining four, which latter was also to carry the family.

Mr. and Mrs. Moreland at once took their places in the boat, but Isabel
hesitated.

“Come, child,” said her mother; “step in, and sit down here by me. I
suspect the men are impatient to be off.”

The men were taking up their oars, preparatory to starting.

“Mamma,” said Isabel, “I have forgotten something.”

“Forgotten something?”

“Yes.”

“What is it? Nothing of importance, I hope, for we can not tarry until
you return for it.”

“But it _is_ of importance, mamma. It is that pretty case of trinkets
that father gave me, and among its contents is that golden locket which I
prize so highly, containing the pictures of yourself and papa. I placed
it on the mantle-piece in the front room just before starting, intending
to get it as I came out. I must go back now, for I can not lose it.”

“There is no necessity for either the one or the other,” put in her
father, a little sharply. “We can not wait here until you obtain it, so
get in here with your mother and let us be gone.”

“I will not be absent long,” persisted the maiden.

“Too long to keep us waiting. Please take your place in the boat, and say
no more about it. Your case of trinkets will not be lost, depend upon
it. We can speak to old Kirby Kidd, and have him bring it to you, as you
know he frequently makes a trip between the two forts. The men have been
waiting here long enough already to try their patience, and I’m sure they
don’t relish the idea of a longer delay.”

“Yer father’s right, miss,” said one of the rangers, respectfully. “I
don’t want to oppose ye, but hyur’s as calculates yer father’s right;
’cause why? we got to go a consid’rable ways afore mornin’.”

“Not so very fur,” said another. “We’ve only to make two-thirds o’ the
distance to-night, an’ that ain’t more’n ten mile, ye know. We’ve got to
stop at that island, Jack, that Kidd was tellin’ us about, and lay thar
till to-morrer night ’fore completin’ the journey. The gal’s got plenty
o’ time to git her valu’bles.”

“There, father; what do you say to that?” cried Isabel.

“I say, my child, that I myself will go back after your treasure,” said
Mr. Moreland, preparing to step out of the boat.

“No, papa; no, no, no!” contested the daughter, earnestly. “I will go
myself. I can go more quickly, you know.”

And, before he could expostulate, she had turned and tripped lightly up
the bank, and in another moment had disappeared in the darkness.

As Isabel hurried through the woods toward the settlement, she murmured
to herself:

“Poor papa and mamma! It goes to my heart to look upon them in their
deep sorrow, conscious that I could relieve them of their trouble by a
word. It is hard to deceive them, who love me so dearly, but I am sure
they will forgive me when they know all. My case of trinkets I left for
an excuse to return. God forgive me! I believe it is all for the best. I
must hurry and get the case, and then keep my appointment with _him_.”




CHAPTER VI.

THE MYSTERY DEEPENS.


Jim McCabe had formed a villainous plot when he heard that the Morelands
were about to remove down the river, and, now that they were gone, he
proceeded at once to put it into execution. He had had this plot in
his mind when he told Isabel that she would be in his power before the
lapse of two days, and he vowed again and again to himself that his
scheme should be carried out to the letter. He was a desperate man
when aroused to a frenzy by repeated reverses, and, now that he had
been cast off in anger by the woman he had hoped to win by fair means,
he swore by all that was good and bad that she should be his in spite
of all opposition. He had committed worse deeds than this he had in
contemplation; therefore he did not hesitate to undertake it on the
score of conscientious scruples.

That night, as soon as the Moreland family had set out for the river,
McCabe went to his cabin, armed himself with a gun, pistol and knife,
secured about his person an ample supply of ammunition, and otherwise
equipped himself in a manner indicating a dangerous journey in view.

This done, which took considerable time, he left the fort without delay.
As he passed out he stopped at the gate long enough to inform the sentry
that he need not be expected back that night, as he would be gone two
days or more. The sentry indulged in a prolonged whistle of surprise, and
looked closely at the man, observing that his face was flushed redder
than usual and that his eyes shone with an unnatural light.

“Whar the nation be ye goin’?” he asked, suspiciously.

“No matter,” muttered the villain, and then he hurried on to avoid
further questioning, leaving the sentry to conjecture that “the blamed
cuss was up to some new piece o’ deviltry.”

“I wonder if I’ll succeed?” mused McCabe, as he hastened on through
the darkness. “If I can find Simon Girty before the game has reached a
place of refuge, success is certain; but the question is, will I find
him? Without his services I can see how the thing will result; but if
he is not to be found I shall undertake the task alone at all hazards,
rather than throw up my hand without an attempt to win. Christopher!
wouldn’t there be a big _furore_ at the fort should my intimacy with
that notorious renegade, Girty, be discovered? My life wouldn’t be worth
shucks. I would be thrown into confinement beyond a doubt, and then, when
the innocence of the place was wrapped in slumber, an infuriated mob
would take me out and string me up with a little less ceremony than was
awarded to Russell Trafford. By the way—”

Jim McCabe stopped suddenly, and stood stock-still. An idea struck him.
He trembled to think of such a thing, yet he was seized with a desire to
look once more on the grave of Russell Trafford before going away! To be
sure he had not effaced a previous occasion from his memory, when such
a desire led him to the most terrible fright he had ever received; but
this time the attraction was stronger than before, and he half-believed
that he might now gloat over the grave of his rival undisturbed. Isabel
Moreland had gone away, and she could not meet anybody there now, ghost
or mortal, so he deemed it probable that he would find the coast clear
to-night.

He acted upon the irresistible impulse, and that without any unnecessary
loss of time, for he had evidently begun a journey that would not admit
of procrastination. Turning aside from the course he had been pursuing,
he bent his footsteps toward the glade. He looked to the priming of
his gun, and began to exercise caution as he proceeded, for fear that
somebody was indeed there, who would be apprised of his approach unless
he stepped with care.

“Of course nobody is there,” he said to himself, “but it is best to be
careful. I wish I could forget that I ever saw any thing frightful in
that haunted place; but even rum has lost its power to drown the memory
of that awful night. I can no longer doubt that it was a spirit I saw,
for Kirby Kidd, and Wapawah, and Nick Robbins were there, and they saw
nothing. But how can I account for _her_ being there in the embrace of
that unearthly shadow? She, a living mortal, holding tryst with a—Well,
it is simply inexplicable, and it drives me to distraction to think of
it. Could it have been my imagination, after all, that made his face
resemble that one under the ground? My mind was full of Trafford, and it
is not very strange that I should fancy a resemblance. But no. I have
discarded that idea a hundred times already, because it isn’t possible
that I could be so deceived. True, every one else who has seen him
declares that he is a stranger, but they all admit that they did not
obtain a fair view of his face.”

While thus communing with himself, McCabe was moving along slowly and
cautiously, scarcely misplacing a twig, or rustling a leaf, in his
progress. But, no sooner had he finished his monologue than he suddenly
came to a dead halt, and bent forward in a listening attitude.

No wonder, for he distinctly heard the low hum of voices, rising and
falling in calm, smooth tones, as if engaged in friendly and familiar
conversation. The sound came from some point directly in front of
him—evidently from the glade!

The profligate began to tremble with fear. His first impulse was to take
to his heels, and make them do good service until he was far away from
that vicinity; but before he could follow this impulse he had recovered
his courage. Repenting his temporary weakness, he determined to be bold,
and then curiosity came to his assistance, and he resolved to find out
who the parties were who had preceded him. Surely they were not the same
he had seen there, for he knew that Isabel had gone away with her father
and mother. But he must see to know, and see he would.

Dropping down on his hands and knees, he advanced stealthily toward the
glade, as the panther approaches its prey. The voices grew more distinct
as he drew nearer to the speakers, and once or twice he paused to listen
as he fancied he detected the dulcet tones of a female voice. But he
could not be certain.

When he had gone so far that he could go no further without exposing
himself to the parties from whom he was hiding, he stopped and rose
slowly to his feet behind a large tree. He was gratified to find that he
had reached this place of concealment without being discovered, and he
now observed that it was an excellent point from which to view the whole
length of the glade. Peering around the tree slyly, he looked out into
the opening.

There, sure enough, were two human forms sitting side by side on the
grave! One of them was that of a woman, too, as he could plainly see,
and the other was a fine-looking man, bareheaded and dressed in a suit
of somber black. Her hands were in his, and they were looking into
each other’s eyes in a manner that could not be mistaken. They were
conversing pleasantly, but in such low tones that few of the words were
distinguishable. Jim McCabe leaned forward to give them a closer look.
The next instant his knees struck together, his eyes started half out of
their sockets, and he scarcely suppressed the cry that sprung to his lips.

The man and woman sitting on the grave were Russell Trafford and Isabel
Moreland!

It would be difficult to describe the feelings that harrowed the
villain’s breast as he made this discovery, but fear, amazement, and
indomitable rage were predominant. This time the appearance of the girl
there was more wonderful than that of the man, to him, for he deemed
it not nearly so strange for a spirit to walk the earth, as he did for
a human being to be present at two places at the same time; and he had
certainly seen Isabel go away with her parents that evening.

When his fear had subsided his blood began to boil with furious anger,
as on the first occasion. He not only found it impossible to control
himself, but he scarcely knew what he did.

“By the Eternal!” he shrieked, “’tis the second time I have been fated
to look on this scene, and if that man is not a ghost he shall be one in
less than a minute! Curse you, take that!”

McCabe threw up his rifle and leveled it at the couple on the grave. He
did not aim at the man particularly. In his fierce passion he cared but
little which one he shot.

There was a flash and a report, followed by a suppressed scream. Then Jim
McCabe leaped out from behind the tree, clubbed his gun and bounded out
into the open glade. He dashed through the cloud of smoke that had been
caused by the discharge of his piece, and in another moment was standing
beside the grave.

_Nobody was there!_ The baffled wretch glared about him like a madman.
Not a living thing was within range of his gleaming eyes! Not the
slightest sound of a footstep told him that they had fled from him.
What had become of them so quickly? Had his aim proved untrue? and
had they made good their escape in so short a space of time, and so
noiselessly that they could not be heard? These, and a score of similar
questions, flashed through the bewildered man’s mind, as he stood by the
grave, staring wildly around and listening in vain for the sound of a
retreating footstep. He knew he had seen them sitting there where he was
now standing; but how they had vanished so quickly was an unfathomable
mystery. He walked round the edge of the wood, looking behind trees, and
thrusting the barrel of his gun into the bushes, but discovered no trace
of those for whom he was searching. Then he stopped and pressed his hand
to his brow, with an effort to calm his excited brain.

“I must be doomed,” he thought. “I have heard of people seeing such
visions, but they always die shortly afterward.”

“Hallo, stranger! How dew you dew?” called out a sharp, nasal voice at
that juncture.

McCabe whirled round and placed himself on the defensive in a twinkling.
But he instantly lowered his weapon with a show of recognition, as he
found himself face to face with a singular-looking specimen of the
_genus_ _homo_, who wore a blue swallow-tail coat, and a tall white hat
with the nap brushed the wrong way. It was the Yankee clock-peddler, who
had been hanging about the settlement for the last week or two, and who,
it will be remembered, had previously introduced himself to McCabe, much
to that gentleman’s vexation.

“_You_ here?” he exclaimed, staring in wonder at the intruder, as the
latter grasped his hand in an iron gripe, and began to talk to him
familiarly.

“Wal, yas,” answered the Yankee, with a huge grin; “I calkilate this is
_me_, and ef it _is_ me I’m _here_. As Tabitha Simpson used tew say—”

“How came you here?” demanded McCabe, uneasily.

“Now I consider that a leetle tew steep, mister,” declared the
clock-peddler, gravely. “I’m Jonathan Boggs, all the way from Maine, and
I’m ’customed tew dewin’ jest as I darn please when I’m tew hum, and I
guess I mought venture tew foller up the rule out in these diggin’s. When
mother told me as how I shouldn’t go tew a corn-shuckin’ one night, I
swore I’d dew as I pleased about it, and I _did_—but I tuck the headache,
though, and concluded to stay hum. When I robbed neighbor Green’s
hen-roost, I found it convenient to slope, and I _sloped_, ’thout axin’
the advice or opinion of anybody; and you may tear every brass button off
o’ my coat ef I go back till they promise to let me alone. How came me
here? did you ask? I swan tew man—”

“Stop!” cried McCabe. “Tell me, how long have you been here?”

“’Bout five feet ten, ’cordin’ tew last measure; but maybe I am longer ’n
that now, seein’ I’ve growed some since I left Maine.”

“No, no!” said the other, impatiently; “you misunderstood me. What length
of time have you been here?”

“Been where?”

“Why, here, in the vicinity—this spot?”

“Wal,” drawled the Yankee, scratching his head, “I s’pect I been in this
vicinity several minutes, ef not longer.”

“Have you seen any thing while you were here?”

“See’d any thing? Wal, not a great deal. It’s rayther tew darkish, like,
tew see any thing, ain’t it, mister?”

“I—I don’t know. Did you _hear_ any thing, then?”

Jonathan Boggs took a step backward, hung his tall hat on the back part
of his head, thrust his hands into his pockets, and gave the inquisitive
man a most searching look.

“See here!” he exclaimed, “what dew you take me for?”

“Eh?”

“Are you pokin’ fun at me, or not?”

“Most assuredly not!”

“Then what’s the matter—say? You ax more foolish questions than a child
’ud think of, and I won’t stand it. I’m Jonathan Boggs of Maine, _I_ am,
and I’m a full-fledged game-chicken with an eye to biziness. I’m a hull
team, with an extra hoss for up-hill emergencies, and ef you think you
can out-pull me, hitch on behind and stretch yourself. I’m a reg’lar
screecher, and can whip my weight in famished bed-bugs, without the least
assistance from any quarter whatsumever, and drat my skin ef I cain’t
pump the cuss dry as says I can’t squint the bark off of a beech-limb!
I’ve got a powerful reach; I can pull a nigger’s hair at ten yards!”

How long the clock-peddler would have continued to enumerate his
wonderful qualifications, must forever remain unknown, as Jim McCabe soon
saw proper to interrupt him.

“For heaven’s sake desist,” he pleaded. “You are offended because I asked
you a question. I have an object, I assure you.”

The “down-east” specimen seemed to relent at this.

“Maybe I’m in the wrong,” he said, after a pause. “I believe you axed me
ef I’d heern any thing?”

“Yes.”

“Now that is a queer question, and no mistake. Heern any thing! Drat
it, man, d’ you s’pose I’m deef? How could I help hearin’ you when
you screeched out like a red Injun, and shot a salute over the last
restin’-place o’ the poor cuss as sleeps beneath this sod?”

“Did you hear that?”

“Did I? Why, chaw me up, I thought at first you was bangin’ away at me,
and I flew tew kiver in the jerk of a possum’s ear.”

“Where were you?”

“Where was I? When you let that dot-rotted gun o’ your’n go off I was
settin’ right thar on that grave—”

“_What!_”

Jim McCabe staggered back like a drunken man, with blanched face and
staring eyes!

“Lord, mister, what’s the matter?” asked the Yankee.

“Noth—nothing,” stammered the ruffian, with a mighty effort to compose
himself. “It’s—it’s nothing—at all. I—never mind—only a slight
ner—nervous attack. I believe you said you were sitting on the grave when
I discharged my piece?”

“That’s jest what I said.”

“And who was with you?”

“Me, and myself, and Jonathan Boggs. Nobody was with me.”

“You were alone, then?”

“Yas.”

“You _lie_!” almost screamed the profligate.

“Hey!” ejaculated the Yankee. “See here, mister, that ’ere’s a _mighty_
strong expression for a man o’ your heft tew spout forth tew a State o’
Maine wild-cat. I’ve a powerful itchin’ tew swipe you one across the bill
for that, you goll-darn, sneakin’, ignominious fag-end o’ creation, you!
By the jumpin’ Jemima! ef I didn’t know you was subject to crazy-spells,
I’m blowed ef I wouldn’t paint your cheeks for you. I lie, dew I? Oh,
wade intew me, and let me knock you intew a grease-spot. Lucky for you,
mister, that you ain’t smart, for ef you was I’d do like Tabitha Simpson
used tew say her brother done—”

But Jim McCabe waited to hear no more. Suddenly remembering that he was
wasting precious moments, and beginning to entertain a perfect horror
of that spot, he determined to be off without further loss of time.
Shouldering his gun, he strode past Boggs without a word, and walked
rapidly away.

“Hold on!” shouted Jonathan. “Where you gwine tew?”

“Go to the devil!” was the savage response.

“The same tew yew and yewr’n,” called out the imperturbable
clock-peddler. Jim McCabe made no reply to this, but plunged resolutely
into the gloomy forest, and resumed his night-journey toward the west.
His nerves were completely shattered, and he shook as if he were
afflicted with ague, but he set his face firmly against all obstacles,
and pushed steadily on.

“I wonder if I really am subject to spells of insanity?” he whispered,
shrugging his shoulders. “I didn’t think of that, till that fellow
mentioned it. He said _he_ was sitting on the grave when I shot, and I
could take my oath I saw Trafford and Miss Moreland there as plain as I
ever saw them in my life. Good God! what can it mean? Surely I could not
be insane without knowing it afterward, but how else can it be explained?
Oh, this will drive me mad if I don’t banish it from my mind. I almost
wish I had not committed that awful deed, but now that it is done, I
shall gain my purpose or die! Yes, by the stars in yonder sky, that
haughty girl shall be mine ere the setting of two more suns.”




CHAPTER VII.

BOGGS ADRIFT.


“I wonder what detains Isabel?” said Mrs. Moreland, for the twentieth
time, perhaps, as she and the rest of the party sat in the boats,
awaiting the maiden’s return.

“I can not guess,” said her husband, uneasily, at the same time listening
intently, with the hope of catching the sound of that familiar footstep
in the woods above. “She has been gone long enough, almost, to have gone
there and back three or four times, and she gave us to understand before
starting that she would not be absent a greater while than it would
require to run home, procure her case of trinkets, and return.”

“Perhaps,” continued the fond mother, willing to believe any thing that
would excuse the absent one, “perhaps she has met a friend, who has so
much to say at parting that she finds it difficult to tear herself away.”

Mr. Moreland shook his head.

“Not that, I’ll warrant. Isabel isn’t the girl to tarry for so slight
a cause, when she has promised to go and come quickly. Besides, since
her recent misdemeanor, I can think of no one, alas! who regards her
as a friend. I think I will go in search of her; we are losing time in
waiting.”

“I wouldn’t do any sech thing, Mr. Moreland,” said one of the rangers.
“’Tain’t likely ’ut harm has befell the gal ’twixt this an’ the fort, an’
ye knows nothin’ has happened to her _thar_. Jest keep yer seat; she’ll
be hyur in a minute, I take it.”

“But you forget the loss of time.”

“I forgit nothin’. What’s a few minutes spent in idleness at sech a time
as this? How long are it goin’ to take us to travel ten mile with the
current? We mought make’t long ’fore mornin’.”

“True; I did not think of that. But, since that is the case, why would it
not be possible to make the entire distance without stopping, provided we
left here early in the evening?”

“We mought do it easy, ’cause I don’t reckon it’s more’n fifteen or
sixteen mile, and the course lays down-stream. But ye must b’ar in mind,
prudence has the preference over every thing. Never make haste ag’in’
prudence, whatever ye does. Us fellers wa’n’t sent with yer to row yer
boats an’ shuffle ye off down’t t’other fort in a jiffy. We’re with ye
to protect ye from danger if needcessary, an’ eff we go rattlin’ off as
fast as we kin lug the oars, I opine it’ll soon be needcessary. The moon
are settin’ now, an’ in five minutes it’ll be darker’n a stack o’ black
cats. It’s goin’ to take a cute noddle, I s’pect, to keep the boats in
the middle o’ the river, an’ precious little rowin’ will be did, ’cept to
guide ’em, ’cause we must have complete silence the whole way through.
We’ll pass more’n one Injun camp-fire, I make no doubt, an’ who knows but
we may run into a nest o’ the skunks on the very island whar we are to
stop?”

“Hist! Listen!” exclaimed Mrs. Moreland, at this point in the
conversation. “I believe I heard our daughter’s voice.”

The two men paused and listened.

“Thar’s somebody comin’, to a sartainty,” said the ranger, hearing the
snapping of twigs occasioned by a footfall in the woods.

“Very true, and I presume—Hark!”

A peal of clear, rippling laughter fell upon their ears.

“Why, what does that mean?” said Mr. Moreland, in surprise. “That is our
daughter, without a doubt, but she is not alone. Hear! she is talking
with some person.”

“Only a friend, I suppose, who has accompanied her to the river to see
her off,” returned his wife.

“Well, here they are. We can see who it is.”

At that moment two persons appeared on the bank above them.

One of them was Isabel, truly, but the other was a _man_. He was rather a
singular-looking man, too, as we have already observed several times in
the course of our story; a man with lank, yellow hair, a tall white hat,
and a sharp, nasal voice, who wore a long, swallow-tail blue, with brass
buttons scattered promiscuously upon it! This was the individual who
burst upon the view of the voyagers in the company of the young girl.

“Skulp me ef ’tain’t that ar’ clock-peddler, as sez he’s from Maine,”
chuckled one of the men.

“It is, or I’m a skunk,” chimed in another.

“Hallo, thar, Boggs,” called a third. “What in the name of the Old
Scratch are you doin’ hyur?”

“Isabel,” said Mr. Moreland, almost sternly, “get in the boat quickly,
and let us be off. You have already detained us much longer than was
necessary.”

“Oh, papa, my delay was unavoidable,” cried Isabel, as she stepped in.
“But, look, papa, here is a gentleman who wishes to accompany us. Is
there room for him?”

“A gentleman? Who is he?”

“Jonathan Boggs, all the way from Maine!” ejaculated that individual
himself, coming down to the water’s edge with a single stride. “Here I
be, every bit o’ me, an’ a foot or two to spare. Want tew buy a clock?”

The Yankee drew himself up to his full hight, and coolly scanned the crew
of each vessel.

“It strikes me I have seen you before,” said Mr. Moreland, after
surveying the New Englander from head to foot.

“Wal, then, you may view me _behind_ awhile,” returned the man, with the
utmost nonchalance, quietly turning his back toward the voyagers as he
spoke.

“No, no; you did not understand me correctly,” said the settler, smiling.
“Come; look here.”

The clock-vender turned slowly around again, seeming puzzled by the low,
chuckling laugh which ran through the party of hunters.

“Your name is Boggs?” asked Mr. Moreland.

“Yas, all the way from Maine,” was the quick reply.

“And you are going to the same fort we are bound for?”

“That ’ere’s what I calkilate on dewin’, ef I’m lucky ’nough tew obtain
deck-passage on one o’ these sloops. What d’ye think, governor? All the
berths taken? You see I might be o’ some use, as I’d be willin’ tew take
my turn at the paddles.”

“Well, my friend, you can be of no assistance to us in that way, but you
are at liberty to become one of us, if you wish. Get in.”

“That’s the talk.”

The Yankee stepped into the boat, and took a seat in the bow. There
being no cause for further delay, the word was now given to start, and
the loaded boats were at once put in motion. Moving slowly out, into the
current of the river, the little vessels glided away on their downward
course.

“I s’pose you’ll do your share if it comes to fighting?” said one of the
men, addressing the Yankee.

“My sheer?” was the astonished reply. “Now, see here, stranger, you ain’t
afeard, be you? But, never mind. Ef it comes tew fightin’, and you’d
rayther keep out o’ sight till it’s over, I guess I can take your part in
the tussle.”

There was a low, guarded laugh at the interrogator’s expense.

“But you are unarmed,” continued the ranger, undaunted.

“Unarmed? Jumpin’ Jemima! can’t you see these arms? Jest look at that
reach! I can pull a nigger’s hair at ten yards!”

“Yes, but you have no weapons.”

“Weepins? Law, no, but what the ’tarnal creation do a Maine wild-cat
want o’ weepins! Jerewsilem! When I was a suckin’ cub in the manger I
had pistols and knives for playthings, but I’m a man now, and have no
further use for sech toys. Weepins! Ef an Injun should lose all respect
for hisself, so far as tew come ’ithin ten yards o’ this personage, I
tell you, stranger, he’d be apt tew run ag’in’ an iron weight as ’ud send
him tew grass in the shakin’ o’ a possum’s ear. Oh, I’m a squealer! I’m a
hard-shell snappin’-turkle from Sebago Pond! I’m an amphibious reptile,
and I’m game tew the spine on land or water! I’m a six-hoss team with
a mule tew lead, and ef you don’t believe it git up and ride. Let the
red-skins come at me, ef they think o’ no better way tew die. I’ll skelp
’em with a single look. I’ll blister their confounded mugs with a single
squint o’ my eye. Me? Darnation! I’m a-dewin’ business for old Mount
Ætna, and there’s fire, smoke and lava b’ilin’ inside o’ me—”

“Say,” interrupted a man in the other boat; “jest cause that noisy chap
to shet his meat-trap will yer?”

Jonathan Boggs needed no further bidding, and in silence the two boats
drifted on through the increasing gloom.




CHAPTER VIII.

TWO WELL-MATCHED VILLAINS.


To a spot about ten miles distant from the settlement we now ask the
attention of the indulgent reader.

It is the morning following the night whose events we have just
described; the sun has risen in a cloudless sky, and Nature seems
exerting herself to make existence in this world desirable. It is a
lovely morning, made refreshing by a steady breeze, and the trees ring
with the lays of a thousand feathered warblers singing glad welcome to
the orb of day.

At a place where the wood is thickest a man is moving along with
stealthy, cat-like steps, dodging from tree to tree in a very curious
manner. He is a man of medium proportions, wearing the buck-skin garb
of a hunter, and armed with the weapons usually carried by the early
pioneers and wood-rangers. From beneath a coon-skin cap, lank locks of
red hair fall just to his shoulders, and a coarse beard of the same hue
disfigures, rather than adorns, his face. There is an ugly patch on his
left check, and his right eye is completely hidden by a rough bandage
that is tied around his head, all giving him a decidedly unprepossessing,
if not repulsive, look.

After this, it is perhaps superfluous to add that the hunter’s name is
Nick Robbins. As such he has doubtless been recognized, although it
is observable that there is much more expression on his visage than
usual. In fact, through the unhandsome exterior, beams a look of fine
intelligence that might lead one to suppose the backwoodsman has received
a thorough education at some time of his life.

Nick Robbins is approaching a deep ravine that lies a short distance
away. He moves toward it step by step, with studied circumspection, his
quick eye flashing from right to left occasionally, but the greater part
of the time fastened upon the ravine in front. He creeps along with
that caution usually exercised by hunters when stealing upon the game,
or scouts when nearing an enemy’s camp, and yet he is the only person
or living thing in sight. It is evident, however, from his manner and
actions, that he is not only intent on reaching a certain point ahead,
but is extremely fearful that his footsteps will betray him to somebody
or something before he can reach it.

“Strange that he should go there,” mutters the hunter. “Bad as he is,
I should never have supposed that he was leagued with the Indians. He
entered that ravine as he would have entered his own house, and I know
there is a bivouac of savages there. Very well, I shall soon know what
it means if I am not discovered, and who knows but at the same time I
may obtain proofs of the fellow’s guilt in that other affair? Of course
I am already satisfied in my own mind that he is the guilty party, but
despite the length of time that I have been a spy upon his movements, and
an eavesdropper to his conversations, I have not as yet heard a direct
affirmation that such is the truth. But something seems to tell me that
the crisis is at hand, and that to-morrow’s sun will reveal wonders to
many of our friends. I must now find out what new scheme this villain has
hatched.”

Nick Robbins has, by this time, proceeded so far that a confused sound of
voices strike upon his ear, coming from the ravine in front. He crouches
down on all-fours, and crawls forward with redoubled caution. He sights a
wide, smooth ledge of rock, or plateau, that extends out over the gully,
and toward this he worms himself, taking great care that he moves no
stone in his progress.

He reaches the level platform of rock. He draws himself up to the edge
of it, and looks down. Finding that he has chosen the proper point for
observation, he lies flat upon his breast and begins to contemplate the
scene below him with no slight degree of interest.

A tiny stream ripples through the ravine. On one side of it is a large
camp-fire, around which a band of Indians is congregated, sitting or
reclining in various attitudes, some breakfasting and some smoking, while
others are doing nothing. They number about thirty souls in all, and a
single glance at them discovers more than one evidence of the fact that
they are, or recently have been, on the war-path. This fact is shown by
their scantiness of dress and abundance of paint, they being incumbered
with no other garments than leggins and moccasins, and their bodies and
faces being plentifully bedaubed with red and yellow ocher. It is further
shown by the manner in which they are armed, as they all carry the deadly
fire-arms of the white man, instead of the customary bow and arrow;
whereas they would prefer the latter weapon on a hunting expedition. But
the horrid truth is most loudly proclaimed by the scalps which hang at
their girdles, and which have doubtless been torn from the heads of the
slaughtered pale-faces.

The gaze of Robbins does not long linger on this savage band. There are
others there who claim his attention. At some distance from the main body
of Indians, and directly under the rocky ledge on which he is lying, two
men stand conversing.

Of these two men, one is no less a personage than the despicable
profligate, Jim McCabe! The hunter evinces little surprise, but much
interest, as his eyes alight on this man, for he saw him enter the
ravine, and now only seeks an explanation of the fellow’s strange
actions. McCabe’s companion is obviously the chief, or leader, of the
war-party. His title to this distinction is revealed by his bearing, and
the superiority of his dress and adornments. To tell the color of his
skin it would be necessary to remove the thick covering of paint from his
face and body, but that he is _not_ an Indian, our spy begins to suspect
after the first look! A closer survey convinces him of this fact. There
are no high cheek-bones there—no sharp Roman nose—no stoical stoniness
of features—nor even that style of standing characteristic of his savage
followers. Besides this, he speaks the English language as fluently as
Jim McCabe himself. In all probability he is a white man—one of those
degraded, crime-hardened wretches, who forswear their own race forever,
that they may plunder and murder to their heart’s content, beyond the
restrictions of the law.

“You are not looking well, my boy,” are the first words the hunter
distinguishes after taking his position on the rock, and it is the white
chief who gives utterance to them.

“Am I not?” carelessly answers McCabe, who really has grown pale and
haggard since his adventure of last night. “I am not aware of any feeling
that may account for the look.”

“For all that, you don’t look as healthy as when I saw you last. Maybe
you’ve done something bad, that preys on your mind too much for your own
good? Ha, ha! Or, likely, your friends have detected you in some of your
devilments, and in consequence you have just escaped from confinement
that was not extremely beneficial to your health? Which is it?”

“Neither the one nor the other. Nothing like that you hint at has
occurred. I am still safe among those who think me their friend, and the
secret of my friendship with you and your red lambs, I have securely
locked in my own breast.”

“And you will have occasion, sir, to thank your lucky stars that you are
on the good side of me and my red lambs, if we take it into our heads to
fall upon your place. But why don’t you explain your presence here? Seems
to me you’ve wandered quite a distance from your home.”

“I should have wandered further, had I not met you,” said McCabe. “But,
before I give you the desired explanation, I wish you to tell me how it
happens that _you_ are here? I started out last night with the hope of
finding you before night should come again, but my hope grew less at
every step, and by dawn it had amounted almost to despair. I know where
your village is, but sober second thought told me I couldn’t reach it in
time to gain the object I have in view. How lucky that chance has thrown
me in your way at this early hour. Surely the devil is on my side.”

“If not, you are on his side,” remarks the renegade, with a low laugh.
“But you wish to know why I am here? My story is quickly told. Over there
in the interior, a few miles from this point, there are three houses
standing all alone, known by the name of the ‘Three Inns.’ Maybe you’ve
seen or heard of them. Well, we waded into them last night, I and this
handful of braves, and these are the result.”

The outlaw coolly points to a couple of gory scalps at his waist, and
then to a number of others carried in a like manner by the Indians. Even
Jim McCabe averts his eyes with a shudder.

“Now, your business with me?” inquires the chief.

“I will explain in a few words,” says McCabe. “Last evening a family
left our settlement, and started down the river under cover of the
darkness—removing, you see, to the first fort below. The family consists
only of the old gentleman, his wife and daughter.”

“Their name?” interrupts the chief.

“Is Moreland. Mr. Moreland has long been one of the leading spirits of
our place,” answers the other.

“You say they are removing to the first fort below?” is the next inquiry.

“Yes.”

“Without an escort?”

“Oh, not by any means. They are accompanied by a round dozen of armed
men. But what of that? You outnumber them two to one, and as your
braves have had a taste of blood, I am sure it has only sharpened their
appetites. Fact is, the Morelands haven’t completed their journey yet.
They have went into camp on an island in the center of the river, where
they intend spending the day. The island lies nearly opposite to this
spot. It is a long, narrow strip of land, thickly wooded on each side
with willow trees, and barren and rocky in the middle.”

“I know which one you allude to,” interposes the chief, “and know exactly
where it lies. So the boating party has stopped there, eh? and your
object in all this palaver is to have me go over there and stir them up?”

“That is it, precisely,” replies McCabe, rubbing his hands. “They say
the island affords pretty fair means for defense, but I am sure success
will attend you if you fall upon them when they are not suspecting such a
thing. Don’t spare them. Attack and butcher the whole set—_except one_.”

“And that one?”

“She is the daughter—Isabel Moreland. Don’t harm her, but bring her to
me, if you can possibly capture her. She is as beautiful as an oriole,
and I want her for a wife. I have attempted to make her mine in a
legitimate manner, but she has rejected me with scorn, and I must resort
to violence or lose her.”

“Want a wife, do you? Surely, then, you will not think of returning to
the whites with your unwilling bride?”

“No; that would be walking into the lion’s jaws after capturing one of
its cubs. Help me to get this lady, and then I will join the Indians, and
make their wigwams my future home!”

“Good. But I can’t make the attack in the daytime.”

“I haven’t asked you to.”

“Yet you say the party will this evening continue their voyage.”

“I will arrange that. They think I’m their friend, you know, and I will
go over to the island some time during the day, and make up a story that
will induce them to remain an hour after dark, thus giving you ample time
to make the attack.”

The renegade reflects a moment.

“Yes, that will do,” he mutters. “Prevail on them to tarry there an hour
after dark, and the game is ours. Should they leave the island before we
reach it, they stand a good chance of escape, for they have good boats
and strong oarsmen, and can outstrip our canoes in a chase. But, do your
part and I’ll do mine. Those fellows,” he adds, glancing at his band of
warriors, “will hail with joy this chance of adding more to the number of
scalps they have already taken. Yes, sir, this thing shall be done, as
certain as my name is _Simon Girty_!”




CHAPTER IX.

NICK ON A TRAIL.


Nick Robbins jumped back as if stung by an adder. Had a thunderbolt rent
the cloudless sky above him, he would scarcely have been taken more by
surprise than he was by the conclusion of the renegade’s last remark.
While listening to the conversation we have recorded, though certain the
chief was not an Indian, he had not once suspected that he was lying so
near that notorious traitor, who, in the last few years, had become the
terror of white settlers all through Kentucky and Ohio. _Simon Girty!_
That name, coupled as it is with some of the most atrocious deeds that
ever darken the pages of history, was, at that time, as familiar as
household words to every ear on the border. And the hunter, as he thought
of it, recalled the incident, as he had often heard it, connected with
this man’s desertion of his race. How General Adrian Lewis had employed
Girty as a scout for his army, which was then stationed at Point
Pleasant—how the cruel General had beaten him so unmercifully with his
cane, because this brave and valuable scout had dared to ask pay for his
services—how the latter had fled with a fearful vow of vengeance—and how
terribly that vow was fulfilled.

All this flashed through the mind of the eavesdropper, as that well-known
name struck upon his ear. But, quickly recovering from his surprise, he
leaned forward again and continued his listening, now with increased
interest.

“Good!” cried McCabe. “I am glad you enter into my scheme so willingly.
You are a first-rate friend.”

Simon Girty sneered.

“Pooh! pooh! man, you don’t understand me. I doubt if I could induce
myself to do this thing if you were the only one to be benefited by the
massacre, although I will try to secure that girl and place her in your
arms alive. Pshaw! I am not what I used to be. I would not enter so
willingly in your little scheme if it did not possess the attraction of
blood! Ha! ha! I’m an Indian now, and it is pastime to lift the scalps
of the detested pale-faces. Ah, McCabe, experience has taught me that
revenge is sweet, sweet, sweet! Depend upon it, I will see that every
mother’s son of the white-livered devils becomes food for the buzzards
before another dawn. But to help me to bring this about, you must do your
duty by causing them to linger on the island a sufficient length of time
after dark, and you will do well to put them off their guard at the same
time, if you can.”

“Trust me for that,” rejoined McCabe, earnestly. “I will go over to them
this afternoon, and the interval between this time and that, shall be
spent in planning the best way to deceive them. But how shall I get to
them? I have no means of going out to the island, unless I swim.”

“There is no need of that. Concealed in a little cove, a short distance
above the island, are the canoes in which I and my warriors came over
here. You will have no difficulty in finding them. Go; take one of them,
sharpen your wits and play your part.”

“I’ll do it, by Jove! Have no fears for me. If you don’t come off
victorious I shall not be to blame.”

“I suppose not—unless you play me false.”

“And you know I will not do that.”

“I am not certain.”

“Well,” laughed McCabe, “my deeds shall be proof of my fidelity. But
where will you remain till the time for action?”

“Here,” replied Girty. “I shall not leave this spot before sundown.”

“Very well; you know best how to act in a case like this. I will leave
you now, and as like as not I won’t see you again until after the fight
has taken place.”

“Why? I want you to come back here toward evening, and report your
success, or failure, in your part of the performance.”

“All right; I will do that, if you wish.”

“And, also,” continued the renegade, “I hope to find you somewhere near
the boats when we go to the river to embark, so that you can take part in
the fight. You will make an addition of one, you know, to our side, and
I have no doubt we will need your services. Of course you will be there,
ready to accompany us!”

“Ye-e-es, I suppose so,” was the hesitating answer. “But if I am _not_
there you need not wait for me, as you will readily understand that I am
on duty at some other point. At all events, I shall not be absent when it
comes to fighting.”

So saying, Jim McCabe turned on his heel and walked away, while Simon
Girty joined his warriors by the fire.

Nick Robbins, as soon as he saw that the conference was at an end, slid
off the rock, sprung lightly to his feet, and glided swiftly away from
the spot. Stopping suddenly, however, he quickly jumped behind a tree,
and then he looked cautiously forth from his concealment to watch the
movements of the man whose villainous plot he had overhead. He saw Jim
McCabe come out of the ravine, and walk leisurely off in the direction
of the river, and observed the smile of evil triumph that lighted his
countenance as he went.

The hunter’s mind was made up on the instant.

“I’ll follow him,” he said to himself. “I’ll dog his footsteps, nor let
him leave my sight. I’ll do even more than that, for I think—yes, I’m
sure—that he may be easily deceived.”

He slipped out from behind the tree, and started off in the tracks of
the unsuspecting ruffian, taking care to keep the latter in sight as he
followed.

“Low, cowardly traitor!” he hissed, as if addressing the man in front of
him; “who would have thought you were leagued with that most terrible of
the white man’s enemies? Wicked as I knew you to be, I am surprised to
learn that you are a friend of the Indians, and doubly so that you are a
confederate of the worst apostate and murderer that ever lived. Wretch!
Fiend! I can not believe God will permit you to succeed, and if the stain
on Russell Trafford’s name is not purged away before the setting of
to-morrow’s sun, I have overrated my ability. Poor Isabel Moreland! She
shall not fall into the hands of that man if I can prevent it, nor shall
the massacre be so complete as they have pictured it. I will put them on
their guard, and I believe they can build fortifications that will enable
them to repulse the assailants without loss. They will be astonished when
I tell them Simon Girty is to lead the attack.”

Thus cogitating, Nick Robbins followed the villain for some time longer,
neither allowing the distance between them to diminish nor increase. At
length Jim McCabe emerged from the woods, and stood upon the bank of the
river.

The hunter did not hesitate then, but strode boldly forward and, without
the least ceremony, laid his hand on McCabe’s shoulder.




CHAPTER X.

THE TWO SCOUTS.


On this same morning another fire had been kindled for the preparation
of breakfast. This one is, at least, a mile below the Indian encampment,
and, unlike the latter, is close to the bank of the river, where the
rufescent flames cast a reddish light upon the water. Hemmed in on three
sides by a semi-circular ledge of rocks, this fire can not be seen
from any other point than the river in front, or its opposite shore.
And the author of it has shown his slyness, and knowledge of Indian
perspicacity, by using the material that causes the smoke to become
very nearly invisible by the time it reaches the hight of the rock. As
we have intimated, the fourth side of the glen opens toward the river,
and the least experienced in wild life could not but be struck with the
appropriateness for a camping-ground, or a place of concealment from the
savages.

It is used for both this morning. There is but one man in the glen, a
grizzled old hunter, whose stature and general appearance approach the
gigantic, and he sits quietly by his fire, busily engaged in roasting a
wild duck. The man is Kirby Kidd. This we instantly observe as we look
upon his honest brown face, with its clear, penetrating eyes, long,
shaggy beard, and its expression of candor, simplicity and good humor.
A disposition of kindness and plain truthfulness is one of Kirby Kidd’s
characteristics, and it is ever reflected, not only in his countenance,
but also in his words and deeds, winning the love of all whom he meets on
a friendly footing. As he sits on the ground with his trusty rifle lying
across his lap, preparing his morning meal with that skill that can only
be the result of experience, he frequently lifts his head and darts a
glance at the opening in the rocks, so searching that nothing within its
scope escapes notice. True, he might do this at any other time, through
force of habit, but on this occasion a keen observer would detect more
than ordinary anxiety in his look.

“Time Wapawah was back,” mutters the ranger, at last. “He went away
before daylight, an’ said he wouldn’t be gone long, but the sun’s up now,
and still he don’t show his noddle. Mold me into buckshot ef ’tain’t
beginnin’ to look a trifle suspicious! Maybe the cuss have poked his mug
into some sort of a diffikilty, an needs the ’sistance o’ these arms,
while I’m a-setting hyur as cool as a cowcumber in Jinawary, toastin’
this duck fur the good o’ my stummick. A cuter red don’t walk the ’arth,
I allow, but thar’s times when the oldest on ’em gets hauled in. Bah! I
might gab in that strain from now till the world comes to an eend, an’
I’d never make myself believe the cuss could be so blind as to put his
foot in a trap. In course thar’s Injun sign ev’rywhar jest now, but that
don’t signify danger to him. Sunkthin’ different from that keeps him
away, bet my skulp on’t, an’ when he does kum he’ll have a chapter o’
news to relate, or I miss my guess. I wonder whar Nick Robbins are, ’bout
this time? He! he! ho! That ’ar coon’s sharper’n a steel-trap, an’ he’s
did first rate so fur, but I’m a leetle afeard he’s goin’ too fast to
succeed. Time’ll show, howsomever, an’ ef I ain’t powerful mistook the
thing will kum out all right in the eend. Wish the Injun ’ud return. I
ain’t oneasy, ’cause he knowed the woods wur full o’ _sign_ ’fore he went
out, an’ it don’t stan’ to reason ’ut he’ll be keerless; but then I want
to hear what he’s l’arned.”

The fowl being by this time well roasted, the scout now removes it from
the ramrod, which serves for a spit, and falls to devouring it with a
keen relish.

But he had scarcely commenced this when, with the quickness of thought,
he drops the duck and snatches up his rifle. At the same time he turns
his piercing eyes toward the river, as if trying to see something that is
not there. What he hears is only a low ripple in the water—or a sound,
rather, as of a fish leaping above the surface—but the experienced
ear of Kirby Kidd does not recognize it as such. He sits still and
listens, with his gun pushed forward ready to leap to his shoulder on a
second’s notice. Soon the smothered croak of a bull-frog, three times
in succession, comes from the water’s edge. Instantly the hunter’s face
brightens up with a gleam of recognition, and, running his fingers across
his lips while he whistles, he thrills forth a soft imitation of the
robin’s song.

Now a tufted head rises slowly into view, followed by the body of
an Indian. The savage slips lightly up on the bank, without further
hesitation, and walks toward the fire with a graceful, dignified step,
exhibiting a form of faultless mold and muscular development.

It is Wapawah, the friend and companion of the white hunter.

“Wal, chief,” says the ranger, “ye’ve been gone long ’nough to l’arn how
the ground lies outside o’ this hole. Cuss me, ef I hadn’t begun to think
some bloody cuss had tuck a notion to them feathers o’ yourn.”

“Me busy,” replied the Wyandott, briefly.

“Sartin ye wur. Mought knowed nothin’ else ’ud keep you away, arter
sayin’ ye’d be back in a hurry. Thar’s Injuns around, but ye’re an Injun
yerself, an’ sharp enough to keep out o’ thar clutches, I take it. But
how did ye succeed, chief? I s’pose the party reached the island in
safety long ’fore mornin’?”

“Yes—dey all dere.”

“Did ye go over to the island?”

Wapawah nods his head.

“Did, eh? Found ’em all safe, too? How many be they?”

Wapawah holds up both hands with the fingers extended, signifying ten.
Then, by doubling down all but the index finger on the left hand, he
reduces the number to six.

“Sixteen in all,” says the ranger, who understands the Indian’s signs
perfectly, “sixteen in all. Thar’s jest one more’n I thort they wur.
Who’s the sixteenth pusson?”

“He the Yankee,” replies the Indian, the faintest shadow of a smile
flitting across his dusky visage.

“The Yankee!” repeats the white man, in some surprise. “He! he! ho! are
_he_ with ’em?”

“Yes.”

“Wal, that’s more’n I s’pected he’d do. Don’t like to see the chap git so
bold. Did ye tell ’em we wur goin’ to j’ine ’em?”

“Yes; told we stay with ’em all day.”

“Guess we’d better about it, then. D’ye see this roasted bird, chief? Big
’nough to fill us both, ain’t it? Help yerself, an’ let us be off ’thout
any unneedcessary waste o’ time.”

“Wait,” interrupts the Indian. “Got more to tell—let Kidd listen.”

“Got more to tell!” The scout drops the duck again. “Out with it, then.
What more have ye see’d?”

“Injuns,” is the calm reply. “Me see band of Injuns—on war-path—all hab
guns—some hab pale-faces’ scalp.”

“Whar did ye see ’em?”

The warrior points up the river.

“Now, mold me into buckshot, ef this ain’t gittin’ interestin’. D’ye know
what tribe the Injuns belong to?”

“Wyandott.”

“Some o’ yer own fellers, be they? What are they ’way down hyur fur?
Reckon, though, they’ve come down on one o’ thar maraudin’ tramps, durn
thar ugly picters.”

“De chief, he no Wyandott,” continues the Indian; “he not red-man, ’tall.
He long-knife.”

“Led by a white man, be they?”

“Yes—Simon Girty!”

“Mold me into buckshot!” Kirby Kidd rises to his feet with this
ejaculation. “Yer don’t mean ter tell me Simon Girty are the leader o’
the war-party ye’re talkin’ ’bout?”

“Dat what Wapawah say—Wapawah know Simon Girty well—see him much time at
Sandusky.”

Kirby Kidd made no reply to this, but, relapsing into a thoughtful mood,
leans on his rifle and gazes fixedly into the fire. At length he arouses
himself from his reverie, and says:

“Chief, yer knows as well as I that them folks on the island are in a
powerful sight o’ danger, ef that renegade, Girty, are circ’latin’ in
these parts on the war-path.”

“Wapawah knows,” affirms the Indian.

“Wal, then, the sooner we add our two selves to the party the better
it’ll be for them. How many reds did yer see, countin’ Girty?”

The Indian explains with his fingers, signifying thirty-two.

“The number o’ our enemies is less’n I s’posed,” the ranger resumes, “but
we’ll do no harm by j’inein’ of ’em, so’t we kin help ’em git ready to
meet an attack. Reckon the reds know they’re thar?”

“No, t’ink not. Hear dem talk—dey say nothing ’bout long-knives—t’ink dey
don’t know where dey be.”

“Then ye may bet yer moccasins ’ut they won’t be long findin’ out.
They’ll cross the river in the vicinity o’ the island, won’t they?”

“No; dey ’bove de island—heap ’bove it—half mile, guess.”

“So fur? Maybe they will miss it, then. If they does, so much better fur
our friends, but, in any case, I can’t help thinkin’ we ort to be among
’em. Come, chief; let’s eat quick an’ be off.”

When the two scouts have done justice to the roast duck, they at once
enter their bark canoe, which they always keep concealed at this place,
and begin to guide it toward the island, that lies about half a mile
distant up the river.




CHAPTER XI.

GAME AND GAME.


Remembering his guilt and natural cowardice, we may well suppose that
Jim McCabe was not a little frightened when he felt a hand laid rather
heavily upon his shoulder. But, when he sprung round to face his fancied
challenger, and saw only the face of Nick Robbins, which had become
entirely expressionless within the last few seconds, he drew a deep
breath of relief, and felt his fears fading.

“What do you mean, sir, by striking me in this unwarrantable manner?” he
demanded, angrily.

“Strikin’ ye!” drawled Robbins, taking a step backward and regarding the
man with a show of astonishment in his actions, if not in his face. “Durn
it, man, I didn’t strike ye, as I knows of. I only laid my paw on yer
shoulder to ’tract yer ’tention.”

“Attract my attention, indeed!” snarled McCabe. “You chose a very mild
way to do it. You will oblige me, sir, by acting a little less familiarly
toward me in future.”

“Will I, though?”

“Silence, fool! I meant exactly what I said, and I further do when I tell
you that another impudent word will be uttered at your peril. I am in no
enviable mood, just now, and am not to be trifled with. Go your way, and
leave me to go mine.”

For a full minute the gaze of the hunter never left the eyes of the
speaker, after the latter had finished his exclamations. But at the end
of that time a smile, that might have been of contempt, curled his lip,
and he broke the silence:

“See hyur, stranger,” he said, in a low, impressive voice, “does yer know
who an’ what I am?”

“I only know that you are called Nick Robbins,” replied McCabe, somewhat
taken aback by the hunter’s words and manner.

“Wal, it’s lucky fur ye ’ut ye don’t know me better ’n that, cause ef ye
did, an’ should speak to me in that style, I’d knock yer from hyur to
Christmas, ye blamed blow-fly! What d’ye take me fur, anyhow? Let me tell
yer ’tain’t goin’ to pay yer to make an enemy o’ me. Why, younker, don’t
ye know ’ut I can upset that little scheme o’ your’n in a jiffy—”

“What scheme?” gasped McCabe, in considerable alarm.

“What scheme! Ha! ha! ha! Yer knows well enough what scheme, ye blasted
scape-gallows! Hain’t yer jest been talkin’ to Simon Girty ’bout a gang
o’ white people as are campin’ on that island down yander? and didn’t ye
tell him ye wanted every mother’s son of ’em slaughtered, ’ceptin’ one
purty female, an’ she wur to be captur’d fur yer wife?”

“Good God! how did you learn this?”

“How d’ye s’pose?” asked the hunter, with a leer.

“It’s all a base lie!” vociferated the ruffian. “You don’t know what you
are talking about!”

“Easy, my friend,” said the hunter, coolly. “I ain’t used to bein’ called
a liar by anybody, an’ I can’t stand it. I’m a right docile chap long
as nobody crosses my path, but when once’t I git my dander riz, I can’t
git it down ag’in till I’ve bent some pusson’s ear. Now, ye won’t make
anything by denyin’ this ’ut I’ve ’cused ye of, for this reason: I heerd
every word o’ yer conversation with Simon Girty. Jest reflect a minute,
an’ ye’ll agree that I’d make a better friend than enemy, knowin’ what
I do, so ye’ll do well to curb that tongue o’ your’n ’fore ye ruffle my
feathers.”

“There is something behind your words I don’t understand,” said McCabe,
after searching in vain for the “something” in the never changing
countenance of the hunter.

“Is, hey? Ef that’s the case I’ll jest give yer understandin’ a lift. As
I said afore, I heerd every word that passed ’twixt you an’ Girty, an’
in course I must ’a’ been clus’ by to hear. You say ye don’t know me,
’ceptin’ my name are Robbins?”

“I said so.”

“Do anybody else suspicion more?”

“I have never heard of any such suspicion.”

“Good. Now, younker, look at me clus’. Do I look as though I mought be
disguised?”

“_Disguised!_”

“Yas.”

“Why, sir, it never occurred to me that you were.”

“Jest what I thort. I’ve pulled the wool over more’n one feller’s eyes.
An’ onkimmon ’cute chap, who b’ars the handle o’ Kirby Kidd, thinks I’m
his truest friend, an’ has the utmost confidence both in my faithfulness
an’ my skill as an Injun-fighter. Fur all that, I _am_ disguised, whether
I look like it or no.”

Jim McCabe was so astonished that he could not reply, and, observing
this, the hunter continued:

“Maybe ye’d like to know what I am, since I ain’t what I seem? I’ll tell
yer. Besides bein’ Nick Robbins, I am the companion, the confed’rate, the
right bower o’ _Simon Girty_!”

He paused a moment to note the effect of these words upon his hearer, and
then went on:

“I see ye’re kinder amazed to hear this, but I’ll prove it to yer in the
fraction of a second. I find it handy to pertend friendship to’arst the
whites, though in reality I’m leagued with the Injuns, an’ am workin’ fur
’em the hull time. This mornin’ I wur over thar in the ravine with Girty
and the red-skins, when we see’d ye comin’ that way. Girty said how’t
ye’s a friend o’ his’n, but I recognized ye as a man from the settlement
whar I’ve been lodgin’ lately, an’ bein’ sorter afeard ye’d expose me
to the whites ef ye sot yer peepers on me, I perlitely hid my carcass
behind a big stun’. I heerd all ye said, an’ found out ye wur ’bout as
big a rascal as myself. Ha! ha! ha! When ye went away I come out from
the stun’, an’ told Simon I wur goin’ to foller ye, an’ have a chat with
ye ’bout this little affair. He told me I’d better not, that ye mought
take it into yer head to expose me to the whites, but I argued that I
had ye too much in my power to admit o’ yer doin’ sech a thing. So I
follered ye, and hyur I am. D’ye know what I’m hyur fur? I’ll tell ye. Ye
calc’late on j’inin’ the whites as thar friend, an’ inducin’ ’em by some
trick to remain an hour or so arter dark. Now, I knows they ain’t got
a very high opinion o’ you, an’ it’s all but likely they’d ketch ye in
yer own trap. On t’other hand, ef _I_ should go to the island I’d stand
a better chance o’ success. They all know me, an’ have faith in every
thing I say, an’ even Mr. Moreland hisself labors under the belief ut he
an’ I are fast friends.”

Jim McCabe fell to thinking at this, and the result of his thinking was a
firm belief in all the hunter had said.

“I beg your pardon,” he said, grasping Robbins’ hand, “for the rude
manner in which I spoke to you a moment since. I regret that I was so
hasty, and assure you I should not have acted so, had I even suspected
that you had followed me for my own good.”

“Wal, we won’t speak o’ that now,” said Robbins, good-humoredly. “Ef I
hadn’t understood why ye acted that a-way, I should ’a’ knocked ye cl’ar
up through the crown o’ yer hat; but I understood parfectly how it wur.
Let it pass; it ’mounts to nothin’. Reckon ye’re willin’ to have me take
this fur a sign o’ friendship?”

“Certainly, sir; certainly! I am most happy to find a man, of my own
color, who partakes of my sentiments with regard to the great injustice
offered to the race who first held possession of this land. I should
never have suspected that you were such, however, had you not told me.
Your disguise is complete, and you are supposed to be a harmless old
rover, when in truth you are the deadly enemy of the very ones who have
so much faith in your harmlessness.”

“That ’are’s ’bout the long an’ short of it, younker. The Injuns call me
a sly old fox, an’ I s’pose the name are a good ’un.”

“You could have no better,” said McCabe, who had already been thrown into
a very good humor by this man.

“Wal,” said the hunter, quietly, “I hope we understand each other,
anyhow. Shill I perform the part o’ throwin’ the whites off thar guard,
or would ye ruther do it yerself?”

He put this question in a careless sort of a way, and, as he spoke,
glanced lazily down the river at the island, which lay at least half a
mile below the spot where they stood.

“To be sure I am willing that you should perform the duty imposed upon
me,” answered McCabe, who was only too glad to have the responsibility
taken from his own shoulders. “I believe you are more capable of doing it
than I, since you better understand the art of deceiving. You give ample
proof of that every day.”

“Ef I’m to do that part o’ the job,” said the hunter, “I jest stays hyur
with you till arter noon, an’ then I takes the trip to the island an’
back.”

“Very well. I shall be glad to have you remain here with me, as I detest
solitude. But, my friend, since you belong to that band of Indians,
perhaps you know where to find their canoes? Girty said they were
concealed somewhere in this vicinity—can you tell me where?”

“Oh, sartinly,” was the prompt reply. “I know egzactly whar the boats are
hid. They’re skeercely a dozen feet from hyur.”

As he spoke he took two or three long strides down the sloping bank, to a
little cove that extended a few yards inland. Here he stooped and parted
the bushes, revealing to the eyes of Jim McCabe five Indian canoes, with
their paddles lying in them. Truth is, while conversing with McCabe, Nick
Robbins had seen the prow of one of these protruding from the bushes, and
the discovery, unimportant in itself, went to prove more clearly to his
new acquaintance that he really was connected with the Indians.

“Thar they be,” he said; “all safe an’ ready for use.”

“So I see. Of course you will take one of them on your mission to the
island?”

“In course! I’ll have to or swim.”

The two men now seated themselves beneath the wide-spreading branches of
a tree, at a point where they had a good view of the island, there to
await the time for action. To hear their conversation, one would judge
their acquaintance was rapidly ripening into friendship, as they went so
far as to almost make confidants of each other, and chatted as familiarly
as if they had been on intimate terms for a number of years. In fact,
Jim McCabe believed he had found a trustworthy friend in the old hunter,
and reposed more and more confidence in him every moment, and, to all
appearance, Nick Robbins was similarly worked upon.

The hours dragged slowly by, and at last the sun passed the zenith,
ushering in a sultry afternoon.

Nick Robbins waited no longer, but stepped into one of the Indian canoes
and sent it skimming down the river toward the island. McCabe watched him
with eager eyes as he paddled away, and felt a thrill of exultation as
he thought how nicely things were working in his favor! Surely, fortune
was smiling upon him.

The hunter was absent a full hour. The wretch on shore had lost his
patience, and was beginning to entertain a suspicion that all was not
right, when he saw Robbins put out from the head of the island and come
rowing slowly back.

“Well?” he asked, as soon as the boat touched the shore. “How did you
succeed?”

“Succeed?” exclaimed Robbins, in a tone of joyful triumph, as he stepped
out of the light craft and shoved it under the bushes with the rest.
“Succeed, did yer say? By thunder! the game’s _our’n_! We’ve got ’em in
our clutches already, an’ we’ve only to wait till the comin’ o’ night
to pick thar feathers. We couldn’t hope fur better success. The durned
cusses are goin’ to stay thar ’bout two hours arter dark, an’ I warrant
they won’t be on thar guard, ’cause I’ve made ’em b’lieve thar ain’t no
Injuns ’thin fifty mile of ’em. Kirby Kidd an’ Wapawah wur both thar, an’
they was sucked in as easy as t’others. Yes, kumrid, they’re our game,
sure ’s shootin’!”

“Good!” cried McCabe, slapping his thigh. “You’re a trump, my friend, and
if, through your exertions, I come in possession of the proud beauty,
Isabel Moreland, I shall ever feel indebted to you. But I will go at once
and tell Girty how well we have succeeded so far. You remember he told me
to report? I presume you will remain here, and keep watch until I return?”

But Nick Robbins made no reply to this. He had become suddenly very
silent and very grave, and he even seemed to be struck with alarm!

McCabe, however, failed to observe this, and flinging his rifle across
his shoulder he started away, whistling gleefully.

“Stop!” called out the hunter, hesitatingly. “Had—hadn’t I better go, an’
let you stay hyur?”

“No,” replied McCabe, cheerfully. “I wish to speak to Girty about
something else, and may as well go myself.”

And so saying, he resumed his whistling and walked on.

“By heaven!” exclaimed the hunter, when he was left alone, and he dropped
the butt of his gun upon the ground in a half despairing sort of a way.
“Can it be that I am going to fail, after all? He has gone to report to
Simon Girty what we have done, and of course my name will be mentioned,
and I will be exposed. What shall I do? There is no room to hope that he
will not speak to Girty of me. Why did I not think of this before? Alas!
I fear my project is nipped in the bud, and, if so, my life is in danger.
The villain may come back at the head of a dozen Indians, to make mince
meat of me, for my deception, and yet I must wait for him at all hazards.”

The hunter was evidently sorely troubled. He threw himself upon the
ground to await the return of McCabe, and was so nervous and restless he
could not lie still. He trembled in a state of feverish impatience, and
every minute seemed an hour to him.

At last McCabe came trudging back. He was entirely alone, and whistling
as gleefully as when he had gone away. Nick Robbins rose to meet him
eagerly, feeling the first spark of hope he had felt since the fellow’s
departure. He gazed keenly at the whistling profligate as he came up, but
saw nothing that told him his artifice had been discovered.

“Well, what news?” he asked, with as much calmness as was just then at
his command.

“News?” said McCabe, in some surprise, “news? Why, really, sir, what sort
of news have you been expecting?”

“I mean—what did Girty have to say?”

“Oh, Girty was not there,” answered the fellow, stretching himself on
the grass. “He and one of his braves had started in chase of a deer just
before I reached the ravine, and so I was obliged to leave my report to
be delivered by the Indians.”

A fierce thrill of delight pervaded the whole being of Robbins at this
intelligence, and he was compelled to turn his head away to conceal his
joyful emotion!




CHAPTER XII.

THE MEETING IN THE WOOD.


The afternoon waned, and the sun went down behind the gold and crimson
clouds that blended their brilliant hues in the western sky.

Night came on apace, and still the two men remained on the spot where
the canoes of the Indians were concealed. Jim McCabe, however, began to
grow restless, and it was plain that he wished to say something to his
companion, which fear of the result prevented him from doing. He coughed
and “ahem’d,” ran his trembling fingers through his hair, cast frequent
glances through the darkening woods, in the direction of the ravine, and
then amused himself by thrusting his hands into his pockets and pacing
up and down with quick, nervous tread. Though fully understanding these
demonstrations of uneasiness, and scarcely able to repress a smile in
consequence thereof, yet Nick Robbins seemed to be entirely ignorant
of the change that had taken place in his would-be friend. At last the
troubled man appeared to have made up his mind. He stepped right in front
of the hunter, and blurted out:

“I say, Robbins, shall we stay here until the Indians come, and join them
in their attack on the whites?”

“Why not?” coolly asked the hunter. “Wa’n’t that the agreement ’twixt you
an’ Girty? Didn’t yer say as ye’d be hyur when they come to embark, ready
to take part in the fightin’?”

“Not exactly. I told him I should be here if I was nowhere else, but, to
be frank, it was my intention to be somewhere else.”

“What! ye ain’t afeard, be yer?”

“Oh, no! not in the least,” was the quick rejoinder. “It isn’t fear that
urges me to keep out of the fight, but stronger and better reasons. You
see, I’m deeply, madly in love, and can not run the risk of losing the
bewitching beauty I have taken so much pains to secure. Suppose I should
go into the fight and get killed; where would be the reward for my labor?
and what would become of the girl? Besides all this, if the Indians
should, by any chance, be defeated, and I captured, I should be strung up
to the nearest tree for the part I had taken in the conflict. Don’t you
see?”

Nick Robbins seemed to meditate. After a while he asked:

“Wal, what d’ye perpose to do?”

“Before answering that question,” said McCabe, “I should like to know
whether you are going to take part in the massacre or not?”

“It have been my intention to do so all along, but ef _you_ don’t _I_
don’t, that’s sartin.”

“Very good. I will suggest, then, that we move down the bank of the river
about half a mile, or whatever the distance may be, and take our stand
just opposite the island.”

“What then?”

“Just this: we can lie there in concealment and watch, or, rather, listen
to, the battle on the water, and when it is all over, we can join our
white friend and his dusky crew, and make them believe it was simply
impossible for us to be present at the massacre.”

“Why d’ye want to go so fur down the river as to be opposite the island?”

“Only that we may be near the scene of the conflict, where we shall be
able to note its progress and termination.”

Nick Robbins knit his brows, and seemed to meditate again. Then, with a
slight show of perplexity, he said:

“Tell yer what, kumrid, my brain are kinder muddled this evenin’, an’
I kin skeercely decide how to act. Yer perpose to take no part in the
tussle, an’ I make no doubt yer reasons fur slidin’ out of it are good,
but, on second thort, I don’t know whether I ort to shirk my duty or not.
With you I reckon it’s all right, but what cause have I fur not ’tendin’
to my duty?”

“Pooh! it isn’t going to hurt you to tell a lie, if you find it necessary
to offer an excuse for your absence.”

“Nevertheleast, I ain’t in the habit o’ doin’ that. I don’t want to make
’em think I’m a coward, ’cause thar ain’t nothin’ ’ut I’m afeard of.
Tell ye what I’ll do. You kin go on down the river, an’ leave me hyur
to think awhile. Ef I decides to stay with yer, I’ll foller er in a few
minutes, but ef I don’t, I’ll wait hyur fur the Injuns, an’ go with them.
How will that suit yer?”

“That suits me very well,” replied McCabe. “But I sincerely hope you will
decide to follow me.”

The delighted villain, glad to get away from the place where the savages
were to embark on their errand of death, turned on his heel and quickly
took his departure, making the river-bank his guide as he hurried away to
the point designated.

Nick Robbins watched his receding form until it was lost to view in the
purple twilight, and then, finding himself once more alone, he sat down
on a log and buried his face in his hands to think.

His sole object in lingering behind was to be alone for a while with his
thoughts. Of course he had no intention of joining the savages in their
attack on his friends, though he had made such a pretense to the poor
dupe McCabe. Having carried out his plan successfully so far, he wished
to bring the latter part of it to perfect maturity before proceeding
further, in order to prevent such a thing as running into an unlooked-for
difficulty, which he had done once already. To do this he desired a few
minutes of solitude, that he might think it all over undisturbed, and it
was for this reason alone that he sent McCabe on ahead.

For a long time he sat there on the log, lost in study, and when at last
he rose to his feet, the mellow twilight had deepened into the blacker
shades.

Surprised to find that he had tarried there so long, the hunter snatched
up his gun and hastened away in the direction McCabe had taken. He was
pleased with the latter’s proposition to keep out of the fight, as it
prevented the suspicion that might have been excited by such a one being
offered by himself. They could station themselves on the shore directly
opposite the island, and, with their ears, note the commencement, end and
result of the contemplated contest. Thus he reflected as he walked along
the river-bank through the gathering darkness of night, and a strange
smile twitched the beard that covered his mouth, as he muttered:

“Result, indeed! Ha! ha! ha! It will be a far different result from that
which _he_ expects, for Kirby Kidd and Wapawah would not have been caught
napping even if I had failed to put them on their guard. Kidd declared
that, if the rest of the party would follow strictly the directions of
himself and Wapawah, they could defeat the assailants without the loss of
a man, and I believe he spoke the truth.”

Nick Robbins now ended his soliloquy, and brought his mind down to the
present. He walked on some distance further, with long, rapid strides,
and at length became aware that he had reached the point he was aiming
for. Off to his right he could see the shadowy outlines of the island.
He came to a dead halt. Where was Jim McCabe? He looked around him, but
saw only the frowning tree-trunks on one side, and the glistening water
on the other. It was quite dark now, and the only luminaries visible were
the myriads of twinkling stars that bespangled the blue canopy above. He
was about to move on, when his footsteps were arrested by a loud, angry
voice, exclaiming:

“So you have been following me, have you?—you accursed brat! And you now
hint that you will proclaim me a murderer to the world rather than see me
accomplish my purpose.”

The speaker was undoubtedly Jim McCabe!

“Faith, Jamie, I haven’t been follerin’ iv yeez, at all, at all,” said
another voice, in rich Irish brogue. With astonishment the hunter
recognized this one as that of the boy, Mike Terry! He stood perfectly
quiet, and listened.

“What, rascal! Will you say you have not been following me? Tell me,
then, how came you here?”

“Begorra, how should I know ye were in this part iv the counthry? An’ av
I did know why should I be afther follerin’ iv yeez? It’s goin’ crazy ye
are, to be sure, an’ Mike Terry won’t have any thing more to do wid the
likes iv yeez. Tell ye why I’m here? Av course I will. I’m this fur on me
way to that fort—phat ye call it?—where the Moreland family is movin’ to.”

“And why are you going there?”

“I’m goin’ there to live, yer honor.”

“To live! Why don’t you stay where you have so long been living?”

“Fur this raison. Whiniver I walk out I can’t help seein’ the place where
Doctor Trafford’s house stood, an’ it makes me fale as if I was his
murderer, sure. Nayther can I go outside iv the stockade unliss something
l’ades me straight to the grave av Masther Russell. I’m goin’ away now,
so I’ll niver be throubled be these sights ag’in. Musha! musha! the
payple used to say Mike Terry was a first-class b’y, but he’s a rascal
an’ a spalpeen now, an’ yerself it was that made me that, an’ it’s me own
cousin ye are, too.”

“Fool! will you cease your whining? Suppose you have done a rascally
act by telling a lie in my defense; I have paid you well for it, and am
willing to pay you more. You won’t have my money? Well, that is your
fault, not mine. The fact that I killed Doctor Trafford, and caused the
death of his nephew, need not trouble you, as the only thing you did
was to swear that Russell was the murderer. Now that I have confided in
you so far as to tell you that I am striving to get Isabel Moreland in
my power, you say something to the effect that you will go over to the
encampment of the whites, and disclose my whole secret.”

“Divil a bit did I say that, Jamie. I only s’id the poor craythers ought
to be warned iv their danger, an’ I’ll say it ag’in av I want to. It
ain’t me as’ll warn ’em, though, fur I have no boat, at all, an’ divil
a sthroke can I swim. L’ave ’em alone. They’re not doin’ any harrum to
anybody.”

“Bah! you talk nonsense, Mike. I shall not leave them alone, so long as
my suit is rejected by the fair daughter of Mr. Moreland. Look you, boy!
it is just possible that those red-skins will be defeated to-night, and
if they should be, I will of course, go back home. In that case, I will
live in constant fear that you will betray me. To make sure that you will
not do this, I want you now to take a solemn oath that you will never
breathe a word of my secret to mortal ears!”

“Oh, don’t ax me to do that?”

“Ask, indeed! I _command_ you to do it! Down on your knees, and swear
that you will forever hold your tongue on this subject.”

“No, no, no! I can’t swear that, at all, at all. Maybe I’ll have to tell
some time, to save me own life.”

“Swear!”

“No—oh, no!”

“Idiot! do you refuse?”

“Yis, Jamie, I’ll have to refuse.”

“Then, by the gods, you shall _die_! Do you hear? _you shall die!_
Look at this knife! It shall cut your infernal heart out, unless you
immediately swear secrecy—”

“Oh, don’t—don’t! In the name iv the Howly Vargin, ye wouldn’t be afther
murtherin’ iv me? Don’t, dear cousin; pl’ase don’t!”

“Then you will swear?”

“Never! Cut me heart out, av ye will, but don’t ax me to take sich an
oath as that. Kill me, cousin, an’ do it quick! I’m a wicked b’y an’
desarve to be kilt, but I shall niver listen to yer blarney ag’in, though
it should save me life a hundred times!”

Thus far, Nick Robbins had listened to the conversation without moving
from his tracks, but now, fearing the monster would carry out his dire
threat, he thought the time for action had come. Beginning to hum a
popular air, and dropping his gun to a trail, he walked boldly forward
through the thick underbrush, creating as much noise as possible in the
act. A few steps took him to a small opening in the woods, where Jim
McCabe and the Irish boy, Mike Terry, were standing.

“Hello! what have we hyur?” exclaimed the hunter, stopping short and
staring, with well-feigned surprise, at the lad.

McCabe was evidently somewhat flurried by the appearance of Robbins, but
he managed to answer:

“Why, upon my word, you startled me, old fellow. Where did you come from
so suddenly? You have been so long a while in making up your mind to
follow me, that I had almost despaired of seeing you again very soon.
That boy? Oh, he’s my cousin, Mike Terry. Come Mike; look up. Don’t you
believe, I found him lying here asleep.”

“Did, hey? What’s he hyur fur?”

“He’s been searching for me, I presume. He is always wandering about and
getting lost.”

“’Pears to me this is a bad place fur a chap o’ his heft to be strollin’
’round alone,” said the hunter, gazing as closely and curiously at the
boy as if he had never seen him before.

“My sentiments, precisely,” laughed McCabe, “and for that reason I think
we had better keep him under our protection, now he’s here.”

“Ye’ll do no sich a thing,” spoke up Mike, firmly. “It isn’t the likes
iv yeez that’ll kape me here two minutes longer, unless ye ties me feet.
I won’t stay here so close to the poor craythers that’s goin’ to be kilt
intirely be the lots iv red niggers in yer employ.”

The lad was sidling away as he spoke, and looked as if he were about to
take to his heels. Observing this, Nick Robbins stepped quickly forward
and seized him by the arm.

“Hold on younker,” he said. “It’s the opinion o’ this coon ’ut ye’ll be a
deal safer by stayin’ with us.”

Then, stooping down, he whispered in the lad’s ear:

“Keep mum. I am not the friend of that man, nor the enemy of those on the
island! Stay with me and you are safe!”

The young Hibernian shot a glance of mingled amazement and gratitude at
the speaker, but said nothing in reply. The hunter turned carelessly
away, and began to converse with McCabe, while Mike Terry, watching them
with a strange expression in his blue eyes, quietly seated himself on a
stone, as if he had never had a thought of running away from the two men!




CHAPTER XIII.

THE ISLAND FIGHT.


“Isn’t it time for them to make the attack?” said Jim McCabe, who was all
impatience now that the time was drawing near.

“No,” replied Robbins; “it hain’t been dark more’n an hour.”

“What of that? You know Simon Girty is not the man to be tardy on
occasions like this.”

“Know that,” replied Robbins, “but neither is he the man to hurry when
success depends on deliberation.”

“Very true,” drawled the profligate, musingly, “and yet my only fear is
that they will find the island deserted.”

“Ef that’s yer only fear ye may jest dispense with it to onc’t, ’cause
the birds ain’t thunk o’ flyin’ yit,” said Robbins, confidently, and then
with a smile that the darkness concealed, he added to himself: “Ah, my
fine fellow, if you knew all you would have yet another fear, that would
be a source of more trouble than this.”

But, not knowing all, McCabe had no other fear, and even the one that
had taken possession of him was partially dispelled by the words of his
companion. He had learned to trust the hunter so completely that nothing
short of ocular proof could have convinced him of his deceptiveness.

The two men stood on the bank of the river, watching and waiting, while
Mike Terry still sat on the same stone near by, watching and waiting too.
Jim McCabe was impatient and restless.

“Girty is slow,” he exclaimed. “I wish he would hurry. I wonder if he
thinks he has the whole night in which to do this job?”

He paused for a reply, but, receiving none, continued:

“I wish the thing was over, and I had my future wife in my arms. Confound
the luck! I believe the man has drawn his men off without even attempting
the massacre. If I but had the Indians under my command for a short time,
I’d spread desolation over the face of the waters. I wonder what time it
is?”

Still the hunter did not reply, but stood like a statue, gazing out on
the river, his eyes gleaming like coals of fire.

“Robbins, what time is it?” cried McCabe in a higher key, determined to
make him answer.

“How do I know?” was the gruff response. “D’ye s’pose I’ve got a
time-piece? an’ ef I had one, d’ye s’pose I could see it? I advise ye to
keep yer meat-trap shet ef yer don’t want to git yerself in trouble. Yer
talks as if thar’s nobody ’thin a mile of us.”

This rebuff had the desired effect. The restless ruffian became quiet
without another word, and for awhile the profoundest silence reigned over
the trio.

Presently Nick Robbins seized his companion’s arm, and whispered:

“Hist! Didn’t ye hear that?”

“What?” asked McCabe, excitedly.

“Why, a plash in the water out yander,” said Robbins, pointing. “_I_
heerd it, sure’s shootin’.”

“So did I,” said Mike Terry, who had sprung to his feet at the sound.

“An’ it wur caused by nothin’ else but a keerless stroke of a paddle,”
continued Robbins, emphatically. “The Injuns are on the river, an’ on
thar way to the island, that’s sartin.”

“Do you think so?” asked McCabe, hurriedly.

“Don’t think nothin’ ’bout it—I _know_ it.”

“Good! Then the crisis will come immediately. Ugh! won’t it be a terrible
slaughter? The whites little dream that death is so near to them, and
momentarily drawing nearer.”

“An’ the Injuns little dream what is in store for _them_,” thought the
hunter, but the thought was not expressed. He added aloud: “Yas, thar’s
goin’ to be hullsale destruction in less’n a minute, an’ the victims have
no idea what’s goin’ to happen.”

“Be the saints! I’m wishin’ there wasn’t goin’ to be any bloodshed, at
all,” said the Irish boy, clasping his hands.

“Robbins,” whispered McCabe, close to the ranger’s ear, and his voice
was husky and unsteady, “Robbins, they have surely had time to reach the
island, if it was them you heard. Why don’t they begin the slaughter? Do
you think—_Good Lord!_”

While he was speaking he had been looking out toward the island,
straining eyes and ears to catch some sight or sound. The cause of the
exclamation with which he interrupted himself, was a bright sheet of
fire that suddenly flashed out through the darkness, followed quickly
by the simultaneous reports of several rifles! Then there rose shriek
upon shriek of mortal agony—groans deep and fearful—wild, piercing
death-yells—mingled with the appalling war-cry of the assailants; all
sounding hideous in the extreme, in the silent hours of the night! But,
amid these noises, not a single white man’s voice could be heard.

“What does it mean?” gasped McCabe, clutching the hunter’s shoulder.
“Surely, surely, they are not being defeated by the whites, and yet it
sounds more like a defeat than a victory!”

“Keep cool,” admonished the backwoodsman, shaking off the grasp of the
excited man; “jest keep cool, an’ I’ll tell yer what _I_ thinks. The
Injuns _are_ gittin’ licked, sure’s shootin’, though it’s the qu’arest
thing I ever heern tell on. That first volley was from the guns o’ the
pale-faces, an’ it’s plain to me ’ut the reds are gittin’ the wust o’
thar little game. It’s sing’lar, I allow, but the whites have been put on
thar guard somehow or other, ’cause—”

The sentence was destined to remain unfinished, for at that moment
another fiery jet flamed up in the impending gloom, followed by another
crash of fire-arms, as a second volley was poured into the assailants
from those on the island. It must have been as destructive as the first,
for there were more shrieks, and groans, and yells, and this time there
was a plunging and floundering in the water, as if one or more canoes had
been overturned.

The trio on the shore stood and listened in silence. Nick Robbins
pretended to be as much astonished as his companion, though in reality
he was secretly exulting over the success of his counterplot. The rage,
fear, surprise and disappointment that took possession of Jim McCabe,
were so overwhelming in their ebullition that he could not speak, and,
like one struck dumb, he stood and stared, his labored respiration the
only sound he made. That the Indians were being repulsed with heavy loss
there was not the least room for doubt, and that this unexpected result
was caused by previous preparations on the part of the whites to meet the
attack, was equally plain to the ruffian’s mind. He did not blame Robbins
with this—he could not believe him capable of such treachery! He realized
how fully Robbins had established himself in his favor and confidence,
and felt as though he would be willing to stake his life that the man
was truly his friend, and the friend of the Indians. And yet his scheme
was certainly a failure. Isabel Moreland, whom he had thought almost in
his power, was not to be his after all. He ground his teeth, and his
eyes gleamed like those of a wild beast, but he could not find words to
express his feelings, so he was silent.

The carnage on the river was kept up for a few short moments. Shots were
fired at irregular intervals by both sides, our trio noting every flash
and crack of the guns, and listening keenly for the result. From the
uncertain foundation of what they heard—or, rather, did _not_ hear—they
deduced the opinion that none of the whites were hurt, while they knew
that among the savages there was a fearful destruction of life. The
whoops, and screams, and groans were continued, but they gradually grew
weaker and weaker, until at last not a sound could be heard save the
steady gurgle and swash of the mighty Ohio, as it swept onward in its
unceasing flow toward the great “Father of Waters.” The fight was at an
end, and silence once more brooded over the river.

No sooner had the sounds of the brief conflict ceased, than Nick Robbins
made a singular movement. Suddenly throwing out both of his arms, he
seized Jim McCabe and Mike Terry by their clothing, and began to drag
them back by main force from the water’s edge! A short distance from the
bank he stopped, and exclaimed:

“Down on yer faces—quick!”

“Wha—wha—what’s the matter?” stammered McCabe, as he felt himself going
down to the ground without the least exertion on his part.

“’Sh!” cautioned the hunter. “Don’t speak a word—don’t move! Thar’s a
boat comin’ this way, an’ it’s almost hyur! Listen! Don’t ye hear it?”

Yes, McCabe and the Irish boy both heard it now, and very distinctly,
too. It was the measured dip of a paddle in the water, and it was
apparently drawing nigh with great rapidity. Indeed, the canoe—for a
canoe it certainly was—had approached almost within sight before even
Nick Robbins had discovered its proximity!

In a moment they heard the boat strike the shore. Then they fairly held
their breath as they waited for the occupants to land. Soon two dark
forms sprung upon the bank—only two, and they wore the plumes and scanty
apparel of Indians!

One of them, however, as he stood revealed in the dim starlight, was
instantly known to be a white man. More—he was recognized as that
fiendish outlaw, Simon Girty!

“Hell and furies!” growled the renegade, stamping his foot, “this has
been a pretty night’s work. I don’t believe more than half of my braves
effected their escape. In fact, I’m sure they didn’t. Curse that man,
McCabe! If I had him here I’d wring his neck, for I believe he has played
me false!”

This was all that was heard. The next moment Simon Girty and the Indian
had plunged into the woods, and were gone.




CHAPTER XIV.

CAGED!


“That wur a lucky escape fur you, old hoss,” said Nick Robbins, as the
three lurkers came out of their concealment. “Simon Girty have got it
into his head ’ut ye’re false, an’ ef he’d ketched ye hyur it ’ud went
kinder hard with ye, I take it.”

“Curse it!” hissed McCabe; “every thing is going wrong, just at the time
that I thought success certain!”

“Wal, I wouldn’t take it to heart in that style,” laughed Robbins,
patting him on the shoulder. “Cheer up, an’ be yerself ag’in. It’s true
the red-skins have been nicely licked by the pale-faces, an’ the hull
gang scattered to the four winds, but it don’t foller ’ut the jig’s up.”

“Don’t it?” snarled McCabe. “I should like to know what remains to be
done, but to go home? I presume you will follow Girty now, and leave me
to pursue my way alone.”

“Thar’s jest whar ye’re wrong,” said the hunter. “I won’t leave yer till
mornin’, nohow, an’ I tells ye once fur all, the jig ain’t up! True, as I
said afore, the reds have been licked and run away—true, Girty jest now
come to shore, an’ made off like the devil wur arter him—true, we’re left
hyur alone to fight our own battles, but, fur all that, I repeat, _the
jig ain’t up_!

“Do explain yourself,” said McCabe, seeing something in the hunter’s mind
worth drawing out.

Taking McCabe aside, out of Mike’s hearing, Nick Robbins proceeded to
unfold his scheme. It was to go over to the island, and, in the capacity
of friends who came to render assistance, to so arrange affairs as to
get Isabel separated from the men and thus secure her by abduction. Nick
“played his hand” so skillfully as to awaken McCabe’s enthusiasm, under
the influence of which he revealed his entire proceedings to secure his
prize, confessing to the firing of Trafford’s house and laughing at his
subsequent conduct and performances. Nick laughed with him, encouraging
his confidence, and then revealed to the astonished scoundrel the fact
that he, Nick, in his capacity of spy, had seen the whole proceeding, but
he added:

“Now, my boy, we understand one another fully; so let us work the thing
to the end. I’m with yer and the gal, an’ ef we don’t play a mighty poor
hand we’ll win her yet and make the settlements howl, we will. So let’s
be off at once, in Girty’s canoe, which he has left so convenient for us.”

“As you say: I’m in with you,” and soon the canoe, with the three
adventurers, was out in the stream, heading for the island, openly, so
that the Moreland party might see and recognize them as friends. Landing
on the upper end, they cautiously explored the locality but found no
trace of the party. Then Nick led the way further from the shore, into
the dense undergrowth. A glade was found where the darkness was less
dark, and then Nick, placing his fingers to his mouth, gave vent to a
soft, tremulous whistle, as if he were signaling to some one.

This surprised Jim McCabe not a little. With a vague suspicion flashing
over his mind, he was about to demand an explanation, but, before he
could utter a word, he staggered backward with a gasp of dismay! There
was a rushing sound in the underbrush near by, mingled with the tramp of
many feet. Then there was a clamor of voices, and the next instant dark
forms began to pour out of the woods on both sides, and gathered around
him. Harsh voices cursed him. Rough, bearded faces were thrust close to
his; words of dire meaning were hissed in his ears; eyes that spoke of
vengeance gleamed upon him; and then a dozen strong hands seized him, and
bore him to the earth!

There was a brief struggle; and when it was over, Jim McCabe lay helpless
upon the ground, bound hand and foot!

Lying there on his back, the now thoroughly terrified villain looked up
to see who his captors were. The first ones he noticed were old Kirby
Kidd, and his Indian friend, Wapawah. Then, running his eyes further
round the circle, he observed the twelve stalwart, well-armed men who
had been sent with the emigrants as an escort, and was surprised to see
that their number was not in the least diminished by the attack of the
savages. Among them stood Nick Robbins, looking as cool and unconcerned
as ever, with Mike Terry by his side. Apart from the crowd he saw Mr.
Moreland and his amiable wife, together with their daughter, Isabel, and
near them stood a never-to-be-forgotten individual in a swallow-tailed
blue and high-crowned hat. It was the Yankee clock-vender, Jonathan
Boggs, “all the way from Maine.”

Jim McCabe groaned aloud, and his heart sunk within him as he read his
fate in the pitiless faces above him. He knew he was now known in his
true character to all of these men, and that he was their _prisoner_!

Nick Robbins stepped out of the crowd, and, looking calmly down on the
prostrate man, said:

“Wal, old hoss, how d’ye like yer new position? Them stuns make ruther
a hard bed, don’t they? Kinder guess ye didn’t think ye had sech a
big audience when ye wur tellin’ me that nice little story o’ your’n.
Yander’s the gal ye’ve been tryin’ to captur’. Why don’t ye jump up and
run off with her? Ha! ha! ha! Reckon ye recollects how I come over hyur
this arternoon to throw this party off thar guard, so’t Simon Girty an’
his reds could extarminate ’em? Wal, I not only put the fellers _on_ thar
guard, but also told ’em to hide tharselves when they should see you an’
me comin’, so’t they could all hear yer secret as I pumped it out o’ yer.”

“Yas,” said Kirby Kidd, “an’ mould me into buckshot ef that wa’n’t a fine
trick o’ your’n, whar ye burnt Doc. Trafford in his bed to git rid of his
nephew.”

“I’ll swan tew man, mister, you look oncomfortable,” exclaimed Jonathan
Boggs, coming forward. “Why, I’m slightly acquainted with you ain’t I?”
he added, after a close look at the man. “Dew tell! Now it’s too bad I
can’t help you, but I’m bound tew own up that you got yourself into the
diffikilty. As Tabitha Simpson used tew say, ‘there’s many a slip ’twixt
the cup and the lip.’”

There was a general laugh at this, and more than one of the men followed
it up with a rude _jeu d’esprit_ at the prisoner’s expense.

McCabe foamed with rage, and tugged at the cords that bound him until
they cut into his flesh, swearing furiously the while, and calling down
fearful maledictions on the heads of all present. He cursed himself, too,
for trusting so blindly in the man who had led him into this trap, and
vowed he would haunt Robbins if he were put to death!

“Men,” said the mild voice of Mr. Moreland, “let us not taunt our
prisoner, but remember the many dark sins with which his soul is
burdened, and pity him.”

“Yer principles is good, I make no doubt,” replied Kirby Kidd; “but dog
my cats ef I kin feel much pity fur the skunk.”

But no one thought of disregarding the word of Mr. Moreland, and so Jim
McCabe was left to the companionship of his own thoughts, which, we may
well believe, were not of the pleasantest character imaginable.

A consultation was now held by the entire party. Kirby Kidd and Nick
Robbins exercised their influence to its utmost, and urged Mr. Moreland
to take the back track and return to his former home, instead of
continuing his journey down the river. Mr. Moreland had been thinking
of this step for some hours, but when he thought of his daughter’s
misconduct he hesitated. His wife, who had been growing more and more
sick at thought of leaving their home and friends forever, put in a
timely word while he wavered, whispering that there were better and more
convenient ways by which their child might be guided into the path of
right. He saw the soundness of the arguments employed, and soon yielded,
quietly expressing his determination to go back home and remain there in
future.

So, without more ado, the boats were drawn out of their hiding-place
under the drooping willows, and, after laying Jim McCabe in the bottom of
one of them, the party embarked for home. The paddles were dipped, and
the little fleet started off up the river, Kirby Kidd and Wapawah taking
the lead in their canoe, while Nick Robbins and Mike Terry brought up the
rear in theirs.




CHAPTER XV.

THE CLOCK PEDDLER’S TRANSFORMATION.


On the following morning our party of voyagers arrived safely at their
destination. The men had used their oars so steadily during the night
that, by dawn, they were near enough home to have no fears in finishing
their journey by daylight.

As they disembarked and approached the settlement, the people came out in
crowds to meet them, all surprised beyond measure to see the Morelands
coming back so soon, but doubly astonished when they saw Jim McCabe among
them a bound and guarded prisoner. Great was the confusion, and numerous
the inquiries put to the returned voyagers. But so many questions could
not be answered at once, and, answering none, our friends moved on with
their captive until they reached the wide clearing just without the
fort, where the execution of Russell Trafford had taken place. Here they
stopped, and threw McCabe on the ground, where he lay in sullen silence,
the object of wondering looks and exclamations. When something like quiet
was restored, Mr. Moreland confronted the crowd and explained to them, in
a few words, that which they were clamoring to be informed. He told them
that the cause of their return was the discovery that McCabe was the real
murderer of Doctor Trafford, who had been burned alive in his own house
a short time back, and, for which assassination the victim’s nephew had
been compelled to suffer. He also told them that the profligate was the
friend and ally of that notorious renegade, Simon Girty, and related how
the two fiends had hatched a plot to surprise and butcher the party on
the island. Then he went on to explain how all this had been found out
by the bold and cunning hunter, Nick Robbins; how the latter had dogged
him with a perseverance worthy of the cause—thwarted his purpose by the
utmost daring and coolness—and led him into a trap, where he exposed the
secret of his crime in the hearing of the emigrant party.

Mr. Moreland held the attention of his audience enchained while he
was speaking, and his clear, calm voice was the only one to be heard
throughout the recital. But no sooner had he finished than the storm
broke. Yells of rage made the welkin ring, and, wild with excitement, the
men rushed to the spot where the helpless prisoner lay, as though they
would annihilate him without a moment’s warning. Shouts of, “Shoot him!”
“Knife him!” “String him up!” “Here’s a rope!” etc., were clamorously
indulged in. There was scarcely a man present who did not recall the last
words of Russell Trafford, as he spoke from the scaffold, and realize
that an innocent man had been put to death! The revelation maddened
the honest settlers, most of whom had been firm friends of the young
man, and, as they thought of the awful mistake they had committed,
self-reproach did not satisfy them. Here was the real murderer in their
power—the black-hearted wretch who had caused the destruction of those
two lives. Should they spare him? Never! Should they submit him to the
condign punishment of the rope? Yes! a thousand times, yes! Nothing
milder could satisfy their fierce indignation. With shouts and curses
they gathered round the prostrate brute with drawn weapons.

In all likelihood the defenseless captive would have been violently dealt
with, but for the timely interference of Mr. Moreland, Kirby Kidd and
several others, who interposed their bodies and commanded the crowd to
move back.

“Men,” shouted Mr. Moreland, “for the sake of heaven calm yourselves, and
wait until you hear all. If you harm the fellow in his present helpless
condition, you will regret afterward that you did not wait. No punishment
is too bad for the wretch, but, whatever is done to him let it be done
with due deliberation, remembering the sad result of our hastiness on a
former occasion.”

This partially quelled the disturbance. The excited men moved slowly
back, though not without murmurs of disapprobation, and more than one
deadly weapon was shaken threateningly at McCabe, as they widened the
circle around him. The exposure of the fellow’s villainy seemed to
have maddened them. To think that he had been living peaceably among
them—_he_, a confederate of Simon Girty, and the murderer of Doctor
Trafford—_he_, who had caused them to make the awful mistake of hanging
an innocent man in his stead! Indeed, it was enough to infuriate them.

“It has been irrefragably proved to us,” continued Mr. Moreland, “that
our prisoner is guilty of that dark deed, for which we have caused one of
our noblest and most inoffensive young men to suffer the worst punishment
of the law, but, for all that, we can not see him unjustly dealt with.
Whatever we do, I repeat, let us do it in the full possession of our
senses. Give him a fair trial. Here’s a boy, the cousin of the prisoner,
who has something to say that is quite important.”

As he spoke he lifted Mike Terry above the heads of the assembly, and
placed him on his shoulder, that he might be seen and heard by all. At
first the boy could not utter a word, but after several attempts he found
his voice, and began. There was profound silence while he spoke. He
gave his evidence in a remarkably clear and straightforward manner, nor
faltered when he observed the black looks that were bestowed upon him, as
he told of the part he had taken in the destruction of his master’s life.
But as soon as he finished he burst into tears, and told them to hang
him if they wanted to, as he deserved it. Mr. Moreland placed him on the
ground again, and whispered a few comforting words in his ear, assuring
him that he should not be harmed.

To the surprise of all, Jonathan Boggs, from Maine, now stepped out
before the people, and cleared his throat as if he were about to make a
tremendous speech!

He looked around on the many faces that were turned upon him, with
all the gravity and grandeur of a renowned orator. He took a large
handkerchief from his pocket, pushed his hat back from his forehead,
wiped his face and blowed his nose. Then, clasping his hands behind
him, he again cleared his throat, and once more swept his eyes over the
staring multitude.

This was too much for those whose susceptibility of titillation was
not entirely drowned by the general excitement and anger, and there was
an outburst of boisterous laughter at the Yankee’s expense. Some cried,
“Give him air!” others, “Don’t crowd the speaker!” while a shrill, piping
voice demanded:

“Why don’t he take off his hat and stand on it, so’t we can all see him?”

These and similar sallies were aimed at the luckless New-Englander, and
the boys, taking it up, began to hoot at him most unmercifully, one
mischievous urchin making so bold as to slip forward and pull one of his
long coat-tails.

But all this did not drive Jonathan Boggs from his position. Raising one
hand, he commanded, sternly:

“Silence! Hold your goll-darned tongues till you know what you are
laughin’ at!”

Strange to say, these words served the purpose. The noisy ones
immediately became quiet, and taking advantage of the lull, the
clock-vender resumed:

“Hearken unto me, and weigh well my ejaculations. I appear before
you this morning to deliver a most important address—or rayther,
_undress_—but, ef you don’t listen, how in the name of Tabitha Simpson
do you expect to hear? Look at me! Gaze on me! I’m goin’ to open your
eyes with wonder, and relieve your minds of the erroneous conviction
that you have hung a man through mistake. Watch my movements, ladies and
gentlemen, and _mark the transformation_!”

Before any one could divine his intention, the Yankee had grasped his
swallow-tailed coat by each lapel, and thrown it off, dropping it upon
the ground! Then he made another quick movement, and off went the tall,
bell-crowned hat, accompanied by a mass of tow-colored hair, and followed
by several smaller “fixin’s” that completed the disguise. In less time
than it takes to tell it, all that remained of Jonathan Boggs lay in a
small heap on the ground!

In his place stood—_who but Russell Trafford_!

The effect of this transformation on the throng of settlers who witnessed
it, may be more easily imagined than described. Everybody in the
settlement knew that ludicrous specimen of the Maine Yankee, known by the
name of Jonathan Boggs, and to see him change himself into a man whom
they had never expected to see again on earth—no wonder every tongue was
paralyzed, every form petrified!

For a full minute it was thus. A silence like that of the tomb hung over
the spot. It seemed as if the people would never recover from the effects
of their amazement. Russell Trafford stood before them, as natural as
life, his fine form drawn up to its full hight, and a smile playing over
his handsome features as he calmly noted the result of his disclosure.
And yet, how could it be he? They thought—nay, they _knew_ he was dead.
They had seen him hung, and had followed him to his grave. Surely no man
could live after hanging as he had hung; much less leave his grave.

Young Trafford did not wait for them to recover the use of their tongues,
but embraced the opportunity their silence afforded to explain to them
the mystery. Lifting his rich, manly voice, he began to speak.

“Friends,” he said, “I disclose myself to you to-day, knowing that I
am at last out of danger, and once more free to take up my abode among
you, in my own name and guise. Until this hour you have supposed me
guilty of the murder of my uncle, and also thought you put me to death
for the same. I am still alive, as you see. You are struck dumb with
amazement, but I will explain all to you in a very short time. I am not
a spirit, nor am I other than he whom I now seem to be. I am Russell
Trafford, in the full possession of my health. After my conviction and
sentence, you all know that I was locked up in the block-house, there
to be in durance vile until the day set apart for my execution. Some of
you know, likewise, that during my imprisonment, Kirby Kidd, and Wapawah
came to the block-house and asked the privilege of a private interview
with me. Their request was readily complied with, and the two scouts
were shown into my cell. As soon as they were left alone with me, they
announced their intention to save my life, if it could possibly be done
by artifice. Of course this was wholly unexpected to me, and, at first,
I was inclined to be incredulous. But they assured me it was no jest;
they had consulted and decided, and they had determined to save me if it
lay in their power to do so. Kidd declared that he would not have lifted
a hand in my favor, had he thought for a moment that I was the real
perpetrator of the crime; but he could not believe me guilty, and knew
he was doing right in case I was innocent. He told me his services had
already been solicited and engaged for executioner, and that that was
vastly in our favor.

“The stratagem resorted to was this: a leather strap was fastened firmly
around my shoulders, underneath my clothing, in such a manner that the
noose of the rope could be easily and quickly attached to it. By this
means the noose would be prevented from closing on my neck, and I would
hang by my shoulders instead.

“It is needless to tell you that this plan worked to a charm, for my
presence here to-day proves that it did. You will remember that it was
Kirby Kidd who proposed using a death-cap, and that he furnished the
article himself without consulting any one. This was to conceal my face
at the last moment, so that its very lifelike appearance would not betray
the ungenuineness of my death-struggles. At the time you thought the last
breath was forced from my body, I was suspended in comparative ease,
and was breathing as freely as any of you. Pretending to fear that the
mob would visit some foul indignity upon my body during the night that
followed, Kirby Kidd and Wapawah obtained permission to take charge of
the supposed corpse, and guard it until the next day. In the dead hours
of night we filled the coffin with a heavy stick of timber and some dirt,
and fastened the lid securely over them. Next day the funeral services
were performed over this stick of wood, with great solemnity, and almost
the entire population of our village followed these remains to their last
resting-place! I was kept closely hidden until my two friends procured
me the disguise which I have just cast off. On the third day after my
would-be execution, I made my appearance among you in the character of
a Yankee clock-peddler. I went to the house of Mr. Moreland on that
same day, and, finding Isabel alone, I disclosed my identity to her,
and explained all. I did not deem it safe to impart the secret to her
parents, though I think they had faith in my innocence.

“Isabel promised to meet me that night out in the glade where they had
made the grave for me. There I could lay aside my disguise and meet her
as of old. At a pretty late hour I repaired to the appointed place,
accompanied by Kidd, Wapawah and Robbins, who were to keep watch, and
warn us if anybody should chance to come that way during the few short
moments of our tryst. These three men stationed themselves in the
edge of the woods, while Isabel and I stood by the new-made grave and
conversed. It seems that this fellow, McCabe, was hanging about the place
at the same time. How he approached without attracting the attention of
the guards it is impossible to tell, but he did it somehow or other,
unless he was there before our arrival. The first intimation we had of
his presence was a loud oath, followed by a vow that somebody should
die if he had a hundred lives! I presume the “somebody” was myself,
for the next instant he came bounding toward me with pistol in hand.
Kirby Kidd was too quick for him, however, and caught him by the collar
before mischief could be done. While the scouts claimed his attention,
the lady and I quickly ensconced ourselves in a large hollow tree that
stood near by, and after trying to make him believe he had seen nothing,
they let him depart. We continued our meetings there night after night.
I knew the nature of McCabe too well to believe that he would subject
himself to ridicule by asserting that he had seen Russell Trafford, when
everybody would have sworn that I was dead. So we did not change our
trysting-place. Sometimes the three hunters would accompany us, but they
were often absent from the fort and could not.

“We did not know that anybody besides McCabe ever saw us there together,
but you all know that a report got afloat that Isabel was meeting a
stranger in the woods almost every night. Isabel herself was ignorant of
the existence of this report until the very last moment, on the evening
that she was to be taken away from her home. Noble and self-sacrificing
as ever, she suffered herself to be traduced rather than betray me. That
night, after the Morelands had gone to the river to embark on their brief
voyage, Isabel returned to the house on pretense of having forgotten some
small article. Her object in thus deceiving her parents was to keep her
appointment with me, and to tell me that she was going away—which she
did. But it so fell out that McCabe was again lurking about the glade
that evening, and he saw us as we sat side by side on the grave. He
discharged a rifle at us, but the ball went wide of the mark, and, under
cover of the smoke, we ran to the hollow tree that stands on the edge
of the glade, and hastily concealed ourselves in its ample cavity. He
searched for us for some time, but in vain. For fear he would find us,
I quickly donned my disguise and went forth from my hiding-place, to
throw him off the track. As Jonathan Boggs I confronted him, and made him
believe they were imaginary beings he had seen. When he was gone Isabel
joined me, and together we went to the river where her parents were
awaiting her. I obtained permission to make one of the emigrant-party,
and that is all I have to tell.”

For a moment after this explanation was ended that deep silence
continued. Then Mrs. Moreland clasped her wronged daughter in her
arms and began to weep hysterically, while the former friends of the
noble girl went forward to crave her pardon, and offer her their
congratulations.

This was but a signal for the men. In an instant cheer after cheer
rent the air, and the hardy settlers rushed forward in a body. Lifting
Russell Trafford upon their shoulders, they bore him round the spot with
shouts of joy, and the wildest confusion reigned. A great many, among
whom was Mr. Moreland, shook the hands of Kirby Kidd, Nick Robbins and
the Wyandott until the arms of the three champions ached from wrist to
shoulder.

The tumult soon subsided. Then Russell, after thanking all for their
manifestations of renewed friendship, joined the Moreland family and
received the blessings of his future parents-in-law. Isabel was once
more smiling and happy, and among those who had looked upon her with
scorn a few days before, not one asked her forgiveness in vain. Her
dark, luminous eyes beamed with unutterable love and tenderness upon her
affianced husband, and the rich color stained her beautiful face and neck
as he drew her arm through his, and began to walk up and down in the
background.

As soon as an opportunity offered, Nick Robbins stepped forward to
address the people. All guessed at once that he had something of
importance to say, though none could imagine what it was. Every tongue
was hushed, and every ear opened, as the grim old hunter took his
position. He gazed blankly at his audience for a moment, and then began
to speak.

“I ain’t got much to say,” he said, leaning on his rifle, “but I reckon
ye won’t ’spect much from sech as me. I’m goin’ to open yer peepers
ag’in, same as the young feller did. I don’t like to see ye surprised
so powerful bad, but then I calc’late the shock’ll be a leetle milder
this time, ’cause yer gittin’ used to it. Prepare yerselves now to see
somethin’ wonderful, an’ don’t git it into yer noddles ’ut yer in fairy
land, or any sech outlandish place.”

As he uttered the last words he dropped his gun, and straightened up. To
the astonishment of the lookers-on he then snatched off his coon-skin
cap, together with a wig of long hair and the bandage that had covered
his eye! Next he removed the patch from his cheek, the coarse red beard
from his chin, and then he quickly threw off his buck-skin garments.

In a single instant Nick Robbins had vanished, and _Doctor Trafford stood
revealed before the crowd_!




CHAPTER XVI.

ALL’S WELL THAT ENDS WELL.


For a moment the people stood aghast at this second revelation. But
it was only for a moment. The startling transformation of Jonathan
Boggs into Russell Trafford had prepared them for almost any change of
this description. When the first shock of surprise was over, the loud,
prolonged cheers burst forth again, and shouts and screams of joy,
amazement and congratulations, once more filled the air. The excited
pioneers gathered round the smiling doctor, as he pleasantly exchanged
salutations with one after another, and a hundred inquiries were
propounded to him in such rapid succession that he found it impossible to
answer any. The ugly, expressionless face of Nick Robbins, the hunter,
was gone, and in its place was the very expressive and finely-cut
features of Doctor Trafford, the man who all had supposed was long since
dead, burned alive in his bed.

The confusion of voices still continued, until the doctor requested the
crowd to fall back, and be still, that he might tell them what they were
clamoring to know.

The request answered the purpose. They widened the space around the
doctor, and quiet was once more restored.

“You need not stare at me as though I were superhuman,” began the
doctor. “I can explain to you clearly how it happened that I am still
alive, and how you were so easily deceived. On the night of the fire,
and supposed tragedy, I was not in the house at all. It was about the
hour of midnight, as you must recollect, and, being unable to sleep, I
had gone out to take a stroll in the open air, which some of you know
I frequently did. To be sure my chamber-door was locked, as Mike Terry
reported to McCabe, but that need not seem strange. I, being a prime
old bachelor, never left the house without first locking the door of my
private apartment, as I never could bear the thought of having my things
disturbed in my absence.

“After walking about until my nerves were so settled that I thought I
should have no further difficulty in winning the spirit of sleep, I
bent my steps toward home. But my approach was checked by the sight of
somebody prowling around the house. At first I thought it was my nephew,
the manner of his dress giving me the impression, but his singular
actions speedily convinced me that I was mistaken. I stood and watched
the man with some curiosity, wondering what he meant by sneaking around
my cabin at that late hour. He went clear around the house in a stooping
posture, and when he arrived at the point where I had first seen him, he
turned and ran away at the top of his speed. He came straight toward the
spot where I was standing. Moved by a sudden impulse, I jumped behind a
tree to let him pass without discovering me. The man approached swiftly
on tiptoe. I heard him breathing hard, as if with excitement, as he came
up. Somewhat to my alarm he stopped within three feet of my hiding-place,
and looked back. This pause in his flight was of scarcely more than a
moment’s duration, but that was enough. Within that moment I distinctly
heard him say:

“‘It is done—it is done! Doctor Trafford will never leave that house
alive! The deed will be imputed to his upstart of a nephew, and my
purpose will be accomplished!’

“The next instant he was gone. I had not recognized the fellow, nor his
voice, nor had I time to follow him before he was out of sight. A light,
flashing in my face, startled me. I looked toward my cabin, and saw that
it was in flames. I guessed the truth at once. The unknown had set fire
to the building for the purpose of burning me in my bed. The words I had
heard fall from his mouth convinced me of this fact, and, as I reflected,
I began to suspect that the would-be-murderer was Jim McCabe. I could
not think that this man had any direct cause to attempt my life, but I
knew that Russell was his rival in love, and I thought it quite probable
that he had chosen this circuitous way of getting rid of his rival.
The prowler had said, in my hearing, that I could not escape with my
life—that my nephew would receive the penalty of the deed—and that thus
his purpose would be accomplished. This led me to believe that the blow
was aimed at Russell, after all, indirect as it was.

“By this time there was an uproar all around me, and people were pouring
out of their homes to see the fire. I saw them gathering around the
burning structure, but I did not move. An idea struck me. I hastily
decided to steal away from the fort, and leave you all to suppose that
I was really roasted alive in my own house. Then I could return in
disguise, and hunt out the real perpetrator of that night’s work, nor
make myself known until I had proved his guilt. I went. By careful
maneuvering I managed to get outside of the stockade unseen, the sentry
at the gate having temporarily deserted his post at the alarm of fire.
Once beyond the limits of the fort, I felt that my flight was well
commenced. I then struck out in a southerly direction, and traveled many,
many weary miles toward the interior.

“At last I came upon a solitary hut in the woods. I found it occupied by
a good-natured old hunter, who gave me rest, shelter and food. Luckily,
I had met with the right man, for the old hunter furnished me with this
disguise, with which I have deceived you all. He told me it had been
of great service to him while acting in the capacity of spy, in the
French and Indian War, and amused me with the recital of many thrilling
adventures through which he had passed. Having assumed the appearance
of an old rover of the forest, and the name of Nick Robbins, I returned
to this place. I arrived here at the very hour that my nephew was to be
executed. I was astonished, and thought at first that I would have to
reveal myself in order to save him. But I did not. You will remember that
I ascended the scaffold, and talked with Kirby Kidd. He told me of the
artifice resorted to by which they hoped to save Russell’s life, and on
hearing that, I concluded to wear my disguise yet longer.

“When the hanging affair was over, I consigned myself assiduously to the
task of watching McCabe, and clearing the name of my innocent ward. How I
succeeded in my self-imposed mission you have been told. During all, only
four persons, besides myself, knew that I was other than what I seemed;
those four were Kirby Kidd and his Indian friend, Isabel Moreland and my
nephew.”

Doctor Trafford ended his explanation with this, and for some time
after he had ceased speaking, all seemed to be occupied with their own
thoughts. Then a raw-boned, bean-pole-looking individual, who could not
get the idea out of his head that he was in the presence of a ghost,
drawled out:

“That ’ere’s all very fine, doc., but how the de’il are you goin’ to
account for the skeleton we found in the ruins of your house?”

Doctor Trafford smiled.

“Why, sir,” he replied, “isn’t it quite natural that one of my profession
should have a human skeleton in his house? Moreover, had the bones been
mine, it is hardly probable that the flesh would have been entirely
consumed by the fire.”

This settled that point.

Now Jim McCabe once more became the center of attraction. Some of the
most vengeful cried out clamorously for his blood, and the majority were
in favor of hanging him on the spot, without any ceremony whatever. But
Mr. Moreland earnestly remonstrated against such a proceeding. He told
them there was no necessity for haste, and that the criminal should be
allowed time to repent before ushering him into the presence of his
Maker. Many were loth to wait, but none would disregard the wishes of the
speaker.

At this juncture, however, an incident occurred that put an end to the
disagreement. All the time that the revelations and explanations were
chaining the attention of the whole crowd, Jim McCabe had been struggling
desperately with the cords that bound him. Nobody had noticed him, and,
by the time Doctor Trafford finished his story, he ceased his squirming
and lay perfectly quiet.

All of a sudden he sprung to his feet with the agility of a panther, and
bounded into the open space in the midst of the crowd. Here he stood,
with limbs entirely free, glaring about him at the mass of people on
every side, his face deadly pale, his eyes bloodshot and his nostrils
distended.

“Ha! ha! ha!” he screamed, “did you think I would become an easy victim
to the tortures you propose to inflict upon me? I _did_ set fire to the
house of Doctor Trafford, and it _was_ for the purpose of having his
nephew die by the hand of the law. What of it? I shall deny nothing, nor
shall I attempt to escape your vengeance. But, hark ye! I shall not go
alone. There is one here who must go with me across the dark river!”

He whirled round, as he concluded his wild speech, and stood face to face
with Russell Trafford! Thrusting his hand into his breast, he drew forth
a glittering dagger, and flourished it over his head with a maniacal yell.

Then, before anybody could make an effort to detain the maddened brute,
he crouched down and made a flying leap toward young Trafford. For a
single instant his bending form was suspended in mid air—the next it fell
sprawling on the grass at the feet of the man he had intended to kill!
Almost before he touched the ground Jim McCabe was dead!

Then there were screams of affright from the females, mingled with shouts
of surprise and alarm from the males, and scores of excited men crowded
around the fallen wretch. In his death-spasm McCabe had turned over on
his back, in which position he now lay, his eyes fixed and glassy, his
features horribly distorted, and his brains slowly oozing out through a
small hole in his temple! Every one seemed struck with a feeling akin to
awe by the sad spectacle, and a profound silence ensued. It was broken
at length by the deep, solemn voice of Mr. Moreland, saying:

“God have mercy on his soul!”

But who had fired the fatal shot? The question, though unuttered, seemed
to strike the whole party at once, and all as of one accord, turned
their eyes to see which of their number had won the honor of saving
a fellow-creature’s life. Who can describe their astonishment and
admiration when they beheld Mike Terry standing a few yards away, with a
smoking pistol in his hand! _He_ it was who had snatched Russell Trafford
from the very jaws of a horrible death. The young man stepped up to him,
seized him by the hand and said, with much feeling:

“God bless you, Mike! You have done a noble act, and proved yourself a
true-hearted fellow after all.”

A great many others echoed these words, and the Irish boy was the hero
of the hour. The body of the miserable wretch, Jim McCabe, was now borne
away, and, shortly after, the crowd dispersed, and the people sought
their different homes, there to muse and remark on the extraordinary
events that had occurred in their midst.

Subsequently Doctor Trafford erected another and much larger cabin on
the spot where the first one had stood, and Mike Terry was once more
installed in his service, now more loved and trusted than ever before.
Russell and Isabel lived long and happily together, and in after years
were wont to gather their children’s children upon their knees, and tell
the story of the PHANTOM HUNTER.

                                 THE END.




DIME POCKET NOVELS.

PUBLISHED SEMI-MONTHLY, AT TEN CENTS EACH.


    =1=—=Hawkeye Harry.= By Oll Coomes.
    =2=—=Dead Shot.= By Albert W. Aiken.
    =3=—=The Boy Miners.= By Edward S. Ellis.
    =4=—=Blue Dick.= By Capt. Mayne Reid.
    =5=—=Nat Wolfe.= By Mrs. M. V. Victor.
    =6=—=The White Tracker.= Edward S. Ellis.
    =7=—=The Outlaw’s Wife.= Mrs. Ann S. Stephens.
    =8=—=The Tall Trapper.= By Albert W. Aiken.
    =9=—=Lightning Jo.= By Capt. Adams.
   =10=—=The Island Pirate.= By Capt. Mayne Reid.
   =11=—=The Boy Ranger.= By Oll Coomes.
   =12=—=Bess, the Trapper.= By E. S. Ellis.
   =13=—=The French Spy.= By W. J. Hamilton.
   =14=—=Long Shot.= By Capt. Comstock.
   =15=—=The Gunmaker.= By James L. Bowen.
   =16=—=Red Hand.= By A. G. Piper.
   =17=—=Ben, the Trapper.= By Lewis W. Carson.
   =18=—=Wild Raven.= By Oll Coomes.
   =19=—=The Specter Chief.= By Seelin Robins.
   =20=—=The B’ar-Killer.= By Capt. Comstock.
   =21=—=Wild Nat.= By Wm. H. Eyster.
   =22=—=Indian Jo.= By Lewis W. Carson.
   =23=—=Old Kent, the Ranger.= Edward S. Ellis.
   =24=—=The One-Eyed Trapper.= Capt. Comstock.
   =25=—=Godbold, the Spy.= By N. C. Iron.
   =26=—=The Black Ship.= By John S. Warner.
   =27=—=Single Eye.= By Warren St. John.
   =28=—=Indian Jim.= By Edward S. Ellis.
   =29=—=The Scout.= By Warren St. John.
   =30=—=Eagle Eye.= By W. J. Hamilton.
   =31=—=The Mystic Canoe.= By Edward S. Ellis.
   =32=—=The Golden Harpoon.= By R. Starbuck.
   =33=—=The Scalp King.= By Lieut. Ned Hunter.
   =34=—=Old Lute.= By E. W. Archer.
   =35=—=Rainbolt, Ranger.= By Oll Coomes.
   =36=—=The Boy Pioneer.= By Edward S. Ellis.
   =37=—=Carson, the Guide.= By J. H. Randolph.
   =38=—=The Heart Eater.= By Harry Hazard.
   =39=—=Wetzel, the Scout.= By Boynton Belknap.
   =40=—=The Huge Hunter.= By Ed. S. Ellis.
   =41=—=Wild Nat, the Trapper.= Paul Prescott.
   =42=—=Lynx-cap.= By Paul Bibbs.
   =43=—=The White Outlaw.= By Harry Hazard.
   =44=—=The Dog Trailer.= By Frederick Dewey.
   =45=—=The Elk King.= By Capt. Chas. Howard.
   =46=—=Adrian, the Pilot.= By Col. P. Ingraham.
   =47=—=The Man-hunter.= By Maro O. Rolfe.
   =48=—=The Phantom Tracker.= By F. Dewey.
   =49=—=Moccasin Bill.= By Paul Bibbs.
   =50=—=The Wolf Queen.= By Charles Howard.
   =51=—=Tom Hawk, the Trailer.=
   =52=—=The Mad Chief.= By Chas. Howard.
   =53=—=The Black Wolf.= By Edwin E. Ewing.
   =54=—=Arkansas Jack.= By Harry Hazard.
   =55=—=Blackbeard.= By Paul Bibbs.
   =56=—=The River Rifles.= By Billex Muller.
   =57=—=Hunter Ham.= By J. Edgar Iliff.
   =58=—=Cloudwood.= By J. M. Merrill.
   =59=—=The Texas Hawks.= By Jos. E. Badger, Jr.
   =60=—=Merciless Mat.= By Capt. Chas. Howard.
   =61=—=Mad Anthony’s Scouts.= By E. Rodman.
   =62=—=The Luckless Trapper.= Wm. R. Eyster.
   =63=—=The Florida Scout.= Jos. E. Badger, Jr.
   =64=—=The Island Trapper.= Chas. Howard.
   =65=—=Wolf-Cap.= By Capt. Chas. Howard.
   =66=—=Rattling Dick.= By Harry Hazard.
   =67=—=Sharp-Eye.= By Major Max Martine.
   =68=—=Iron-Hand.= By Frederick Forest.
   =69=—=The Yellow Hunter.= By Chas. Howard.
   =70=—=The Phantom Rider.= By Maro O. Rolfe.
   =71=—=Delaware Tom.= By Harry Hazard.
   =72=—=Silver Rifle.= By Capt. Chas. Howard.
   =73=—=The Skeleton Scout.= Maj. L. W. Carson.
   =74=—=Little Rifle.= By Capt. “Bruin” Adams.
   =75=—=The Wood Witch.= By Edwin Emerson.
   =76=—=Old Ruff, the Trapper.= “Bruin” Adams.
   =77=—=The Scarlet Shoulders.= Harry Hazard.
   =78=—=The Border Rifleman.= L. W. Carson.
   =79=—=Outlaw Jack.= By Harry Hazard.
   =80=—=Tiger-Tail, the Seminole.= R. Ringwood.
   =81=—=Death-Dealer.= By Arthur L. Meserve.
   =82=—=Kenton, the Ranger.= By Chas. Howard
   =83=—=The Specter Horseman.= Frank Dewey.
   =84=—=The Three Trappers.= Seelin Robins.
   =85=—=Kaleolah.= By T. Benton Shields, U. S. N.
   =86=—=The Hunter Hercules.= Harry St. George.
   =87=—=Phil Hunter.= By Capt. Chas. Howard.
   =88=—=The Indian Scout.= By Harry Hazard.
   =89=—=The Girl Avenger.= By Chas. Howard.
   =90=—=The Red Hermitess.= By Paul Bibbs.
   =91=—=Star-Face, the Slayer.=
   =92=—=The Antelope Boy.= By Geo. L. Aiken.
   =93=—=The Phantom Hunter.= By E. Emerson.
   =94=—=Tom Pintle, the Pilot.= By M. Klapp.
   =95=—=The Red Wizard.= By Ned Hunter.
   =96=—=The Rival Trappers.= By L. W. Carson.
   =97=—=The Squaw Spy.= By Capt. Chas. Howard.
   =98=—=Dusky Dick.= By Jos. E. Badger, Jr.
   =99=—=Colonel Crockett.= By Chas. E. Lasalle.
  =100=—=Old Bear Paw.= By Major Max Martine.
  =101=—=Redlaw.= By Jos. E. Badger, Jr.
  =102=—=Wild Rube.= By W. J. Hamilton.
  =103=—=The Indian Hunters.= By J. L. Bowen.
  =104=—=Scarred Eagle.= By Andrew Dearborn.
  =105=—=Nick Doyle.= By P. Hamilton Myers.
  =106=—=The Indian Spy.= By Jos. E. Badger, Jr.
  =107=—=Job Dean.= By Ingoldsby North,
  =108=—=The Wood King.= By Jos. E. Badger, Jr.
  =109=—=The Scalped Hunter.= By Harry Hazard.
  =110=—=Nick, the Scout.= By W. J. Hamilton.
  =111=—=The Texas Tiger.= By Edward Willett.
  =112=—=The Crossed Knives.= By Hamilton.
  =113=—=Tiger-Heart, the Tracker.= By Howard.
  =114=—=The Masked Avenger.= By Ingraham.
  =115=—=The Pearl Pirates.= By Starbuck.
  =116=—=Black Panther.= By Jos. E. Badger, Jr.
  =117=—=Abdiel, the Avenger.= By Ed. Willett.
  =118=—=Cato, the Creeper.= By Fred. Dewey.
  =119=—=Two-Handed Mat.= By Jos. E. Badger.
  =120=—=Mad Trail Hunter.= By Harry Hazard.
  =121=—=Black Nick.= By Frederick Whittaker.
  =122=—=Kit Bird.= By W. J. Hamilton.
  =123=—=The Specter Riders.= By Geo. Gleason.
  =124=—=Giant Pete.= By W. J. Hamilton.
  =125=—=The Girl Captain.= By Jos. E. Badger.
  =126=—=Yankee Eph.= By J. R. Worcester.
  =127=—=Silverspur.= By Edward Willett.
  =128=—=Squatter Dick.= By Jos. E. Badger.
  =129=—=The Child Spy.= By George Gleason.
  =130=—=Mink Coat.= By Jos. E. Badger.
  =131=—=Red Plume.= By J. Stanley Henderson.
  =132=—=Clyde, the Trailer.= By Maro O. Rolfe.
  =133=—=The Lost Cache.= J. Stanley Henderson.
  =134=—=The Cannibal Chief.= Paul J. Prescott.
  =135=—=Karaibo.= By J. Stanley Henderson.
  =136=—=Scarlet Moccasin.= By Paul Bibbs.
  =137=—=Kidnapped.= By J. Stanley Henderson.
  =138=—=Maid of the Mountain.= By Hamilton.
  =139=—=The Scioto Scouts.= By Ed. Willett.
  =140=—=The Border Renegade.= By Badger.
  =141=—=The Mute Chief.= By C. D. Clark.
  =142=—=Boone, the Hunter.= By Whittaker.
  =143=—=Mountain Kate.= By Jos. E. Badger, Jr.
  =144=—=The Red Scalper.= By W. J. Hamilton.
  =145=—=The Lone Chief.= By Jos. E. Badger, Jr.
  =146=—=The Silver Bugle.= Lieut. Col. Hazleton.
  =147=—=Chinga, the Cheyenne.= By E. S. Ellis.
  =148=—=The Tangled Trail.= By Major Martine.
  =149=—=The Unseen Hand.= By J. S. Henderson.
  =150=—=The Lone Indian.= By Capt. C. Howard.
  =151=—=The Branded Brave.= By Paul Bibbs.
  =152=—=Billy Bowlegs, The Seminole Chief.=
  =153=—=The Valley Scout.= By Seelin Robins.
  =154=—=Red Jacket.= By Paul Bibbs.
  =155=—=The Jungle Scout.= Ready
  =156=—=Cherokee Chief.= Ready
  =157=—=The Bandit Hermit.= Ready
  =158=—=The Patriot Scouts.= Ready
  =159=—=The Wood Rangers.=
  =160=—=The Red Foe.= Ready
  =161=—=The Beautiful Unknown.=
  =162=—=Canebrake Mose.= Ready
  =163=—=Hank, the Guide.= Ready
  =164=—=The Border Scout.= Ready

BEADLE AND ADAMS, Publishers, 98 William Street, New York.