The sign of the prophet : A tale of Tecumseh and Tippecanoe

By J. B. Naylor

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Title: The sign of the prophet
        A tale of Tecumseh and Tippecanoe


Author: J. B. Naylor

Release date: December 1, 2023 [eBook #72275]

Language: English

Original publication: New York: The Saalfield Publishing Company, 1901

Credits: Carlos Colon, Trent University Library and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive)


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE SIGN OF THE PROPHET ***





SIGN OF THE PROPHET




                               THE SIGN OF
                               THE PROPHET

                            A TALE OF TECUMSEH
                              AND TIPPECANOE

                              [Illustration]

                                    BY
                            James Ball Naylor
                       _Author of “RALPH MARLOWE”_

                               AKRON, OHIO
                     THE SAALFIELD PUBLISHING COMPANY
                       NEW YORK    1901     CHICAGO

                             COPYRIGHT, 1901,
                                    BY
                     THE SAALFIELD PUBLISHING COMPANY

                                 MADE BY
                            THE WERNER COMPANY
                            BOOK MANUFACTURERS
                               AKRON, OHIO




TO

SAMUEL G. McCLURE


_of The Ohio State Journal, who encouraged my early literary endeavors,
this book is gratefully dedicated_.

_Very Truly,_

_JAMES BALL NAYLOR_




THE SIGN OF THE PROPHET




CHAPTER I.


It was a hot, sultry morning in the latter part of August, 1811.

A dugout canoe containing two occupants was swiftly speeding down the
Scioto, at a point near which the city of Columbus now stands.

The clear green water wimpled musically at the bow of the vessel, and a
frothy wake bubbled and eddied at the stern. The surface of the stream
lay cool and dark in the shadow of the overhanging trees; but where the
red rays of the rising sun shot through the dense foliage and fell upon
the pulseless bosom of the sluggish tide, they gave it the metallic
luster of burnished copper. Great trees ranged themselves as stalwart
sentinels along the shores, a part of the grand army that stretched away
to the far distance on either hand. Their leaves were dark-green and
glossy. Yellow and purple wild flowers lifted their fair faces to the
morning sun and nodded a welcome. Feathered songsters fluttered among
the gray boughs and chirped and warbled merrily. A venturesome fish
popped several feet out of the water—just ahead of the swiftly flying
dugout—and flashed its silver scales in a tantalizing manner.

The occupants of the canoe gave little heed to the beauties of the scene.
Seated in the bottom of their quivering, rocking craft, they rapidly
and rhythmically dipped their light paddles. At each stroke the frail
vessel lifted itself and sprang forward, like a thing of life. The forest
receded from the western bank of the river, and low-lying fields of
tall, rank corn took its place. Walled in by the growing maize, lay the
straggling village of Franklinton—a cluster of rude log-huts. Cleared
spaces appeared in the woods upon the eastern shore; and several cabins
stood out against the background of encircling trees—the germ, the
nucleus of the Capital City of to-day.

The two paddlers looked neither to the right, nor to the left, but
laboriously bent to their work. Suddenly a man parted the bushes upon the
western shore and, stepping down to the water’s edge, called lustily:

“Hello! That you, Ross Douglas?”

“Yes,” answered the man in the stern of the dugout. “What do you want?”

Both paddlers ceased their efforts and allowed the craft to drift with
the lazy current.

“W’y, y’r dog come to my cabin this mornin’—all wet an’ draggled as
though he’d swum the river,” returned the voice from the shore. “He
’peared to be tuckered out an’ hungry—an’ went whinin’ ’round as if he
was huntin’ fer you. I fed him, an’ then tied him up in the cabin. Do
you want him?”

The paddler in the bow of the canoe turned his head and looked at his
companion, at the same time uttering a grunt of surprise and incredulity.

“You may keep him until I come back,” called the man who had answered to
the name of Ross Douglas, lifting his paddle and preparing to resume his
journey.

“Hold on there, Ross!”—shouted the individual on shore. “What do you
mean—where’re you goin’?”

“Going to join General Harrison’s army at Vincennes.”

And the suspended paddles dipped, and the dugout leaped forward.

“Stop, I say!” bellowed the man who had hailed the voyagers, running
along the shelving sands and gesticulating wildly. “Ross Douglas, you
ain’t a goin’ to run off like that an’ leave an ol’ friend, without
shakin’ his paw an’ biddin’ him good-by—I’m danged if you are! Stop, ’r
I’ll send a bullet spinnin’ out there—I will, by Sally Matildy!”

“But I’m in a hurry,” Douglas laughed good-humoredly.

“It don’t make no differ’nce,” persisted the other. “Come in here.”

“Turn the prow toward shore, Bright Wing,” Douglas said in a low tone to
his companion.

“Ugh!” grunted the latter—and obeyed.

A few moments later the canoe beached itself and the two paddlers
sprang ashore. The one who had occupied the bow of the craft was an
Indian—young, lithe, and strong. His forehead was high and narrow; his
nose, slightly aquiline. His eyes were small, black, and piercing; his
brawny chest and muscular arms were bare. His straight, blue-black
hair—braided and ornamented with beads and perforated shells and
coins—reached his waist. Breeches, leggings, and moccasins of tanned
buckskin constituted his dress. In his belt were tomahawk and
scalping-knife; and he carried a heavy rifle. He belonged to the Wyandot
tribe, and was an adopted son of the noble chief, Leatherlips.

The Indian’s companion was an American—tall, active, and sinewy. His
complexion was swarthy; his steel-gray eyes were bold and keen. But the
stern cast they gave to his countenance was relieved by a pair of smiling
lips, indicating gentleness and great good-nature. A mass of soft brown
hair clustered in short ringlets about his temples and rippled down upon
his broad shoulders. The well-fitting suit of buckskin that he wore
revealed the rounded contour of his shapely limbs; and the broad-brimmed
soft hat that surmounted his silky curls set off his dark beauty to the
best advantage. His weapons were of the finest workmanship, and gave
evidence of the loving care their owner bestowed upon them. Apparently he
was about twenty-eight years old.

The man who had hailed the two voyagers—and whom they now stood
facing—was a typical backwoodsman of middle age. His face was
oppressively ugly—prominent nose, wide mouth, and pale-blue, watery eyes.
His hair was scant and straw-colored; his body and limbs, were long,
lank, and ungainly. His garb was in keeping with his character—hunting
shirt and breeches of coarse linsey-woolsey, heavy cowhide boots, and
peaked fur-cap. He was a grotesque, incongruous bundle of bones and
sinews—a whimsical, eccentric hunter and trapper. But a more valiant,
loyal, and loving heart, than Joe Farley had, never beat in man’s bosom.

Now he stood leaning upon his long rifle, a quizzical smile illuminating
his rugged features.

“What do you want, Joe?” Douglas demanded briskly.

“Want to know where you’re bound fer,” came the drawling reply.

“I told you—to Vincennes, to join Harrison’s army,” Ross answered, a
shade of annoyance in his tone.

“You don’t mean it?”

“But I do.”

“Is the Injin goin’, too?”

“Ugh! Me go, too,” said the redman, drawing himself up proudly.

“Seems to me it’s goin’ to be a strange sort o’ war,” Farley chuckled
dryly. “Injins an’ white men on one side—an’ white men an’ Injins on
t’other. ’Cause that’s what it’s comin’ to. The danged Britishers has
got the’r fingers in the pie ag’in—an’ ther’ ain’t no tellin’ where the
thing ’ll stop. So, Bright Wing, you’re goin’ out to fight ag’in your own
people, are you?”

“_Not_ my people,” grunted the Indian, his black eyes flashing. “_Me_
Wyandot—me fight Shawnees.”

“It don’t make no differ’nce—they’ve got red skins,” Joe remarked.

“Ugh! You much big fool!”

And the impulsive young warrior’s hand involuntarily sought the handle of
his tomahawk.

Farley’s face flushed, and he cried sharply:

“Keep y’r hand off y’r hatchet, redskin. That’s a game two can play at.”

Quickly Douglas stepped between the two and, turning upon Farley, said
sternly:

“Joe, you may not _be_ a fool, but you’re acting the part of one, at any
rate. You know as well as I that the Wyandots are the friends of the
Americans, that the Shawnees are the allies of the British. Of course,
there are traitors in both tribes; but what I have stated is true in the
main. Bright Wing is my comrade—your friend. If you’re a man, you’ll beg
his pardon.”

“An’ that’s jest what I’m goin’ to do,” Farley shamefacedly muttered.
“’Pears that I’ll never git to understandin’ Injins. They’re so _danged_
touchy.”—This in an aggrieved tone.—“But I had no business to be
tormentin’ Bright Wing—he’s a redskin with a white man’s heart in his
breast. Injin, here’s my hand. I didn’t mean to hurt y’r feelin’s.”

“All right—me know,” murmured Bright Wing in guttural accents.

Then he moved aside and seated himself upon the prow of the canoe.

“Now, Joe, we must be off,” Ross began hurriedly.

“You mean what you’ve said—you’re goin’ to jine the army?” Farley
interrupted.

Douglas nodded.

“Goin’ to leave y’r land an’ everything an’ go off to fight Injins—an’
Britishers, maybe?”

“The land will keep,” Ross laughed. “Little good it does me, at any rate.
I have never cut a stick of timber upon it.”

“That’s what I mean,” replied the other earnestly. “You ort to stay an’
clear it up an’ make a home of it. Quit y’r huntin’ an’ traipsin’ ’round
with such fellers as me an’ Bright Wing, an’ settle down. It don’t make
much differ’nce what _I_ do. But you’ve got book learnin’ an’ good sense.
You’re wastin’ y’r time.”

“I’m well pleased with the life I lead, Joe.”

“That’s jest the trouble—you’re _too_ well pleased with it.”

“I promise you I’ll reform when I return.”

“An’ you’re goin’ away an’ leave that little sweetheart o’ your’n?”

“You mean Amy Larkin?”

“Of course.”

“Yes, I must leave her. But I shall be back soon—in a few months,
perhaps. Then I’ll marry her and settle down—become a model husbandman.”

“You’re puttin’ off till to-morrer what you ort to do to-day.”

“What do you mean, Joe?”

“You know ol’ man Larkin don’t like you none too well—jest on account o’
y’r shiftless ways, as he calls it?”

“I am aware that he doesn’t look upon me as a promising son-in-law—yes.”

“An’ he _does_ think a heap o’ George Hilliard?”

“Y-e-s.”

“Well, you won’t be gone a month till George Hilliard ’ll be standin’ in
y’r shoes.”

“I have no fears on that score.”

“All right!—but you’ll see. Gals is gals—they’re all false an’ fickle. A
bird in the hand’s worth two in the bush, Ross. You’d better stay here
an’ be gittin’ a cage ready fer y’r bird. Ol’ Sam Larkin’s got a heap
o’ good land—an’ a heap more money. He’s rich. An’ Amy’s a purty nice
gal—an’ the only child. You don’t want to let all that slip through y’r
fingers, my boy.”

“You’re talking nonsense, Joe. Amy loves me—she don’t care a fig for
George Hilliard. I’ll marry her on my return, with or without her
father’s consent. Hilliard is a Canadian—an English sympathizer. Mr.
Larkin will not forget that. Besides, if we have another war with Great
Britain—as appears likely—this neighborhood will become too warm for the
forehanded George. I care nothing for Amy’s prospective fortune, but I
love her. And I’m going to marry her, no matter who may oppose.”

The young man’s chest heaved, and defiance to the whole world shone in
his gray eyes.

“It’s a good thing to have plenty o’ grit an’ confidence,” Farley
chuckled; “but ther’s a chance o’ havin’ too much o’ even a _good_
thing—I swan ther’ is! An’ lawzee! Hain’t I had the ’xperience? Many’s
the purty, rosy-cheeked gals I could ’ave got in my younger days. W’y,
they used to tag after me an’ pester me ’most to death. I’ve had more’n
a dozen of ’em dead in love with me at one time—fairly scratchin’ each
other’s eyes out, quar’lin’ ’bout which one ’ld git me. All of ’em
love-sick over my beauty—my purty form an’ features. But I jest stuck
my nose up in the air an’ passed ’em by. An’ see me to-day! I’m an
everlastin’ warnin’—a livin’ monument to disap’inted love an’ dangnation
foolishness. Ther’ ain’t a piece o’ linsey-woolsey in the whole
settlement that’ll even look—Snakes an’ garters! What’s that?”

Both white men started. The Indian stolidly maintained his position upon
the prow of the canoe; but his ready finger rested upon the trigger of
his gun. A heavy body came crashing through the weeds and bushes upon
the bank. Then the vines and branches parted; and, with a hoarse yelp of
joy, a large dog sprang into the open and crouched at Douglas’s feet. He
was a magnificent black-and-tan animal, lithe and strong as a panther—an
immense bloodhound. He was wet and muddy; and as he lay at his master’s
feet, he rolled his red-rimmed eyes and panted and whined. A piece of
thong was about his neck, to which was fastened a short sharpened stake.

“Well, if that don’t beat my reckonin’!” bawled Farley, opening his wide
mouth and hawhawing heartily. “How in the name o’ Julius Cæsar did that
dog ever git loose? That stake was druv in the hard floor o’ my shack,
deep enough to hold a bull—it was, by the Queen o’ Sheba! An’ he’s pulled
it up. But how in the plague did he git out o’ the cabin? Must ’ave
crawled up the chimbly—by cracky! ’Cause I latched the door as I come
out—I’m certain of it. Dang-it-all-to-dingnation! But it does beat all!”

The dog now attempted to raise his head and lick his master’s hand.
Failing in this, he slowly arose to his feet, tremulously wagged his
tail, and beseechingly fastened his eyes upon Ross’s face. Then he whined.

“Down, Duke!” Douglas commanded sternly.

The dog obeyed; but rolled his great eyes upward toward the being he
loved and worshiped, as though begging pardon for his misconduct.

“Joe, I want you to take him back to your cabin and keep him until I
return. I tried to run away from him this morning, but he has trailed
me—although I traveled by water. I left him at the Wyandot village above
here. Take him away, Joe; I can’t bear to leave while he’s looking at me
like that.”

And there was a quaver in Ross Douglas’s voice.

“Duke him much good dog—him heap big brave,” volunteered Bright Wing,
nodding vigorously.

“Quick, Joe—take him away,” Ross said huskily.

“I ain’t a-goin’ to do it,” replied Farley, with a stubborn shake of the
head.

“Why?” Ross inquired in surprise.

“’Cause the dog loves you an’ ort to go with you—that’s why. He’ll jest
natur’ly pine away an’ die if you leave him behind you.”

“But I can’t take him with me,” Douglas argued; “he would be in the
way—he would get himself and me into trouble.”

“Ther’s another reason why I won’t take him back to my cabin,” Joe
remarked, his pale eyes twinkling.

“What is it?”

“Jest this: If you’re goin’ to war, I’m goin’ with you. I hain’t got a
chick n’r child to leave—an’ I’m goin’.”

“You?”

“Yes.”

“With Bright Wing and me?”

“Fer sure.”

“I thought you were opposed to my going?”

“I was—an’ I am yit. But if you go, I go, too.”

“Perhaps we don’t desire your company.”

A smile fluttered about the corners of Ross’s mouth.

“It don’t make no differ’nce,” was the dogged reply; “I’m goin’ anyhow.
So move y’r things ’round in the dugout an’ make room fer us. I’m all
ready. Ding-it-all-to-dangnation! I can’t stay here an’ see you go—an’ I
_won’t_.”

“Shall we take him, Bright Wing?” Douglas mischievously inquired.

“Ugh!” exploded the Indian. “Joe him got heap long gun—him shoot much
straight. Him go. Three braves kill sight more bad Shawnees than two. Joe
go.”

“Very well,” Ross said slowly, with assumed reluctance in his tone, “you
shall go, Joe. Is there anything you want to bring from your hut?”

“Nothin’.”—With a decided shake of the head.

“In you go, then—and let’s be off.”

A few minutes later there were “three men in the boat—not counting the
dog,”—and they were moving rapidly down the stream, in the shade of the
overhanging trees. When some two or three miles below the village of
Franklinton, Douglas addressed a few words in the Wyandot tongue, to the
Indian, who again occupied the bow of the canoe. Bright Wing nodded and
immediately turned the prow toward a little cove upon the eastern shore.
A moment later the boat grated upon the sandy beach, and Ross sprang
ashore.

“Keep Duke with you,” he cried as he ran lightly up the bank. “I’ll not
be gone long.”

“Say! wher’ you goin’ now?” Farley called after him. But the young man
did not deign to reply.

“I was a fool to ask the question,” Joe muttered to himself. “Might
’ave knowed he was goin’ to bid his sweetheart good-by. I jest fergot
fer a minute we was opposite to ol’ Sam Larkin’s place. Down, Duke, an’
behave y’rself. Y’r master don’t need you in this affair. Oh, jeminy—no!
Two’s company an’ three’s a congregation, when it comes to love-makin’.
Hain’t I been through it, hey? Gol-fer-ginger! What a heart-breaker I
was! S’pect I’ll never git fergiveness fer the way I’ve used the women.
Dang-it-all-to-dingnation! W’en a man begins to git old, his youthful
sins an’ follies all comes back to him. Mine ha’nts me o’ nights till
I can’t sleep. An’ I can’t eat, neither. First thing I know I’ll worry
an’ fret over the cruel way I’ve used the women folks, till my beauty’ll
begin to fade—an’ like as not peter out entirely. An’ I wouldn’t ’ave
_that_ happen fer nothin’. Gol-fer-socks _no_! Say, Injin, ’ave you got
any tobacker?”

Without a word Bright Wing opened the pouch at his side and gave
the lugubrious Farley a handful of tobacco. The latter filled his
short-stemmed pipe, lighted it, and puffed away in silence for some time.

The bloodhound lay watching the place where his master had disappeared.
Presently he half arose, shook his pendulous ears and growled ominously.
Then, ere he could be restrained, he leaped from the canoe and dashed up
the bank, into the woods. With an exclamation of surprise and anger, Joe
stumbled ashore and set out in pursuit of the dog, closely followed by
Bright Wing.

On leaving his friends, Ross Douglas entered the forest and hurried
along a dim path, until he reached the edge of a clearing a few hundred
yards from the river. In the center of this cleared space, and upon a
slight elevation of ground, stood a double log-cabin with a hall or
passage between the two rooms. The house stood facing the river; and the
doors and windows were open. Back of the building was a field of corn
surrounded by a fence of brush and poles, and in front of it lay a small
patch of potatoes and garden vegetables.

Ross shaded his eyes with his hand and looked from his cool retreat,
across the sun-baked clearing, toward the cabin. Presently a face
appeared at one of the small windows. Douglas stepped forward and
beckoned. Then he hastily sprang back among the trees. The face quickly
disappeared from the window; and a few seconds later a young woman
emerged from the door and tripped nimbly down the path leading to the
fringe of woodland along the river-shore. She was neatly clad. Her frock
was of linsey-woolsey; her shoes were of calfskin. A wide-brimmed straw
hat set jauntily upon her brown hair added to the piquancy of her fair
oval face. Her cheeks were rosy; her teeth, white, and even.

Entering the wood she called softly:

“Ross, where are you?”

“Here, Amy,” he answered in a low joyful tone, stepping from his place of
concealment and hurrying toward her.

With a glad cry she sprang into his outstretched arms, and hid her
blushing face upon his shoulder. For a full minute he strained her to his
breast, and neither spoke. When at last she raised her face it was wet
with tears; and a catch was in her voice as she said:

“And you are going, Ross?”

“I must go, darling,” he replied softly.

“Why must you go and leave me here alone?” she cried. “Why must you run
into danger, Ross? Stay here with me—please do! You may never come back.”

“There—there, little one!” he whispered soothingly. “Of course, I shall
come back. Then we’ll be married; and I’ll settle down on my piece of
land and never leave you again.”

“But you may—may get—killed,” she sobbed.

“I must take my chances along with others, Amy,” he answered firmly. “I
feel that it’s my duty to go.”

“I—I can’t understand——” she began.

“It’s like this,” he interrupted as he seated her upon a mossy log and
placed his arm around her waist. “Seventeen years ago—when you were a
baby—General Wayne made a treaty with the Indian tribes at Greenville.
That treaty has protected the border-settlements until now. The savages
have kept to themselves and left the white settlers unmolested. And
the vanguard of civilization has moved rapidly and steadily toward the
setting sun. But now all is changed. The British are again encouraging
the Indians to take up arms against the Americans. Tecumseh and his
brother, the Prophet, are doing all in their power to form an Indian
confederacy that will be able to drive the Americans from the Ohio and
Mississippi valleys. Tecumseh is brave and ambitious; the Prophet, cruel
and cunning. Already they have aroused the redmen to a pitch of frenzy
that threatens the safety of every border-settlement—including this.
General Harrison is forming an army at Vincennes, to march against the
allied tribes. I know the woods—am acquainted with the Indian mode of
warfare. I can render service to my country—my people. I must go, Amy.”

She had dried her tears. Now she kissed him and said coaxingly:

“Please—_please_ don’t go! Stay here and—and—marry me—_now_.”

“You little siren—you little traitor!” he laughed, playfully patting her
cheek. “With your enchantment you would win me from the path of duty. You
tempt me sorely—but it may not be. Duty calls——”

“Oh, duty—duty!” she cried, impatiently stamping her small foot and
pouting her red lips. “Do you care more for _duty_ than you do for _me_?”

“That’s not fair, Amy,” he said gravely. “You know that I love you
dearly—better than I love anyone else in the wide world. You should be a
brave little woman and help me to do the right. Besides, if I should play
the poltroon and stay here, you yourself would despise me for a miserable
coward—a mean wretch unworthy of a good woman’s love and respect.”

He stopped to note the effect of his words. She hung her head and blushed
deeply. But whether with shame or anger he could not tell. He waited for
her to speak; but she said nothing. He continued:

“At any rate, your father wouldn’t consent to our marriage, and you
wouldn’t be willing to wed me without his permission.”

The young woman lifted her head. Her face brightened, paying her hand
caressingly upon his knee, she murmured faintly:

“Father wouldn’t oppose our marriage, Ross, if you would quit your roving
ways, give up your Indian friends and rough associates, and settle down
to work. He thinks you shiftless—that you wouldn’t provide well for
me—would never accumulate anything.”

Douglas’s handsome face flushed hotly as he asked:

“Is that all the reason your father had for ordering me from his door and
forbidding me to speak to you?”

She was silent for a moment. Then she replied hesitatingly:

“Y-e-s—the main reason.”

“And the others?”

His voice was hard and cold. She dropped her lids, but did not answer.

“Amy, tell me,” he cried almost fiercely, catching her wrist in his firm
grasp.

“He says you—you don’t—know who your father was,” she faltered.

He sprang to his feet, his face aflame.

“It’s a base lie!” he began. Then he set his teeth and paused a moment to
regain control of himself. Presently he resumed in quiet, even tones:

“Amy, it’s a mistake. I know who my father was—or is, if he be alive.
I’m no illegitimate child. My mother’s husband was John Douglas, an
intelligent but dissipated and unprincipled man, who abused her—and
finally deserted her, shortly after I was born. Her health rapidly
failed; and she died when I was but a child, leaving me to the care of
her brother, a roving and adventurous fur-trader. This uncle wandered
from tribe to tribe, bartering arms, blankets, and trinkets, for
peltries. On one of these trading trips he took me with him—when I was
eight years old—and left me with the Wyandots, while he proceeded on
his journey. For four years I remained with the savages. They were kind
to me. I learned their ways; I played with the youth of the tribe. I
absorbed their ideas, manners, and customs—I fell in love with the wild,
free life of the redmen. Then my uncle again put in an appearance, and,
taking me with him, returned to the East.

“There he placed me in school; and again disappeared. Eight years passed;
and in all that time I saw nothing of my relative—my guardian. At last
came word that he was dead—and that I was penniless. I left school.
My soul hungered for love and sympathy. I was fatherless—motherless.
Of acquaintances, I had many; of warm, helpful friends, I had none.
I thought of my old friends, the Wyandots. I made my way westward,
rejoined them—and was received with open arms. But a change had come
over me. I had the instinct and tastes of a hunter—but I was no longer
a young savage. For a time I lived with the Wyandots; but I spent my
time in hunting and in trading among the red hunters of Ohio and the
lakes. I made money. I learned three or four Indian tongues—I acquainted
myself with all the arts and wiles of the different tribes. But at
last the white blood in my veins asserted itself. I began to long for
the companionship of my own people. So I established myself here at
Franklinton and took up land. But I have continued to trade among the
Indians—I have retained the friendship of the Wyandots. I have made more
money in one month than your father and George Hilliard have made in
twelve. A year ago I met and loved you. It’s needless to say more—you
know the rest.”

She had been watching his face intently and drinking in every word he
said. Now she clasped her hands and murmured pleadingly:

“Oh, Ross! If only you will tell father what you have told me, all will
be well. He’ll give his consent to our marriage—I know he will.”

“As soon as I return, I’ll do so, Amy.”

“No—no!” she pouted prettily. “_Now_ is the time. Come to the house with
me at once.”

“I cannot, dear. Be patient a little while. As you say—all will be well.”

Quickly arising to her feet and catching him by the arm, she cried
playfully:

“You _shall_ not go. See—I’ll hold you.”

He bent and kissed her. Then slipping his arm around her yielding waist
he remarked:

“Amy, there is another reason why I should go to fight against the allied
tribes. Leatherlips, the foster-father of Bright Wing, was one of my
steadfast friends. As you know, he was brutally murdered a year ago last
June, at the instigation of the Shawnee Prophet. His death should be
avenged.”

A startled look crept into her eyes, and involuntarily she shrunk from
him as she whispered tremulously:

“Ross—Ross! Surely you don’t mean to do murder! You’re not an Indian. I’m
almost afraid of you.”

With a merry laugh he caught her to him and answered:

“What a timid little body you are, Amy. Of course I don’t mean to do
murder. But I _do_ mean that the Prophet shall be shorn of his power
to do further mischief, to commit further acts of violence—and that I
should help to do it. And”—in a low, fierce tone—“if ever I meet him in
open battle one of us will die. Bid me good-by now. I must be going—my
comrades are waiting for me.”

But she burst into tears and clung to him, sobbing:

“Don’t go—don’t go, Ross! For some reason I feel—that you will not come
back—to me, that I shall—shall be forced to—to marry George Hilliard.”

“There—there, child!” he interrupted soothingly. “Now dry your eyes and
kiss me farewell. Indeed I am tarrying too long.”

She drew herself erect and, dashing aside the tears that blinded her,
said icily:

“In spite of all I have said and done, you’re going, are you?”

“I’ve told you over and over that I _must_ go, Amy,” he replied sadly.

“Then go!” she cried angrily. “It shows how much you think of me—to leave
me here in a hell upon earth—without a mother to sympathize with me or
advise me. I will marry George Hilliard at once—and have done with it.”

“Amy! Amy!” he whispered reprovingly. “You don’t mean that; you’re angry.
Wait——”

The sentence was left unfinished. It was cut short with a suddenness that
almost took away Douglas’s breath. By an unseen and unexpected power, the
lovers were caught and violently flung apart. Two armed men stood between
them. One was a tall, raw-boned man whose hatchet face was outlined by
a mane of iron-gray hair. The other was younger—short, thick-set, and
red-faced.

The older man’s countenance was livid with rage. His lips worked—but no
words came forth. At last he managed to articulate:

“Git off my land instantly, Ross Douglas—you infernal sneak an’
scoundrel! Tryin’ to steal my daughter, was you? There’s no man about
you! Didn’t I order you from the place an’ forbid you speakin’ to her?
Go, I say! Go before I shoot you—you sneakin’ dog!”

A dangerous light blazed in the settler’s eyes. He gripped his gun
and shook it menacingly at Douglas. The latter was unarmed—except the
hunting-knife in his belt—having left his rifle in the canoe. However, he
composedly folded his arms and casting a pitying glance at Amy, who had
dropped to the ground and was weeping bitterly, said quietly:

“Mr. Larkin, I don’t merit the harsh words and rude treatment you have
accorded me. I have done nothing dishonorable—nothing beneath the dignity
of a gentleman. I love your daughter; she loves me. When you ordered
me from your house and forbid me to hold further intercourse with Amy,
I told you that I wouldn’t obey your mandate—that I would meet her
clandestinely. I have done so. Just now I came to bid her good-by. I’m on
my way to join Harrison’s army at Vincennes. When I return I’ll call upon
you and ask you for her hand in marriage. If at that time you refuse my
request, I’ll carry her off before your eyes.”

“You impudent hound!” snorted the irate Larkin. “I have a notion to shoot
you where you stand.”

“Have a care, Mr. Larkin,” Douglas replied coolly. “I don’t care to have
a physical encounter with my future father-in-law. But if you offer me
violence, your gray hairs will not save you, I warn you. I have no fear
of you or your weapon. But I’m trespassing, and will leave your place and
your presence.”

Ross’s cool assurance awed Larkin to silence. A moment he looked at the
young man in utter amazement. Then he turned and bent over his daughter
and, lifting her to her feet, cried roughly:

“Come, my young lady, an’ go to the house with me. I’ll see to it that
you don’t meet that scalawag ag’in.”

“Good-by, Amy,” Ross called as he turned to leave the spot.

“Good-by, Ross,” she sobbed faintly. “I didn’t mean what I said.
I’ll—I’ll—be true——”

But her father clapped his hand over her mouth and shouted over his
shoulder:

“George Hilliard, why don’t you break every bone in that insolent
scoundrel’s body?”

Up to this time the thick-set man had maintained a discreet silence.
Now he felt called upon to defend himself against the imputation of
cowardice, implied in Larkin’s question. So he replied valiantly:

“That’s just what I’m going to do if he don’t make himself scarce around
here in about ten seconds.”

These words fell upon Ross Douglas’s ears and roused him to instant fury.
He had borne much—he could bear no more. Whirling in his tracks, he dealt
Hilliard a blow that felled him to the earth.

For a few seconds the prostrate man glared confusedly around him. Then
with cat-like quickness he sprang to his feet and threw his gun to his
shoulder. He was insane with rage. The light of murder twinkled in his
small pig-like eyes. His finger was upon the trigger of his weapon. But
he encountered Ross’s look of steadfast courage—and hesitated.

“Shoot him!” Larkin bellowed. “Shoot him in self-defense!”

Hilliard bent his head and squinted along the gleaming barrel of his
rifle. Douglas whipped out his knife and sprang toward his adversary. But
quick as were his movements, he would have been too late had not a trusty
friend been at hand.

With a low, fierce growl Duke bounded from the underbrush, where he had
been crouching, and landed full upon Hilliard’s chest. The gun cracked,
but the bullet sped harmlessly over Ross’s head. Amy ran screaming toward
the cabin. Her father, with a muttered oath, strode toward the scene of
conflict. Duke sought to fasten his fangs in Hilliard’s throat. Gun,
man, and dog went to the ground together.

“Loose him, Duke! Loose him!” Douglas commanded.

The hound obeyed, and crept whining to his master’s feet. Blood was
streaming from Hilliard’s shoulder, where the dog had set his teeth.

“Curse you! I’ll finish you!” Larkin shrieked frantically, flinging his
piece to his shoulder and taking deliberate aim at Ross.

“Go slow there, ol’ man, ’r you’ll never know what hurt you,” said a
drawling voice. “Drop that gun an’ behave y’rself, ’r I’ll put a chunk o’
cold lead into you—I will, by Hanner Ann!”

And two shimmering gun-barrels protruded from the green foliage.

Larkin obeyed, and leaned against a sapling, panting. With some
difficulty Hilliard got upon his feet. His flabby face was pale; his
hairy hands were trembling.

Farley and Bright Wing stepped into the glade.

“Mr. Larkin,” Douglas remarked calmly, “I’m very sorry this occurred.
You’d better take your comrade to the house and dress his wounds. I’m
off.”

Followed by his two friends and his dog, the young man silently made his
way back to the canoe. A few minutes later they were rapidly paddling
down the stream.

The day was excessively hot. The three men maintained a moody silence, as
with steady, sweeping strokes they shot the dugout forward. The sweat
trickled in rivulets down Farley’s furrowed face. Presently he muttered
in an undertone:

“S’pect I’d ’ave done better, if I’d shot that cuss of a Hilliard—yes,
an’ ol’ Sam Larkin, too. They deserved to die anyway—the dirty cowards!
An’ they’ll make no end o’ bother fer Ross—’r I’m badly mistaken. An’
they’ll torment that little gal to death, purty near. I can see it all.
Ther’s trouble ahead fer somebody—an’ likely it’s fer Ross Douglas. Well,
it all comes o’ fallin’ in love with a few pounds o’ the female gender.
An’ hain’t I had the ’xperience? Lordy! I should say so!”

[Illustration]




CHAPTER II.


A wagon-and-pack-train was slowly winding its way through the trackless
wilds of the valley of the Wabash. Like some monstrous serpent, it
dragged its sinuous body along the margin of the boundless prairie that
stretched away to the north and west, and wormed itself in and out among
the clumps of scrubby trees that marked the course of the stream. Ahead
of it rode a compact body of mounted men; and on both sides and behind,
marched a straggling mass of soldiers.

The wheels of the heavily laden vehicles half buried themselves in the
soft loam of the valley. “Squeak! Creak!” were the tortured cries of the
wooden axles. Whips cracked and drivers swore; horses neighed and oxen
bellowed. William Henry Harrison, governor of Indiana Territory, was on
his way to the Prophet’s Town, to make peace or war with its inhabitants.

It was the fifth of November, 1811; and the sunless day was drawing to
a close. The wind, biting and keen, swept across the prairie from the
northwest, bringing with it driving clouds of mist-like rain and stinging
snow-pellets. The officers and mounted men buttoned their coats closely
about them and, dropping their chins upon their breasts, rode forward
in silence. The weary soldiers laboriously trudged onward—and grumbled.
The veiled sun sank lower and lower in the west. The wind, increasing
in force, grew colder. Dark shadows stole out of the scrub and threw
themselves across the prairie. Night was settling down.

All through the summer and fall, the heterogeneous band of Indians at the
Prophet’s Town upon the Upper Wabash had increased in numbers. Bold and
savage warriors from various tribes—prompted by the words and example
of the eloquent and sagacious Tecumseh, and inspired by the fanatical
zeal of the cunning and bloodthirsty Prophet—had taken up the hatchet
and expressed a readiness to make war upon the Americans. Aided and
abetted by the British—who still manifested a rancorous hostility toward
the United States—they had made petty incursions into the defenseless
settlements, bent on pillage and murder.

For several years the wily leader of the warlike Shawnees, Tecumseh, had
been visiting the tribes of the north, west, and south, urging them to
form a confederacy that would be powerful enough to eject the Americans
from the Mississippi and Ohio valleys. He was a brave, resolute, and
ambitious man; and had faith in the feasibility and success of his
project.

Harrison, as governor of Indiana Territory, had become aware of
Tecumseh’s scheme and had realized the great danger that threatened the
growing but unprotected settlements, and had taken prompt measures.
Empowered by his commission, he had held a council with Tecumseh and a
number of his followers, at Vincennes, in 1810. But the haughty Shawnee
had retired from the governor’s presence, angry and defiant. Then
Harrison had apprised the government at Philadelphia of the state of
affairs and had asked for aid. The Fourth regiment of regulars, under
Colonel Boyd, had been sent to him. And with these troops and several
companies of Kentucky and Indiana militia—nine hundred men in all—he
had left Vincennes, on the twenty-eighth of September, and taken up his
march for the Prophet’s Town, resolved to make a lasting peace or strike
a telling blow, while Tecumseh was absent on a mission to the southern
tribes.

About seventy miles up the Wabash he had built Fort Harrison. Then, on
the twenty-ninth of October, he had left the place garrisoned, and had
resumed his journey toward the Prophet’s Town.

He was now moving along the northwestern bank of the Wabash, a short
distance from the village he sought.

The long line of vehicles and troops came to a sudden stop. Tired horses
lowered their heads to the cutting blast and shivered. Weary oxen leaned
heavily against the wagon-tongues. Footsore soldiers threw themselves
upon the damp ground and feelingly rubbed their aching limbs. Drivers
stamped their feet and slapped their palms together to restore the
circulation to their benumbed members. Far down toward the rear of the
line, a militiaman was singing:

    “I left my home in ol’ Kaintuck,
    An’ my wife an’ babes behind me;
    An’ if the Injins gits my scalp,
    My folks ’ll never find me.”

“An’ by the everlastin’ Kinnikinnick, I don’t b’lieve his fam’ly ’ld
grieve much ’bout him, if he’s in the habit o’ singin’ that tune ’round
home!” growled a tall angular ox-driver, resting his arm upon the yoke
and whipping the water from his fur-cap, with the butt of his gad. “Did
anybody on earth ever hear such a dang caterwaulin’? Whew, but I’m cold
an’ hungry!

“Drivin’ oxen ain’t to my likin’—not, by a dang sight! But here I am
doin’ menial servitude fer my country, when I never disgraced myself by
doin’ anything o’ the kind fer Joe Farley. ’Pears that I’ve become the
plaything o’ fate—it does, by Melindy! Come out here to fight Injins an’
help save the gover’ment; an’ they’ve set me to whackin’ bulls. By my
gran’mother’s goggles, I ain’t a-goin’ to stand it! I’ll desert an’ go
over to the redskins, bag an’ baggage! ’Tain’t fair—’tain’t. Jest ’cause
a driver gits sick an’ has to be left at Fort Harrison, they take an’ put
me in his place. I ort to be out scoutin’ with Ross Douglas an’ Bright
Wing. An’ I would ’ave been—dang it!—but my limber tongue got the best o’
me an’ let out that I’d druv oxen, w’en a boy.

“Well, ther’s one consolation, anyhow. We’re purty near to the end o’ our
journey; an’ then I’ll git to tote a rifle ag’in an’ feel like a man.
Whoa, there, you brindle-hided brute! What in the dangnation ’re you
tryin’ to _do_? Think you can crawl through that bow? Whoa, I say! Bless
my peepers, if I ever _did_ see such a c’ntrary critter, anyhow! _Whoa_,
now!”

And Farley applied the gad to the ribs of the lank ox, as though he were
energetically beating a bass drum.

At the head of the long column, a little knot of mounted officers were
holding a consultation in low tones. The central figure of the group was
a tall, spare man of middle age. He sat his horse—a wiry chestnut sorrel
of trim form and slender limbs—with the ease and grace of a practiced
and fearless horseman. His nose was large; his smooth-shaven features
were irregular. But his face was redeemed from plainness by a pair of
dark, penetrating eyes and a mouth indicative of courage and resolution.
Intelligence and benevolence beamed from his rugged countenance. He wore
the uniform of the United States army; and his arms consisted of a brace
of pistols and a sword.

Shaking the rain-drops from his military cocked hat, he replaced it atop
his dark wavy hair and remarked:

“I’m loath to camp here—especially as none of the scouts have returned
to inform us of the designs and movements of the enemy. We are nearing
the hostile village, I’m certain. It can’t be many miles away. Here we
have the open plain on three sides of us. We should be unprotected from
a surprise; and as you well know, Colonel Boyd, a surprise is what we
have to fear—a surprise in the early morning when the troops are soundly
sleeping. I would prefer a more sheltered place. And it gives me some
concern, that none of the scouts have yet returned. I can’t understand
it.”

“May I offer a suggestion, governor?” asked the man addressed as Colonel
Boyd, gracefully saluting his superior officer.

“Certainly.” And Governor Harrison bowed low over the pommel of his
saddle.

“Then, this is what I would suggest: That we form a semi-circular
barricade of our wagons, and encamp under their cover. Also, that we
double the usual number of our sentries. I like the site no better than
you do, but men and teams are exhausted—and we can go no farther. We must
make the best of it.”

“Very well,” Harrison answered decidedly. “I don’t like the plan. But
perhaps extra vigilance will save us from a night-attack; that is, if
the Indians be in the vicinity—which we do not know. Give the command,
colonel. The men are impatient.”

This order the governor addressed to Colonel Owen, one of his aides.
The officer whirled his horse and dashed away. At that moment two men,
followed by a large dog, emerged from the fringe of woodland, and with
rapid strides approached the group of officers.

“Whom have we here?” muttered Harrison, straining his eyes through the
semi-gloom. “Ah! scouts. Now we shall know something positive of the
savages.”

As the two shadowy figures drew near, the governor spurred forward
to meet them. The other officers followed his example; and soon the
two scouts were surrounded by a ring of jingling spurs and rattling
scabbards. One of the newcomers stopped suddenly and looked hurriedly
about him, as though seeking a chance to escape. The other advanced
boldly until he stood at the commander’s side. Then he lifted his hat and
announced with quiet dignity:

“Governor, I have the honor to inform you that my companion and myself
have performed our mission, and are ready to report.”

“Who are you?” inquired the commander, bending forward and peering into
the speaker’s face.

“Ross Douglas—a scout in your service.”

“Yes, to be sure,” Harrison answered. “I should have known you from your
manner. But the darkness bothered me. And your companion?”

“Bright Wing, the Wyandot.”

“I am ready to receive your report.”

“Here?”

“Yes—and at once.”

“We went up the valley as you directed. We continued our course until we
came in sight of the Prophet’s Town——”

“You are sure that you made no mistake—that you saw the Prophet’s Town?”
Harrison interrupted.

“We made no mistake,” Douglas replied a little stiffly.

Without heeding the young scout’s tone or manner, the governor continued:

“And how far are we from it?”

“About ten miles.”

“Did you encounter any savages?”

“A few—when we were within a short distance of the place.”

“You saw no large body of Indians—nothing like a war-party?”

“None.”

“How did those you saw deport themselves?”

“They fled.”

“In the direction of their village?”

“They did.”

“In what language did you address them?”

“We tried several different Indian tongues.”

“Judging from what you know of Indian character, and what you have seen
to-day, Douglas, do you think the savages desire peace or war?”

“War,” Ross answered promptly and emphatically.

“The reasons for your opinion, if you please,” the commander said
quietly.

“Had they desired peace,” was the quick reply, “a deputation of their
chiefs—headed by the Prophet himself—would have met you ere this. They
have been aware of your coming. They mean to give you battle.”

Several of the officers nodded their heads in acquiescence of the opinion
expressed, but the governor murmured in a low, musing tone:

“You may be right, Douglas; but I can hardly believe that you are.”

Then huskily, a shade of alarm in his voice:

“You don’t think they will attack us here—under cover of the darkness?”

“I do not.”

“Very well. I believe that’s all. Call at my tent early in the morning. I
want you and the Wyandot to act as interpreters, as we approach the town.
But why doesn’t he come forward—why does he stand off by himself?”

“He is an Indian,” Ross answered simply.

Smiling at the reply he had received, the governor turned and rode away
in the gathering darkness, accompanied by his staff.

“Bright Wing,” Douglas called.

“Ugh! Me here,” the Wyandot answered, gliding to his friend’s side.

“Where is Duke?” Ross asked, glancing around.

“Duke him gone hunt meat—him big heap hungry dog,” was the guttural reply.

“Well, I’m big heap hungry myself,” Douglas laughed as he shifted his
gun from one shoulder to the other. “Come; let’s find Joe and have some
supper.”

By this time the wagons had been arranged in a semicircle inclosing
several acres of prairie. Soldiers were busy erecting tents and lighting
camp-fires. Teamsters were watering their jaded beasts at the river and
feeding them in the inclosure. The two scouts threaded their way among
the mass of men and animals, until they reached the farther end of the
area.

There Farley had picketed his two yoke of oxen, and, assisted by a number
of militiamen, was unloading his vehicle. Their camp-fire blazed and
crackled cheerily; and about it a half-dozen soldiers were preparing to
cook their evening meal. As Douglas and Bright Wing drew near they heard
Joe saying whimsically:

“Go ’way, Duke, an’ behave y’rself. Have some manners, an’ wait till y’r
victuals is cooked. Drat it all, I never _did_ see such a hungry dog!
I’ve give him ’bout two pound o’ raw meat, an’ he’s lickin’ his chops fer
more. By cracky! If he gits much hungrier, he’ll eat me an’ the oxen.
Git out o’ the road, you rascal, ’r I’ll fall over you. Wher’ve you been
all day—an’ wher’s y’r master? No use to roll y’r eyes an’ whine—I ain’t
a-goin’ to feed you no more. I wish you could talk—I do, by Samanthy! It
makes me feel sort o’ creepy an’ uneasy—you a-comin’ in here, an’ no sign
o’ y’r master ’r the Injin.

“Ding-it-all-to-dangnation! Why _can’t_ a dog talk? They’ve got sense
an’ they’ve got souls, an’ they _ort_ to have the power o’ speech. Do git
out from under my feet, ’r you an’ me’ll have a fallin’ out d’rectly.
Hello! Here comes y’r pardners.”

“Good evening, Joe,” Douglas cried. “What’s the prospect for a hot
supper?”

“Fair to middlin’,” Farley answered, a comical expression overspreading
his ugly features. “One o’ the fellers is mixin’ up a corn pone, an’
we’ve got plenty o’ meat an’ coffee. But you come jest in the nick o’
time—you did, by ginger!”

“Why so?”

Seating himself by the fire, Ross smiled as he extended his hands toward
the red blaze.

“Well, you see, it’s this way, Ross Douglas,” Farley replied, winking
at the militiamen: “Y’r dog come in with such a pow’rful appetite that
he was likely to eat us out o’ house an’ home. I had to choke him off
’r ther’ wouldn’t ’ave been anything left fer us _human_ critters. An’
I’ve been watchin’ him keerful ever sence, fer fear he’d begin on me ’r
the oxen. You ort to give him somethin’ to improve his eatin’ capacity,
Ross—you re’ly ort. I’m ’feard he’s goin’ into a decline.”

Douglas rubbed his hands and joined in the laugh that went around. Bright
Wing sniffed the savory odors of the cooking food and grunted:

“Duke him much smart dog—him smell meat far off. Him find it soon—very
quick. Him walk far—work hard. Then him eat.”

Again the militiamen roared in glee. The prospect of a warm supper and
a night’s rest had put them in a good humor. The Wyandot’s stern visage
relaxed into a smile; but Joe cried in an injured tone:

“Well, if workin’ hard gives anybody a right to eat, I ort to eat ’bout a
ton to-night. A man that’s tramped twenty miles in the cold an’ wet—an’
whacked bulls every step o’ the way—ort to feed on the fat o’ the land.
Nothin’s too good fer him. He’s earned a right to go to glory—wher’ ther’
ain’t no fightin’ Injins n’r drivin’ oxen, if I’ve been rightly informed.

“But still things ain’t as bad as they might be. Mortals ortn’t to
complain, fer fear things might git worse. An’ nobody ever hears _me_
doin’ it. The only time in my whole life that I ever give way to a fit o’
complainin’, was when a dozen women was wantin’ to marry me at once—an’
I had to leave the settlement to git red of ’em. Gol-fer-socks! I never
_saw_ the like—I never _did_. They was jest _crazy_ over my beauty. But
ther’s no use in rakin’ up the past an’ makin’ you fellers feel sorry.
From the way that pone smells it’s gittin’ done. Le’s have supper. Whew!
But the steam o’ that coffee tickles a feller’s nose. Eat, drink, an’
be merry, I say; fer to-morrer the redskins may have our scalps an’ the
buzzards be pickin’ our bones.”

The hungry scouts and militiamen needed no second invitation. Seating
themselves about the camp-fire, they ate and drank with a relish born of
exercise in the open air. After they had finished, and filled and lighted
their pipes, they talked over the events of the day and speculated about
what the morrow would bring forth.

The wind fell and the rain ceased, but the broken and ragged clouds
continued to scud across the starlit heavens. The twinkling camp-fires
burned low. Drowsy officers sought the shelter of their tents. Privates
rolled themselves in their blankets and, with their feet to the fading
embers, fell asleep. Silence rested upon the camp—broken only by the
faint murmur of voices here and there, or the restless pawing of some
tethered steed. Beyond the barricade of wagons a double line of sentries
was on guard.

One by one Ross Douglas’s companions sought slumber. At last he alone
remained sitting by the dying fire, his hand caressing the head of the
bloodhound that lay stretched beside him. He was thinking of Amy—the girl
he had left behind him.

“Dear child!” he whispered to himself. “Perhaps I should not have left
her as I did. Her lot will not be pleasant, I fear. But I couldn’t help
it—I felt that duty called me. And already I have been able to render
some slight service to my country. When I return to her, I’ll devote my
life to her care and comfort——”

He broke off suddenly and flung up his head, that had been resting upon
his hand. The silence was disturbed by the voice of a man lustily
singing:

    “I left my children in ol’ Kaintuck,
      In the cabin with the’r mother;
    And if the Injins kills the’r pap,
      They’ll never git another.”

The words were lamely strung together; and their meaning was somewhat
ambiguous. But Ross was in a sad mood; and the homely sentiment of the
improvised song touched him.

“Poor fellow!” the young scout muttered under his breath, as he arose
and sauntered in the direction whence the voice came. “His words may be
premonitory of the fate that awaits him.”

After walking a few rods, he came upon the singer seated with his toes in
the ashes of an expiring fire.

“Hello, friend!” Ross cried cheerily. “You seem to be suffering from an
attack of homesickness.”

“Y-e-s, I am a little homesick,” the fellow admitted reluctantly.
“You see, I left the little woman an’ the babies ’way down in ol’
Kaintuck. An’ sometimes I git to feelin’ that somehow I’ll never see ’em
ag’in.”—And a sob was in his big, coarse voice.—“I thought ev’rybody was
asleep an’ I’d jest sing a bit. Some people cries when they’re sad—_I_
sing. It always makes me feel better, too. Hope I didn’t wake you up with
my bellerin’.”

“Oh, no!” Douglas hastened to say. “I was awake. But probably both of us
had better try to sleep; it is late.”

“I s’pect we had,”—admitted the Kentuckian—and lapsed into silence.

Ross retraced his steps to his own fire and lay down. But restlessness
had possession of him. Again the voice of the singer fell upon his ears.
This time Bright Wing opened wide his black eyes and sat erect; and
Farley rolled over, grumbling sleepily:

“Dodrot the critter! Can’t he quit his caterwaulin’ day n’r night? He ort
to be off on a desert island by hisself.”

Joe’s voice ended in a long-drawn snore. Bright Wing nodded a few times
and rolled over upon the damp ground, his head wrapped in his blanket.
Douglas threw some dry wood upon the fire and continued his vigil. An
hour passed. Utter silence reigned around him. Presently the bloodhound
growled ominously and sprang to his feet. Ross laid a restraining hand
upon him and commanded him to lie down. But Duke refused to obey. Instead
he broke from his master’s grasp and disappeared in the darkness.

“What does it mean?” Ross muttered as he hastily arose and set off in
pursuit of the animal.

He caught a glimpse of the shadowy form of the bloodhound flitting past
one of the dying camp-fires—going in the direction of the river. Silently
but swiftly he followed. On reaching the bank of the stream, he stopped
in the black shadows of the trees and strained his eyes and ears, in
a vain effort to catch sight or sound of the dog. But all was silent
blackness. He was on the point of calling the animal, when a faint,
buzzing hum greeted his sense of hearing. The sound was a series of
whispered syllables. Dropping upon hands and knees, he crept toward the
river’s edge. Suddenly he dropped flat upon his face and lay motionless.
The sharp snap of a breaking twig, a few feet ahead of him, had warned
him that he was close upon the speakers. Then he distinctly heard these
words:

“Negro’s all right—fix him in the morning—no failure—be off.”

Immediately following this came the sound of rippling water. Some small
object was stealthily pushing away from the shore. Douglas hastily arose
and swiftly but silently retraced his steps to the edge of the timber.
There he met Bright Wing and Farley.

“What’s up—what’re you nosin’ ’round out here fer?” inquired the latter
in a strident whisper.

“Sh!” cautioned Ross, laying his hand upon Joe’s arm.

At that moment a man stepped from the edge of the wood and started across
the area, toward the barricade of wagons. He had taken but a few steps
in the open, when a black body rose in front of him; and Duke’s low,
threatening growl broke the oppressive stillness.

“Good fellow, good fellow!” the man said wheedlingly.

But Duke refused to be moved from his path or his purpose. The man
attempted to go around him, but the sagacious animal headed him off and
growled more threateningly.

“Curse the brute!” the man muttered fiercely. “I don’t dare to shoot
him—the report of a pistol would bring a dozen soldiers to the spot. What
am I to do?”

Douglas stepped forward, remarking placidly:

“I wouldn’t think of shooting the dog, if I were you. His owner might
raise objections. Perhaps I can help you out of your dilemma.”—Then to
the dog:—“Here, Duke! Come here and lie down.”

Reluctantly the bloodhound obeyed, still growling. Farley and Bright
Wing kept their distance. The man had recoiled a step. Now he recovered
himself and mumbled surlily:

“What’s you an’ y’r infernal cur out here stoppin’ honest people fer?”

“What were _you_ doing at the river shore?” Ross returned boldly.

The man’s hand flew to his belt. Dimly Douglas discerned the shadowy
movement. Bright Wing’s eagle eyes saw it, too; and the sharp click of
his flintlock broke the stillness. The man peered in the direction whence
the ominous sound came—and his hand dropped to his side, as he answered
in a husky voice:

“I was jest wanderin’ ’round the camp—I couldn’t sleep. I was goin’ back
to my place when y’r dog stopped me. You’d better keep the cross brute
tied up o’ nights, ’r somebody ’ll kill him. Git out o’ my way.”

And he made a move to leave the spot.

“Wait a moment,” Douglas requested. “When you spoke to the dog, your
language marked you as an educated gentleman. Explain.”

“I don’t have to give no explanations to you ’bout anything—you ain’t no
officer,” was the defiant reply.

And the fellow stalked away in the darkness.

Farley could restrain himself no longer. Hurrying to Douglas’s side, he
asked excitedly:

“What’s it all mean, Ross?”

“I don’t know,” was the truthful answer.

“Did you know the feller?”

“No—I couldn’t see his face.”

“He’s one o’ the soldiers, ain’t he?”

“I don’t know, Joe,” Ross replied rather impatiently. “Let’s go back to
our places.”

As the three friends moved across the inclosed space, toward the site
of their camp-fire, they were met by an officer of the guard, who cried
angrily:

“You men go back to your places and stay there. You know it is against
the regulations to stray about the camp at this time of night. The next
time you break the rules, I’ll report you.”

Farley was ready to fling back an angry retort, but Douglas headed him
off with:

“We meant no harm, lieutenant. And we thank you for your consideration.”

Much mollified, the officer resumed his rounds. In silence the three
friends reached their place of bivouac, and, rolling themselves in
their blankets, sought repose. But what Ross Douglas had seen and heard
rendered him still more wakeful. He racked his brain for a solution of
the mystery—but found none. Who was the man he had encountered—and what
had he been doing at the river-side?

“Treachery of some kind is afoot,” the young scout murmured to himself.
“Perhaps I should have caught the mysterious personage and delivered him
into the hands of the guard. But what could I have proven—what charge
could I have brought against him? And now I’ve not the faintest idea who
he was, whence he came, or what was his purpose. He tried to disguise his
voice; he altered his language. He sought to conceal his identity—and he
succeeded. There’s nothing to do but watch and wait. But black treachery
of some kind is among us.”

An hour passed. Ross Douglas’s lids were closed, and his breathing was
deep and regular.

[Illustration]




CHAPTER III.


At four o’clock the next morning the troops—who had slept upon their
arms—were roused from slumber and ordered to fall into rank. There they
stood, guns in readiness, until the first faint rays of the cold, gray
dawn dispelled the enveloping darkness and revealed near-by objects with
clear-cut distinctness. Governor Harrison realized that he was in the
enemy’s country. He was well aware that the wily foe with which he had to
deal preferred to attack in the early morning. He had not served under
Mad Anthony Wayne in vain. Nor had he forgotten the lesson of St. Clair’s
awful surprise and defeat.

Immediately after the order to break ranks was given, the soldiers began
to prepare their breakfasts, while the teamsters went to water and feed
their pack and draught animals. The camp-fires were relighted, and soon
the appetizing odors of cooking food pervaded the place.

Douglas left his companions to the performance of their various duties,
and went to report at the tent of the governor. He found a number of
scouts—who had returned to camp too late to report on the previous
evening—in conversation with the commander and his staff. Ross took up
a position near the door of the tent, to wait until the others should
finish their business and take their departure.

The central figure of the group of scouts was a tall, broad-shouldered
man of fifty years. His long black hair was plentifully sprinkled with
silver, and his countenance was a crisscross of fine care-lines. His dark
blue eyes were alert and beaming with native intelligence. But a puckered
red scar on the right cheek drew up the corner of his mouth and marred
the symmetry of his face. He wore the picturesque garb of a backwoodsman;
but there was an indefinable something about him that gave the lie to his
outward appearance.

Ross had seen the man almost daily since leaving Vincennes, but had not
formed his acquaintance. Now, for some reason, the young man’s attention
was closely drawn to the scar-faced scout. He heard him saying in answer
to a question from the governor:

“Yes, I was clear inside of the Injin town; that’s why I didn’t git back
till late last evenin’.”

Douglas started. The man’s husky voice sounded strangely familiar.
Governor Harrison was remarking:

“And you found the savages friendly, Bradford?”

Ross strained his ears to catch the answer.

“Yes, governor, I did.”

“Who went into the village with you?”

“Nobody—I was all alone. Price an’ Hunter, there”—indicating two other
scouts—“started out with me, but we got separated somehow.”

“Did the Indians avoid you as you approached their town?”

“No, they was sociable. I talked with quite a number, an’ they said the’r
chiefs wanted peace an’ was ready to hold a council with you.”

There was the faintest hint of suspicion in Harrison’s tone, as he said
quickly:

“But other scouts bring me different reports, Bradford.”

“I can’t help that,” the man replied doggedly. “I can only report what
I’ve seen an’ heard. Anyhow, none o’ the others had the grit to go into
the town.”

This last he said with a toss of his head and a defiant look at the other
scouts.

“I don’t think your comrades lack courage,” the governor replied coolly.
“Their reception was different from yours. On the march to-day I want you
to remain within call. As you speak several of the Indian tongues, I may
want to use you as an interpreter. Your comrades have already received
their orders. You may go.”

Was Ross mistaken, or was there a look of malignant triumph on Bradford’s
scarred face, as with the others he left the tent?

The young scout now stepped forward and saluted the commander.

“Ah! You are here, Douglas,” was Harrison’s pleasant greeting. “You have
come for your orders?”

“I have, governor.”

“Very well. To-day you and the Wyandot are to remain near me. I’ll use
you as interpreters.”

Ross bowed and withdrew. As he sauntered away from the tent, he felt that
he ought to return and inform the commander of his experience of the
night. Yet what had he to tell? Perhaps his imagination was magnifying a
molehill into a mountain. He halted—half turned about—then proceeded upon
his way.

Just as he was passing a point midway between the governor’s quarters and
his own mess-fire, he discovered Bradford in earnest conversation with a
burly negro—an ox-driver, named Ben. The scar-faced scout and the black
man were standing between two of the covered wagons. The darkey’s brutal
visage was alight with pleasure, as he jingled a number of silver coins
that Bradford had just dropped into his outstretched palm. Ross heard the
white man say:

“Now, Ben, if you don’t do what you’ve promised—well, you’ll hear from
_me_. Git away from here now—we mustn’t be seen together.”

Douglas screened himself behind a wagon. Now he knew why Bradford’s
husky tones had sounded so familiar in the governor’s tent. It was the
same voice he had heard at the river-side. The scar-faced scout was the
mysterious personage he had met the night before.

The negro slyly slipped away from the spot. A half minute passed. Then
Bradford boldly stepped from his place of concealment. As he did so, he
swept a hurried glance around him—and fastened his keen eyes upon Douglas.

“What the devil ’re you doin’ there?” was his expressive question.

His disfigured countenance was aflame with rage; and drawing his tall
form to its full height he nervously fingered the trigger of his rifle.

“Attending to my own business,” Ross answered with provoking coolness, as
he strode forth and faced his questioner.

“Meddlin’ with mine, more likely,” was the growling rejoinder.

“No,” Douglas replied laughingly, “but if the negro ever sues for his
wages, I can be a witness to the fact that you’ve paid him.”

“What do you mean?” blustered Bradford, his face purple.

“I was passing and saw you give the darkey the money. Are you the
contractor that employs those black fellows?”

“You know very well I’m not. What’re you insinuatin’?”

“Nothing.”

“What was you spyin’ upon me fer?”

“I wasn’t spying upon you. Why should I?”

“You’re a liar—you _was_ spyin’ upon me!”

Douglas’s steel-gray eyes flashed and his nostrils dilated. For a few
moments he glared hard at the other—his thin lips compressed. Then he
said with icy calmness:

“Bradford—if that be your name—you have mistaken the mettle of the man to
whom you applied that term. Let me warn you. Put a curb upon your hasty
tongue—or stand ready to defend yourself. Your bluster didn’t frighten me
last night—nor does it now.”

“What—what do you mean?” Bradford faltered, recoiling a step.

“You know well what I mean,” Ross went on quietly. “You’re not what you
seem. You’re masquerading. For what purpose I don’t know.”—Bradford’s
face brightened; he was recovering his equanimity.—“You’re an educated
man—you _may_ be a gentleman and a patriot.”

“I might return the compliment,” the older man interrupted sneeringly.
“You, too, are an educated man. Perhaps _you_ are masquerading—you are so
ready to accuse others. At any rate, I know less of you than you do of
me. I don’t know your name, even.”

“I’m not _certain_ that I know yours,” Ross replied meaningly.

An expression of alarm flitted across Bradford’s scarred face, but he
answered promptly:

“Yes, you know my name. It’s Bradford—Hiram Bradford.”

“And my name’s Ross Douglas.”

Bradford dropped the butt of his gun to the ground with a thud. An ashen
hue overspread his face, and the red scar upon his cheek stood out with a
vividness that was startling.

“Ross Douglas, you say?” he asked with livid, trembling lips.

The younger man was greatly surprised at the effect the announcement of
his name had produced upon his companion. But he kept control of himself
and simply nodded in answer to the question.

Bradford’s hand shook as he fumbled with the buttons upon his rough coat.

“And your—your mother’s name?” he inquired.

“Why should I answer your questions?”

“Tell me—tell me!” the other panted.

“Mary.”

“Your father’s?”

“John.”

A wonderful change came over the scar-faced scout. He appeared to age ten
years in as many seconds. With the words—“My God! My God! And I would
have killed him!” He shouldered his rifle and hastened from the spot,
leaving his companion staring after him.

Ross slowly made his way toward the place where his messmates were
preparing the morning meal. His mind was in a tumult. What was the
meaning of it all? Who and what was the mysterious scout?

“Why did the announcement of my name so affect him—and why did he wish to
know the name of my father and mother?” he asked himself over and over.

He forgot where he was and passed the spot he sought, without knowing it.
He was aroused to a sense of his surroundings by hearing Farley bawl:

“What’s the matter o’ you, Ross Douglas? Have you gone daft an’ blind,
that you don’t know y’r own comrades an’ go right past ’em without
speakin’? Say!”

Ross forced a laugh and joined the men at their morning meal. But he ate
little and talked less; seeing which, one of the militiamen remarked
mischievously:

“Douglas, you don’t ’pear to be very peart this mornin’. You must be
grievin’ ’bout the gal you left behind you. You’d better pitch into the
grub; it’ll be gone purty soon. We may have a fracas with the redskins
’fore night. An’ a man always fights best on a full stomach.”

“Ugh!” Bright Wing grunted approvingly. “Eat heap much—fight heap hard.
Kill many Shawnees. Ugh!”

“That’s ph’losophy fer you,” grinned Joe. “The Injin knows w’en his
bread’s buttered—he does. Ross, you ain’t eatin’ enough to keep a pigeon
alive. You’ll be lanker ’n a starved houn’ ’fore night—you will, by
Melissy! Peart up, man; don’t let love-affairs git you down. Lordy!
I’ve had hundreds of ’em—an’ I’m able fer three square meals a day yit.
What’re you so down in the mouth bout?”

“I’m all right—nothing ails me,” Douglas replied hastily, arising and
walking away.

Duke followed him. The intelligent animal knew that something had gone
amiss with the master he loved. Farley looked after them and lugubriously
shaking his head muttered:

“Well, if that don’t beat my reckonin’, my name ain’t Joseph Peregoy
Farley!”

It was mid-forenoon ere the army was again upon the march. Very slowly
the great serpent—that was intended to choke the life out of Tecumseh’s
infant confederacy—dragged its cumbersome body forward. Governor Harrison
and his staff rode in the van. Ross Douglas and Bright Wing kept near
him. When the army was four miles from camp, savages were seen skulking
from one sheltered point to another. The commander halted his troops and
sent forward a number of scouts and interpreters. The men returned and
informed him that they could not come up with the redmen, who fled from
them, with insulting words and threatening gestures.

Among the interpreters sent forward were Douglas and the Wyandot. On his
return to Harrison’s presence, Ross reported as follows:

“Governor, the Indians fled from us, as on yesterday. They mean mischief.
You must be prepared for treachery, if you hold a council with them. You
know now that Bradford attempted to deceive you this morning, when he
told you the savages were anxious for peace.”

“You heard his report?” Harrison asked quickly.

“I did.”

“By the way”—and the governor glanced hurriedly around—“where _is_ the
man? I ordered him to remain within call.”

“I haven’t seen him since we left camp,” Ross answered.

The commander bent forward in the saddle and motioned the young scout
to come closer. Then drawing down his brows until his eyes were almost
closed, he whispered:

“Do you believe Bradford entered the Indian town at all?”

“Yes, I do,” was the positive reply.

“Ah!” The governor looked relieved.

“Yes,” Ross continued in a low, cautious tone, “I think he entered the
village. And no one but a friend of the allied tribes would dare to do
that—in my opinion.”

“You mean——” Harrison began, but stopped suddenly, and, smiling, shook
his head.

“I hardly know what I mean,” Douglas said with an uneasy laugh. “However,
I’ll explain as best I can.”

He told the commander of Bradford’s suspicious words and actions,
concluding:

“It’s not for me to offer you advice, governor; but if you’ll pardon my
boldness, I would suggest that you keep an eye on Bradford and the negro
ox-driver, Ben.”

A worried look rested upon Harrison’s rugged countenance, as he murmured
slowly:

“I thank you for your information—for your watchful loyalty to your
commander and your country. You did well to tell me. Appearances are
against Bradford, but I can’t believe him a traitor. As to keeping an
eye on the two—it’s easier said than done. I don’t know the negro. And
it seems impossible to get an eye on Bradford to-day—to say nothing of
keeping it on him. However, I’ll be watchful. If you learn anything more
definite, come to me at once.”

Then turning to an aide, he commanded:

“Find Bradford, the scout, and bring him to me.”

In a few minutes the young officer returned to report that the man could
not be found. The governor looked grave, but gave the order for the
column to move forward.

By mid-afternoon the advance guard was within three miles of the
Prophet’s Town. Here the ground was broken by ravines and covered with
scrub timber. It became necessary to exercise the utmost precaution, to
avoid an ambuscade. Scouts and interpreters were pushed to the extreme
front, and every pass was reconnoitered by mounted riflemen before the
main column entered it. Harrison kept changing the relative positions of
the various corps, as he advanced, that each might have the ground best
suited to its maneuvers.

Within about two miles of the town, the trail descended a steep hill, at
the bottom of which was a small creek running through a narrow strip of
swampy prairie. Beyond this was a level plain covered with oak forest
without underbrush. Near the ford, the woods were very thick—an admirable
place for the Indians to practice their mode of warfare.

The governor apprehended that the savages would fall upon him at the
crossing—if they meant to give him battle at all—and arranged his troops
accordingly. Indians were seen hovering around the front and flanks of
the army, but they made no move to attack. The long column crossed the
creek unmolested and formed on the other side. The redmen retreated
toward their village, a mile and a half away.

The afternoon was far advanced, so the commander decided to go into camp.
But a number of his officers urged him to move quickly forward and attack
the town at once. This he refused to do, saying:

“My orders are to avoid a conflict with the savages, if possible.
However, I’ll determine what their intentions are as soon as I can—and
act promptly as soon as I have positive information. I can’t imagine
what has become of the friendly chiefs I sent out from Fort Harrison.
They should have met us miles back. I hope they are in the village and
will come out to us this evening. We’ll fortify ourselves as we did last
night—and await the issue.”

“But, governor,” urged Major Daviess, “the Indians mean to give us
battle—their actions indicate the fact. They are attempting to draw us
into a trap. Our men are in high spirits and anxious to attack. We should
take advantage of their ardor and——”

“And fall headlong into the trap of which you speak,” Harrison
interrupted. “No, it won’t do to advance until we know more of the ground
between here and the town. Already we are badly situated—these woods and
ravines are favorable to the Indians. A small body of the enemy could
harass us terribly. If I knew what lies between here and the village, I
would consent to a cautious advance—but not otherwise.”

“The rough ground soon ends,” Major Daviess answered. “The town lies upon
the low bottoms of the Wabash and is surrounded by level, cultivated
fields.”

“How do you know this, major?” the governor inquired.

“Adjutant Floyd and myself advanced to the precipitous bank that descends
to the valley, and had a fair view of the place.”

“Then,” said the commander, reluctantly, “I’ll advance slowly and in
order of battle, provided I can get some one to enter the town ahead of
the army with a flag of truce.”

Captain Dubois of Vincennes stepped forward and volunteered his services.
Harrison turned to Douglas, who was standing near, and said:

“Douglas, will you and the Wyandot accompany Captain Dubois, as
interpreters?”

“Of course, governor,” Ross replied cheerfully.

“Be off, then—and note carefully all you see and hear. Captain, obtain a
positive answer from the Prophet, whether he will comply with the terms I
have so often proposed. Have a care that you don’t get cut off from the
army.”

Taking with him several soldiers and the two interpreters, Captain Dubois
set out for the town. The army moved slowly after, in order of battle.

When the captain and his comrades were within a mile of the town, they
encountered a large body of Indians. The interpreters tried to open
communication with them, but the treacherous savages gave no heed to
repeated hails. All the while they circled around the little band of
whites, attempting to separate them from their friends in the rear.

“It’s useless and dangerous to proceed further,” the captain exclaimed
angrily. “Brown,” addressing a soldier, “go back to the governor and
inform him of our want of success, and of the perilous position we
occupy.”

On receiving the word from his peace messenger, Harrison set his teeth
and said firmly:

“I’ve done with the Prophet’s dillydallying; I’ll treat him as an enemy.
Recall Captain Dubois and his men, and order the entire army to advance
at a brisk pace. If the Indians don’t come out to treat with me, I’ll
attack their town at once.”

In a few minutes Dubois and his comrades had rejoined the command. An
animated scene presented itself to their gaze. Orderlies were galloping
hither and thither; officers were giving hurried commands; and regulars
and militiamen were exchanging oaths and jokes, as they stood in
line, awaiting the order to advance. Every man thought an engagement
imminent—and was depressed or elated at the prospect, according to his
temperament.

“Forward!”

The compact lines moved. But scarcely were they in motion ere they
were met by a deputation of three chiefs—including the Prophet’s chief
councilor—who had come from the village to meet the commander and confer
with him.

Again the army halted. Officers swore and privates grumbled. Why should
they listen to such tardy envoys? Why not make prisoners of them—and
proceed to the attack? But Harrison gave no heed to the stormy protests
of his staff, nor to the sullen mutterings of the rank and file. He had
resolved to give the chiefs an audience. He did so; and received from
them the information that the Prophet was desirous for peace—that he
wished to know why so large a force of armed men was approaching his
town. Also, they said the Prophet had sent back the Pottawatomie and
Miami chiefs—whom the governor had dispatched from Fort Harrison—with
a pacific message, but the friendly emissaries had made their return
journey on the south side of the Wabash, and for that reason had missed
the army.

All this seemed so fair and candid that the commander agreed to
an armistice and told the chiefs to inform the Prophet, that
he—Harrison—would hold a council with him the next day.

Once more the columns moved forward. The commander intended to camp
on the low ground near the village, which occupied a slight eminence
overlooking the wet bottoms. But not finding the place to his liking, he
sent Major Waller and Taylor to select a more suitable location. The site
the officers chose was an elevated piece of dry ground, a short distance
northeast of the Indian town and directly facing it.

Toward this spot the army proceeded. As the lines of soldiers filed
past the village, numbers of armed warriors sallied forth, and appeared
ill-humored and threatening.

When the troops were nearing the chosen site of the encampment, an
incident occurred that created a momentary ripple of excitement. Ben,
the negro ox-driver, suddenly threw down his whip and, leaving his
companions, ran off at full speed toward the Indian town. A number of
braves—as though expecting him—met him and conducted him within the
walls. The other drivers hooted in derision, and flung curses at the
woolly head disappearing within the gate of the palisade surrounding the
village.

“Dang-it-all-to-dingnation!” shouted Joe Farley. “Let the black deserter
go. I wish I had my ol’ rifle out o’ the wagon, fer jest a minute! I jest
hope the redskins ’ll roast an’ eat him. It’ll do two good things—be the
end o’ the nigger-traitor, an’ kill the Injins. _Dang_ a nigger, anyhow!”

Governor Harrison’s attention was attracted by the hubbub and he inquired
the cause of it.

“One of the negro ox-drivers employed by the contractor has left his team
and entered the Indian village,” explained an aide at the governor’s
elbow.

“What’s the fellow’s name?” Harrison asked quickly.

“I don’t know, governor.”

“Send Ross Douglas to me at once,” was the sharp command.

The aide obeyed. And soon the young scout was at the commander’s side.

“What’s the black’s name, who just went over to the Indians?” Harrison
asked, bending down until his face was on a level with Douglas’s.

“Ben,” was the curt reply.

“The same of whom you told me?”

“The same, governor.”

“Lieutenant”—addressing an officer of his staff—“go and bring the negro
back. Take with you a squad of men—and yonder Wyandot, as interpreter.”

Then again turning to Ross:

“Have you seen that man Bradford, to-day?”

“I have not, governor.”

“Do you know what has become of him?”

Douglas silently shook his head.

A fierce scowl darkened the commander’s face as he said in a low tone:

“Nor do I—but I have an opinion. He’s an infernal traitor—and has
deserted. I have no doubt that at this moment he’s in the Prophet’s
Town. Dark and devilish treachery is afoot. But thanks to you, my young
friend, I shall not be taken by surprise. When I again have that man
before me, I shall know how to deal with him. The black is a mere tool—an
ignorant dupe. Keep your knowledge to yourself. I’ll defeat Bradford’s
purpose—whatever it may be.”

The army reached the elevated piece of ground three-quarters of a mile
from the village, and went into camp. It was late in the evening. The sun
was sinking in a bank of dun-colored clouds—an indication of a dark and
rainy night.

The teamsters disposed of their wagons, as on the previous evening. Wood
and water in abundance were near at hand, for a clear creek, bordered
by trees and bushes, flowed at the rear of the camp. Night shut down
and a drizzling rain began to fall. But supper was under way, and the
appetizing odors of broiling meat and boiling coffee cheered the hearts
and loosened the tongues of the tired men. The merry snap and crackle of
dancing flames drowned the doleful voice of the wind sweeping across the
open prairie and soughing among the scrubby trees.

While the men were unloading the vehicles and pack-horses and preparing
supper, several Indians from the town ventured within the lines. Having
in mind the mysterious disappearance of Bradford and the open desertion
of Ben, Governor Harrison promptly ordered the red warriors to betake
themselves to their own camp. At the same time he requested them to send
back the negro—whom the staff officer had failed to find, and who was
still in hiding at their village. This they promised to do.

Ross Douglas listened silently to the idle tales of his companions, but
his thoughts were far away. He was thinking of Amy Larkin—as he had
thought of her a hundred times that day. He wished that he might see
her, if only for a few seconds. He felt lonely and depressed. Then the
disfigured countenance of Hiram Bradford arose before his mind’s eye and
shut out the fair face of his sweetheart.

Ross rubbed his eyes and tried to rid himself of the unwelcome mental
vision. But it would not depart at his bidding. His thoughts refused to
revert to Amy, but persisted in dwelling upon the scar-faced scout. It
made him angry; and he arose and sauntered about in the darkness.

On returning to the fire he heard a militiaman remarking:

“Well, I reckon this ends the whole matter. We’ve come on a reg’lar
fool’s errand—a wild goose chase. To-morrer the gov’ner ’ll hold a
powwow with the Injins—make another treaty with ’em that they’ll break
’fore we’re back to Fort Harrison. Then what? W’y, we’ll march back to
Vincennes an’ be discharged. Cuss it! We ort to whip the red devils while
we’ve got ’em cornered. It puts me in mind o’ the ol’ story ’bout the
king o’ Spain; how he marched up the hill—an’ then marched down ag’in.
The idee of a man totin’ a gun every day fer six weeks, to git a shot at
a redskin, an’ then when he’s got the critters holed, somebody sayin’ he
can’t do it!”

“I don’t know ’bout y’r not gittin’ a chance to shoot,” Joe Farley
answered reflectively. “Wouldn’t be s’rprised you’d git the chance when
you was least expectin’ it. Injins is dang cunnin’ varmints, sure’s
you’re born. From all I’ve seen an’ heerd o’ this Prophet an’ his band,
I’m o’ the ’pinion we’ll have a scrimmage with ’em ’fore we git out o’
this clearin’. An’ if we _do_, it’ll come mighty sudden—an’ in the night,
most likely—an’ you’ll have a chance to shoot y’r gun off more times ’n
you’re hankerin’ fer.

“The idee o’ you complainin’ ’bout totin’ a rifle! You ort to be
ashamed—you had by Jerushy! If you’d had to whack bulls from Fort
Harrison—wear y’r back out a-lickin’ ’em an’ y’r breath out acussin’
’em—you might complain. But I’m through with it at last—thank the Lord!
I’ve resigned my commission. Somebody else ’ll drive ’em back ’r they
won’t be druv—that’s all. The idee o’ puttin’ a free-born American along
with a lot o’ niggers to drive oxen! It’s a disgrace—a shame—a blot on
the Constertution! Laugh, dang y’r skins!”—His companions were hawhawing
boisterously.—“Laugh at the agony of an abused man! But you chaps ’ll be
laughin’ out o’ the other corner o’ y’r mouths, ’fore mornin’—’r I miss
_my_ guess.”

The laughter suddenly ceased. And one of the militiamen inquired gravely:

“What do you mean, Farley?”

“Jest this,” Joe replied impressively. “I’ll bet any man a pound o’
powder we have a rumpus with the Injins ’fore sun-up to-morrer mornin’.
What do you say, Bright Wing?”

The Wyandot deliberately removed his pipe from his lips, with the stem of
it waved aside the cloud of smoke he blew from his lungs, and answered in
guttural but not unmusical tones:

“Bad Shawnees much sly, like fox. Make believe all time want peace—all
time want war. Paleface camp here. Shawnee town there—two, three rifle
shots away. Bad Shawnees—bad Winnebagoes—bad Senecas—all bad. But
much brave—heap cunning. Big Prophet talk, talk. Night dark—palefaces
sleep—Indians come and kill, Ugh!”

The Wyandot resumed his pipe; the militiamen sat speechless.

“There it is, as plain as the nose on a man’s face!” Joe shouted,
exultingly. “Ross Douglas, you hain’t said a word. What do _you_ think?”

Douglas answered quietly:

“I think the savages mean to try to surprise and massacre us. But whether
they’ll make the attempt to-night, I don’t know—I have no idea.”

“Hark!” cried a militiaman, nervously springing to his feet. “What’s that
hullabaloo ’bout?”

His companions hastily arose and stood listening intently. A chorus of
shouts, mingled with curses, came from the direction of the governor’s
tent.

“I’ll soon see what’s up,” muttered Farley, bounding away toward the spot
whence the sounds came.

The others seated themselves and anxiously awaited his return. The uproar
suddenly ceased. A few minutes later, Joe again stood within the circle
of light. A broad grin irradiated his homely features.

“What was it?” bawled half a dozen voices at once.

“W’y, ding-it-all-to-dangnation!” Farley exclaimed excitedly. “The
_nigger’s_ come back. An’ Cap’n Wilson’s captured him an’ got him in
charge.”

“Where did he capture him?” Douglas asked quickly.

“Right behind the gov’nor’s tent—the dang sneak was a-hidin’ in the
shadder of it.”

“And he returned to murder the commander,” Ross muttered under his
breath. “So that, at least, was a part of Bradford’s plan; and it has
miscarried. Who _is_ that man—an agent of the British? He’s foiled for
the present, at any rate. But what does he know of me? Why was he so
agitated when he learned my name? And no doubt he’s at the Prophet’s
Town, impatiently awaiting the news that the governor is assassinated.
Thank God, he’s doomed to disappointment!”

Gradually the noises of the camp died out. Wrapped in their blankets
and with their guns at their sides, the soldiers stretched themselves
around the fires and fell asleep. The wind moaned dismally; the flames
cast grotesque shadows over the sleeping forms. In the outer darkness the
sentries paced their lonely beats. The murmur of shouting savages and
barking dogs came in on the wings of the fitful gale, telling that the
inhabitants of the Prophet’s Town were still astir. Then the fickle wind
veered to another point of the compass—and all was still. Suddenly the
silence was broken by the voice of a lusty singer. The sleepers stirred
uneasily as they heard in their dreams:

    “The Injins hankers fer my scalp,
      To sell to the highest bidder;
    An’ when I’m dead an’ in my grave,
      My wife ’ll be a widder!”

“Drat the critter, anyhow!” grumbled Farley, flopping over upon his
stomach and raising his head. “He’s at it ag’in. Seems he can’t sleep,
n’r let anybody else. I wish to gosh he’d stayed in ol’ Kaintuck with his
wife an’ babies—I do, by Tabithy!”

Then in a startled voice:

“Say, Ross, wake up! Y’r Injin’s took his departure. Ther’ ain’t hide n’r
hair of him to be seen.”

Douglas rubbed his eyes and sat erect. Bright Wing had disappeared.

[Illustration]




CHAPTER IV.


“When did you discover his absence, Joe?” was Douglas’s first question.

“Jest this minute,” Farley replied promptly. “That dang Kaintuckian waked
me up with his caterwaulin’—an’ I found the Injin gone. Then I called
you. Listen to that critter squallin’—an’ he calls it singin’!”

“What can have become of the Wyandot?” Ross asked, unheeding Joe’s
complaining tone—as he arose and peered into the shadows.

“Don’t know,” Joe answered, with an expressive shake of the head. “But I
know what _will_ become o’ him, if he goes nosin’ ’round the camp.”

“What?”

“Some o’ the sentries ’ll take him fer a prowlin’ redskin from the town
over yander, an’ put an ounce o’ lead into him—that’s what.”

“That’s ’bout so,” growled one of the militiamen from under his blanket.

“You are right,” Ross admitted. “I’ll make a circuit of the camp and try
to find him.”

“An’ while you’re gone, kill that Kaintuckian ’r have the officer o’ the
guard buck an’ gag him,” Farley snarled as he again threw himself upon
the ground.

Douglas failed to find his red comrade and returned to his place by the
fire.

“See anything o’ the Injin?” Joe sleepily inquired.

“No,” was the monosyllabic reply.

“Well turn in an’ go to sleep. He’s able to take keer of hisself. Injins
is Injins—the best you can make of ’em. They’re jest like other wild
varmints—always prowlin’ ’round o’ nights. He’ll turn up in the mornin’.
Go to sleep.”

Douglas was worn out with the day’s toil and excitement; so, rolling
himself in his blanket, he lay down. While he slumbers, let us follow
Bright Wing.

The Wyandot had left the others sleeping, and had stolen to the outskirts
of the camp. While Ross was searching for him, he was in hiding behind
one of the wagons, awaiting a chance to slip through the line of
sentries. At last his patience was rewarded; and with consummate skill
and cunning, he wormed through the tall grass and bushes growing along
the slope upon which the camp was situated. When he found himself safely
beyond the lines, he nimbly arose to his feet and sped across the strip
of wet prairie lying between the camp and the town of the Prophet.

On nearing the latter place, he halted and carefully reconnoitered.
Apparently convinced the way was clear, he boldly ascended the grade
leading to the village, and found himself under the walls of the
fortified town.

The Prophet’s Town was a sacred place—the Mecca of his fanatical
followers. Here he muttered incantations and performed miracles; here he
blessed the faithful and condemned to perdition all unbelievers. Many
pilgrims came and went each day. And on this night the place was full of
fierce warriors—mad with fanaticism and thirsting for blood.

The town itself consisted of a large number of flimsily constructed
log-cabins and lodges of poles and skins. These rude habitations were
scattered irregularly over several acres of ground. The council lodge—or
cabin—was centrally located. Surrounding the whole was a palisade
of poles and logs. Two or three narrow openings in the wall served
as gateways. To-night they were closely guarded; for the enemy lay
without—and within important business was engaging the attention of
chiefs and braves.

Bright Wing crouched in the shadow of the palisade and listened intently.
The din of many voices came to his ears. Above the sullen, monotonous
roar, occasionally arose the exultant whoop of some excited brave.
Through a crack between two of the upright timbers, the Wyandot caught
a glimpse of flaring torches and flaming bonfires. For a brief moment
he glued his eyes to the opening. Then he arose and ran along the outer
side of the wall, until he came to a point where a log-cabin occupied an
angle—filling the space between two wings of the palisade. Near it was a
guarded gateway. Like a squirrel the Indian clambered up the projecting
ends of the logs of the hut—and boldly dropped to the ground within the
inclosure.

“Ugh!” was the startled grunt of one of the guards at the gateway.

“What is it?” inquired his companion in the Shawnee tongue.

“A noise at the cabin,” was the answer.

“It was the wind rattling the bark upon the roof.”

“It may have been a paleface.”

“No!”—Contemptuously.—“The palefaces are cowards. They fear the wonderful
power of Tenskwatawa—The Open Door.”

The two guards lapsed into silence. Bright Wing cautiously arose to his
feet and, dodging from cabin to cabin, made his way toward the center of
the village. At last he reached a spot where he could look out upon the
square in which stood the council lodge—the Prophet’s temple.

The space was ablaze with fires and torches. A dense mass of savages,
talking, whooping, and gesticulating, surged around the entrance to the
lodge. Many different tribes were represented. The young Wyandot saw
several members of his own tribe among the half-nude fanatics. Thinking,
therefore, that his presence would not arouse suspicion, he resolved to
mingle with the excited braves and learn what plans were afoot.

Slowly he edged forward until he reached the outskirts of the crowd.
Apparently no one took notice of him—all eyes were fixed upon the door
of the council lodge. He elbowed his way into the surging mass and stood
still—his finger upon the trigger of his rifle.

The braves were in war-paint and feathers. All were fully armed. Shoulder
to shoulder, stood Winnebago and Wyandot; cheek by jowl, were Shawnees
and Pottawatomies.

Suddenly a mighty shout went up from the savage horde. It was prolonged
for several minutes. A thousand bronzed warriors bellowed themselves
hoarse. They danced, and swayed, and gyrated. Squaws and children added
their piercing treble to the thunderous bass of the men. “Tenskwatawa!”
was the cry. Then, as suddenly as it had arisen, the tumult subsided.
Naught but the heavy breathing of the multitude could be heard.

Bright Wing riveted his gaze upon the front of the council lodge.
A procession was issuing from the doorway. First came a number of
torchbearers, walking two abreast. They stepped apart on reaching
the open air, to form an avenue through which passed a dozen forms
fantastically clad and painted, making a hideous din by beating shallow
drums and rattling strings of dried deer-hoofs. These were followed by
a group of dignified chiefs in full war-dress. Last of all appeared a
solitary figure, awful in its grotesqueness—the horrible vision of a
nightmare.

“Tenskwatawa!” was the whisper that arose. It began in the front rank of
the crowd and ran toward the rear, until every pair of lips in the sea
of faces was moving. “Tenskwatawa! The Open Door!” Then a deathlike hush
fell upon them.

The grotesque figure was that of the Prophet. He ascended a small
platform to the right of the door of the council lodge, and stood looking
out over the heads of torchbearers, musicians, and chiefs. The glare of
blazing torches fell upon him. A buffalo-robe enveloped his body. The
horns surmounted his head and gave him a demoniac aspect. The tail of the
animal, whose skin he had assumed, trailed upon the ground behind him.
His hideous, repellent face—in which shrewdness, avarice, and cruelty
were reflected—was striped and smeared with black and yellow paints. From
nose and ears depended large silver crescents; and around his neck was a
string of bears’-claws. His one eye twinkled balefully.

For a full minute he stood with folded arms. Then he slowly raised his
right hand toward the black heavens. As he did so, a ring upon his index
finger caught the rays of the red and smoking torches and emitted a
fitful stream of sparkles.

“The Sign of the Prophet! The Sign of the Prophet!” wailed and sobbed the
throng of savages.

Many of them prostrated themselves to the earth, some in
convulsions—frothing at the mouth and gibbering incoherently; others in
a state of cataleptic rigidity—their eyes wide open and staring, their
limbs immovably fixed.

The Prophet’s lips moved; but no words came forth. He was praying.
At last he dropped his arm to a horizontal position, and, slowly and
impressively moving his hand from side to side, began in low-pitched,
resonant tones:

“Arise, children. I come to you with a message from the Great Spirit.”

The groveling braves got upon their feet, and, leaning forward, listened
eagerly to every word that fell from his lips.

He continued:

“The forests and streams belong to the redmen. The Great Spirit gave
them to his wild children. The palefaces have stolen our lands. The
Great Spirit is displeased with his children that they have tamely
submitted. All this you have heard before. The time has come for action.
You must strike a blow to recover your own. The palefaces are without
the gates. They come to take from us the little we have left. This is
holy ground—the feet of our enemies shall not defile it. They come at a
time when your great leader—the noble Tecumseh—is absent. They think to
force you to submit to their propositions. They demand a council. We have
promised to meet them. But we shall meet them to-night—not to-morrow. We
shall take with us the _tomahawk_—not the _peace-pipe_. Our guns shall
speak for us. My children, the Great Spirit sends you this message.”

Tenskwatawa paused to note the effect of his words. The warriors silently
gripped their weapons and, with blazing eyes, waited for him to proceed.
Pitching his voice in a higher key, he resumed:

“The black man has returned to the palefaces. I have put a spell upon
him—he will perform his mission. Ere the turn of the night the great
paleface chief will be in the spirit land, with his fathers. Then will
fear seize upon his warriors. In the early morning, my children, you will
fall upon them and destroy them. The Great Spirit has promised me the
victory. Darkness will shelter the redmen—while a great light will reveal
the palefaces. I have brewed a drink of which each of you shall sip—and
shall not taste death. Bullets shall pass him by—and long knives shall
refuse to harm him. The Great Spirit has promised—and I have told you. I
have put a spell upon the palefaces. Already one-half of them are dead or
crazy. The victory shall be yours—the Great Spirit has promised.”

Again he paused, his one eye fixed upon the sea of dusky faces before
him. The braves stood spellbound—awed to silence by his words and manner.
Raising his voice to the highest pitch, he cried:

“If there be a coward among you, let him eat dirt and stay with the
squaws. I would lead you myself, but the Great Spirit forbids. But my
power shall be with you—my sign shall accompany you. See!”

Again he raised his right hand; and again the ring upon his finger
scintillated dazzlingly.

“The Sign of the Prophet! The Sign of the Prophet!” was the awe-stricken
whisper of the multitude.

“Listen!” shouted Tenskwatawa. “Three brave chiefs shall lead
you—Winnemac, White Loon, and Stone-Eater. I have said that my sign shall
go with you. So it shall. See! I place it upon the noble Winnemac’s
finger. It shall bring you victory over our enemies. My children, I have
spoken.”

Wrapping the buffalo-skin closely around him, he descended the platform
and re-entered the council lodge. The chiefs, musicians, and torchbearers
followed him, in order. Then the pent enthusiasm of the warriors broke
loose. They whooped, howled, and danced; they embraced each other and
rolled over and over upon the ground. In a fanatical frenzy, they caught
up burning firebrands and ran hither and thither. For several minutes
pandemonium reigned.

Bright Wing had learned all he desired. He turned to slip away
unmolested, and had reached the edge of the crowd and was rapidly making
his way toward the palisade, when he came face to face with a white man.
The Wyandot uttered a grunt of surprise, as he recognized the form and
features of Hiram Bradford.

“Hello!” cried the latter. “Where are you running so fast, my red
friend—and what are you doing here?”

The young Indian haughtily drew himself erect and retorted:

“Bright Wing among his people. What paleface scout do here.”

“Good—very good!” Bradford chuckled huskily. “Well, I’ll answer your
question, Wyandot, and then you shall answer mine. I’m here as an agent
of the British, and I’m doing what I can to help your people to recover
what belongs to them. Now, what are _you_ doing here?”

“Bright Wing come help, too,” was the quick reply.

“Y-e-s,” the scar-faced scout answered doubtingly, “but you’ve been among
the palefaces—I saw you there, you know. You’ve been scouting for them.”

“Ugh!” Bright Wing grunted. “_You_ scout for palefaces, too. Me see _you_
there.”

Bradford was disconcerted by the Wyandot’s shrewd replies. Now he cried
irritably:

“Let’s understand each other, my red friend. I was among the Americans as
a spy. What were you doing in their service?”

“Bright Wing him spy, too,” was the unmoved rejoinder.

“And you have left them and come to fight with your people?”

“Ugh! me fight with friends. Paleface fight with redmen?”

“No,” Bradford reluctantly admitted; “I shan’t fight with them. I can
better help them in another way. Where are you going?”

“Bright Wing him go find friends. Good-night.”

The Wyandot stalked away, leaving Bradford staring after him.

“It may be all right,” muttered the latter, “but I greatly doubt it. I
suspect that cunning fellow’s here as a spy. But how did he pass the
guards at the gate? Ah! here comes Gray Wolf!”

Gray Wolf was a gigantic, vicious-looking Shawnee. Evidently he and
Bradford were old acquaintances. They held a hurried conversation. Then
Gray Wolf hastened away in pursuit of Bright Wing. He came upon the
Wyandot in an obscure corner of the inclosure, just as the latter was
preparing to scale the palisade.

“Why is my brother here by himself?” the Shawnee suavely asked in his own
tongue.

“Perhaps it pleases him to be alone,” Bright Wing answered haughtily, in
the same language.

“And perhaps he means to leave the village?”

“And if he does, has he not the same right to go and come as the birds of
the air or the beasts of the forest?”

“But Tenskwatawa has given orders that none shall leave the village until
the appointed time. I know my brother. He is Bright Wing, a Wyandot.”

“And _I_ know my brother. _He_ is Gray Wolf, a Shawnee.”

The two warriors stood glaring at each other in the darkness. Gray Wolf
was the first to speak again. He said in a low, intense tone of voice:

“My brother is the friend of the palefaces—the enemy of his race.”

Bright Wing replied proudly:

“The words that fall from my brother’s lips are not the words of truth.
Bright Wing is the true friend of his race.”

“Does he stand ready to prove it?” Gray Wolf asked sneeringly.

“He does,” was the frigid reply.

“Has he the Sign of the Prophet?”

“He has.”

“Bright Wing has a forked tongue—it refuses to speak the truth,” Gray
Wolf cried triumphantly. “Many have _seen_ the Sign of the Prophet, and
felt its power—but Tenskwatawa alone _has_ it.”

“Gray Wolf knows that he lies!” Bright Wing answered fiercely. “For at
this moment Winnemac bears the Sign of the Prophet.”

The Shawnee was taken aback. The answer was unexpected. He growled
savagely:

“Bright Wing is the dog of the palefaces. What does he here?”

The Wyandot leaned forward and hissed in the other’s ear:

“He comes to tear the throat of the wolf that helped to murder the great
and kind chief, Leatherlips. Die, whelp of a Shawnee!”

Gray Wolf tried to spring out of reach of his Nemesis, shaping his lips
for a war-whoop, as he did so. But the Wyandot’s tomahawk descended and
buried itself in the Shawnee’s brain. The whoop ended as a death-rattle
in his throat. His great bulk sank to earth, an inert mass. One bubbling
expiration of the breath—and Gray Wolf was a corpse.

Bright Wing wiped the blood from his tomahawk and replaced it in his
belt. Then he whipped out his scalping-knife, muttering in his own tongue:

“He helped to murder my father. His footprints will blight the flowers
and grass no more. The Great Spirit willed that Gray Wolf should die by
the hand of Bright Wing——”

He closed the sentence abruptly, and jerking off the reeking scalp of the
Shawnee, caught up his rifle and darted away in the darkness. The sound
of approaching footsteps had come to his quick ears.

A minute later a prolonged war-whoop reverberated from one end of the
village to the other. In answer to it came a hundred others. All was
excitement and confusion. Torches bobbed and flared here and there. An
enemy was in the camp.

Bright Wing flattened his form against the sloping roof of a cabin—where
he had taken refuge—and breathlessly awaited the outcome. The hut upon
which he was perched stood near the edge of the inclosure, and the roof
sloped toward the palisade. He was far from the blazing bonfires, and
darkness sheltered him. His enemies searched high and low, but failed
to discover him. Three or four times groups of them stood under the low
eaves and jabbered in guttural accents. Gradually the excitement subsided
and darkness and silence reigned.

Hours slipped by, but Bright Wing did not dare to leave his hiding-place.
He realized fully the dangers that beset him, and he shuddered, thinking
of his white friends. He must give them warning. But how? He thought of
many reckless plans, but abandoned each in turn.

Midnight passed—and morning was drawing nigh. Again the town was astir.
The Wyandot heard the buzz of myriad voices, and knew what it meant. The
allied tribes were preparing for the attack. He stretched his cramped
limbs and cautiously descended to the ground. If he was to give warning,
he must be off at once. He would make an attempt—no matter how reckless.
For several minutes he stood in the shadow of the low building, vainly
striving to map out a plan of procedure. The steady tramp of hundreds
of moccasined feet greeted his ears. The Prophet’s braves were marching
forth to battle.

Bright Wing ran to the palisade and sought to scale it. Failing at one
point he tried another. Frantically he dug his fingers and toes into the
crevices between the upright timbers. His efforts were fruitless. He did
not dare to approach the spot where he had entered the inclosure; the
guards near at hand were alert. The tramp-tramp of the marching warriors
drew nearer. They were approaching the northeastern gate. The Wyandot
made a final effort to climb the wall—and fell back. His heart sickened.
Was he doomed to failure? The thought made him desperate. Recklessly he
strode to the northeastern gateway and assayed to pass out. The click of
a gun-lock brought him to a standstill. A guard stepped from the shadow
and said:

“Has my brother the Sign of the Prophet?”

“He has _seen_ it,” Bright Wing mumbled, “but Tenskwatawa alone _has_ it.”

“Why does my brother seek to go out alone?”

“At the order of the great Winnemac he goes to scout,” was the
quick-witted reply.

“Ugh!” ejaculated the sentry, taking a step backward.

The nimble-footed Wyandot darted through the gateway and disappeared—just
as the head of the column of braves came in sight.

Down the incline, across the swampy prairie, and up the slope leading
to the camp of the whites, Bright Wing sped like the wind—never pausing
until he drew near the line of sentries. The sky was thickly clouded;
a gentle drizzle was falling. Dropping upon the ground, he watched and
waited for a chance to elude the vigilance of the pickets. A white man
would have given the alarm, by stepping forward and permitting himself to
be challenged; but the proud Wyandot scorned to do anything of the kind.
Minutes passed. Suddenly, a light footfall attracted his attention; and
the next moment Duke’s cold muzzle touched his hand.

“Go ’way—go to master!” Bright Wing commanded in a stern whisper.

In answer the dog threw up his nose and sniffed the damp air. Then with a
low growl, he bounded away toward camp.

“Duke him smell redmen,” the Wyandot muttered to himself. “Me must go in
quick—right away.”

Little by little he wriggled forward—the sentry pacing his beat within a
few feet of him. The next instant the intrepid young brave was upon his
feet. Like a scudding cloud he glided to the barricade of wagons, and
disappeared among them. A moment later he bent over the sleeping form of
Ross Douglas and, shaking him roughly, cried:

“Wake, Fleet Foot!”—The Indian name of his white friend.—“Up! Up!
Winnemac and heap many braves come—come soon.”

Douglas threw off his blanket, and, leaping to his feet, cried excitedly:

“Did you say the Indians are coming, Bright Wing?”

“Ugh!” grunted the imperturbable Wyandot. “Come quick soon—sight many.”

“You mean they’re almost upon us?”

“Ugh!”

“How did you learn the fact?”

“Bright Wing go to Prophet’s Town—learn big heap.”

Duke now dashed into the circle of light and out again, barking
furiously. His hoarse voice wakened Farley and his messmates. They
stumbled to their feet, sleepily rubbing their eyes.

“What in dingnation’s all this hullabaloo ’bout, anyhow?” Joe demanded
irritably.

“The Indians are upon us!” cried Ross. “Secure your arms—and make
yourselves ready for battle. I’m off to warn the officers.”

And striking the breech of his rifle, to prime it, Douglas bounded away
toward the governor’s tent.

“Jest as I pr’dicted,” Farley growled. “Dang-it-all-to-dingnation!
Hang-it-up-an’-take-it-down-an’-cook-it! Did anybody ever hear o’ such
dang fools as Injins is? Git up in the _night_ to fight! Dodrot that
Kaintuckian! He’s the cause o’ all this—he is, by the Queen o’ Sheby!
He might ’ave knowed his caterwaulin’ ’ld bring on a rumpus—even Injins
can’t stand no such unearthly noise as he makes. Great snakes—it’s darker
’n a squaw’s pocket!”

It was about four o’clock in the morning—the darkest hour in the
twenty-four. The moon had risen, but was veiled by heavy clouds. The
rain still fell. The smoldering camp-fires shed a faint, uncertain light
over the scene. Governor Harrison had already arisen and was sitting by
the fire in front of his tent. He had just pulled on his boots and was
conversing with the members of his staff, who sprawled upon blankets, in
a circle around the red embers. They were waiting for the signal to turn
out. In a few minutes the drum would have beaten reveille. Of a sudden
the report of a rifle, followed by an Indian yell, broke the stillness of
the camp, and brought the officers to their feet.

“What’s the meaning of that?” Harrison asked sharply.

At that moment Ross Douglas leaped into the circle of light, shouting:

“An attack! An attack, governor! The savages are upon us! A sentry has
just fired upon one and——”

His words were drowned in a torrent of Indian war-whoops. Then followed
the crash and roar of discharging firearms. A streak of flame ran along
the western picket line. The sentries came flying into camp. The Indians
were making an onslaught on the left wing.

In a moment all was bustle and excitement. The suddenness of the attack
almost caused a panic. But the commander was the firm rock upon which the
wave of consternation broke. Hastily mounting his horse, he dashed toward
the point of conflict, shouting his orders right and left as he went.
Drum and bugle called to arms. The soldiers tumbled out, formed in line,
and rushed to meet the foe. The battle was on in earnest.

The fires were stamped out, leaving the camp in darkness. Pandemonium
broke loose. The rattle of discharging rifles grew to a roar. The
redmen’s war-whoops were answered by yells. The castanet-like click of
rattling strings of deer-hoofs mingled with the muttering roll of drums
and the piercing peals of bugles. Terrified oxen lowed and bellowed;
frightened pack and draught horses neighed shrilly as they broke their
tethers, and ran madly about the camp. Officers—pistol in hand—rode along
the lines, encouraging their men to stand firm.

The impetuosity of the savages—born of ignorance and fanaticism—was a
fair match for the cool valor of the whites. Neither party would give
ground. The battle spread until it raged fiercely upon three sides of
the camp. The Indians forgot their ancient tactics and boldly fought
in the open. They met the soldiers face to face—and madly charged the
lines of bayonets. Again and again the opposing forces came together
with a reeling shock. Blood drenched the dead grass. Curses and groans
commingled; and over all rose the weird voice of Tenskwatawa—upon an
eminence a short distance away—chanting his war-song.

Major Daviess and Colonel White fell mortally wounded. Captain Spencer
and his lieutenants were all dead; and Captain Warwick was dying. Colonel
Owen dropped at the governor’s side. He was mounted upon a white horse
at the time; and as Harrison had ridden a white horse on the previous
day, undoubtedly the Indians mistook the aide for the commander. Dead and
dying braves and soldiers lay thick upon the hotly contested field.

During the battle Harrison spurred from one part of the camp to another,
disposing his troops to the best advantage. His officers begged him not
to expose himself, but he persisted in being where the fire was hottest.
His courage and coolness did much to hold the men steady under the deadly
fusillade in the darkness. One ball pierced his hat rim and another cut
a lock of hair from his temple—but still he rode unharmed through the
scathing fire. Seeing an ensign—a Frenchman—sheltering himself behind a
tree, the governor cried, angrily:

“Out from behind that tree, you cowardly rascal!”

“Me not behind ze tree,” explained the ensign; “ze tree in front of me.
Zere, ze tree—here, my position. What can I _do_, governor?”

With a laugh Harrison rode on and left the fellow.

A Winnebago broke through the lines of militia and dropped dead within
the camp. A tall militiaman sprang forward to scalp the prostrate
savage—but received a death-wound.

“Served him right!” snarled Joe Farley, who was loading and firing with
the rapidity and precision of a piece of machinery. “Tryin’ to make an
Injin of hisself—the heathen!”

The left flank began to give way before the desperate and persistent foe.
Ross Douglas and Bright Wing were fighting side by side, in that quarter.
A half-dozen warriors sprang through the broken lines, brandishing their
arms and yelling fiendishly. Four of them fell dead in their tracks.
Douglas and his comrade engaged in a hand-to-hand combat with the other
two. The Wyandot quickly dispatched his opponent, but Ross was not so
fortunate. His foot slipped upon the blood-soaked sod, and he fell
prostrate. His savage foe, with raised tomahawk, was upon him. The young
scout closed his eyes, expecting death. But the next moment the Indian
lay gasping for breath, with Duke’s keen fangs buried in his throat.

“Ugh! Duke him here at right time!” grunted Bright Wing, as he rammed
home another charge.

The ends of the broken line swung into place—and still the battle raged.

The rain ceased to fall; the sky began to clear. Darkness gave place to
dawn. The commander ordered a charge all along the lines. Inch by inch
the savages gave way—in spite of the bravery of their chiefs, and the
inspiration of Tenskwatawa’s war-song. At last they could stand the cold
steel of the bayonets no longer. They broke and fled. Down the slope and
across the boggy prairie, toward their town, they hastened, carrying many
of their dead and wounded with them. Victory had perched upon Harrison’s
banner; and the palefaces had won the battle of Tippecanoe.

The victorious troops pursued the fleeing savages, until the yielding
surface of the wet prairie compelled the mounted riflemen to halt. Then
the whole force returned to camp. The whites had lost one hundred and
eighty in killed and wounded; the Indians, probably, had lost an equal
number.

At sunrise squads of soldiers were engaged in burying the dead and
carrying the wounded to the surgeon’s quarters. Joe Farley was on the
detail. At the southwestern angle of the camp, he came upon the body
of a tall and lank militiaman. The man lay upon his side—a contorted,
blood-stained heap. His head rested upon his arm, and his face was
partially concealed. Supposing that the poor fellow was dead, Farley
caught him by the shoulder, to turn him over. The dying man moaned
feebly. Bending over him, Joe said tenderly:

“I didn’t mean to be rough, friend, I thought you was—was—are you hurt
bad?”

The blue lips moved—and these words were breathed into Farley’s face:

    “I left my children in ol’ Kaintuck,
      In the cabin with the’r mother;
    And now the’r pap has got his death—
      An’ they’ll—never git—an-oth-er!”

The faint voice ended in a whispering quaver. Joe sprang erect, his limbs
trembling, his face as white as chalk.

“Poor critter!” he murmured, pityingly. “He’s dyin’; but he’s still
thinkin’ of his wife an’ children. Poor little woman—an’ poor little
boys an’ gals—down in ol’ Kaintuck! You’ll never git another husband an’
father, that’s a fact; not one that’ll think as much of you, anyhow. His
words has come true. He must ’ave had a prem’nition o’ what was in store
fer him. Ding-it-all-to-dangnation! I’m sorry fer him—poor feller! An’ I
wish I hadn’t growled so much ’bout his caterwaulin’—I do, by Katherine!
But I thought he was jest foolin’—I didn’t know he was pourin’ out his
soul in singin’.”

Joe broke off suddenly and dashed the tears from his eyes. The dying
Kentuckian gave one expiring groan—and passed over the dark river. The
woodman stood silently looking down at the lump of senseless clay for
several minutes. Then he turned and strode away, muttering:

“I don’t like this buryin’ business, nohow. It makes me down in the
mouth. It’s worse ’n drivin’ oxen, by a long shot. Poor little boys an’
gals down in ol’ Kaintuck! They ain’t got no pap now—they’ll never be
rocked to sleep in his arms no more.”

He stopped and shook his head sadly, reflectively.

“Where Fleet Foot and Duke?”

Farley glanced up and beheld Bright Wing at his side.

“Ross an’ the bloodhoun’?” he inquired.

“Ugh!”

“I don’t know. But where you find one of ’em you’ll find t’other, most
likely. I hain’t set eyes on the dog sence last night, but I saw his
master this mornin’—jest after the Injins broke an’ run. You’ll find ’em
both ’round the camp somewheres.”

“Me look—no find,” answered the Wyandot with a positive shake of the
head.

“Well,” Joe returned dryly, “I wouldn’t lose no sleep ’bout ’em, Injin,
if I was you. They’re able to take keer o’ the’rselves.”

“Me look much long time—no find dog—no find master,” the Indian persisted.

“That so?” Joe replied—a shade of uneasiness in his tone. “Well, you’ve
got nothin’ else to do—so go _on_ huntin’. When I git through with this
bloody business o’ helpin’ to take keer o’ the dead an’ wounded, I’ll
take a look ’round with you. By the way, I’m gittin’ most pow’rful
hungry. But a feller told me a little bit ago the beef an’ meal was all
gone, an’ some of us ’ld have to eat hoss flesh fer our breakfast. Fer my
part, I ain’t a _hankerin’_. I can go purty nigh anything, but I draw the
line at hoss-steaks. It’s a sight worse ’n havin’ a lot o’ women in love
with you. W’y, Injin, one time so many female genders got in love with
me, I——”

The voluble fellow stopped speaking and looked around. The Wyandot had
disappeared.

“By my gran’mother’s ear-trumpet!” muttered Joe. “That redskin comes an’
goes like a shadder. S’pose he didn’t like my talk ’bout women-folks. He
must ’ave some ol’ love affair ranklin’ in his gizzard. I’m mighty awful
hungry, I swan. Well, if I can’t eat, I can smoke.”

And filling and lighting his pipe, he hurried away to procure help in
removing the body of the Kentuckian to the place of burial.

After a scant breakfast, the soldiers busied themselves about the camp,
righting overturned vehicles, securing stampeded animals, interring the
dead, and throwing up a ring of fortifications. Governor Harrison deemed
the latter proceeding a necessary precaution. He thought the savages
might renew the battle as soon as darkness came again.

The day passed. Night came—a night of feverish expectancy and unrest to
the exhausted soldiers. Joe Farley and Bright Wing did not sleep, but sat
by the fire all night long, starting at every unusual sound and longing
for morning. All the afternoon they had searched for Ross Douglas and his
dog, but had found no trace of either. It was the opinion of all to whom
they spoke, that the rash young scout had ventured too far in pursuit of
the savages and had been killed or captured.

Dawn came at last. After breakfast, General Wells took the dragoons and
mounted riflemen and went to reconnoiter the Prophet’s Town. Farley and
Bright Wing obtained permission to accompany the detachment.

The general found the place deserted. But one inhabitant remained within
its walls—a chief with a broken leg. The whites dressed his wound and
made other provision for him, and told him to say to his people that if
they would desert the standard of the Prophet and return to their own
tribes, they would be forgiven.

The troops found a large quantity of corn, which was very acceptable;
also some hogs and domestic fowls. These they removed to their camp.

The savages had fled precipitately, leaving many of their arms and
household utensils behind them. A large number of the guns were yet
wrapped in the coverings in which the British had imported them.

Farley and Bright Wing found no trace of their friend, until they
were slowly and sadly returning to camp. Then, a hundred yards from
the northeastern gate of the palisade, Joe picked up a silver button
belonging to Douglas’s hunting-shirt. He showed it to the Wyandot,
who simply nodded meaningly and pointed in the direction in which the
Prophet’s followers had fled. On reaching camp, Farley carried the
memento to Governor Harrison and remarked:

“Gov’nor, Ross Douglas has been missin’ sence the battle. I picked up
this button close to the Prophet’s Town. Ross is a pris’ner ’mong the
Injins, as sure’s shootin’—him an’ his dog, too.”

“How did it happen?” cried Harrison.

“I don’t know. But me and Bright Wing wants to foller the dang redskins
an’ try to rescue him——”

“It’s madness to think of such a thing,” the governor interrupted.
“You’ll throw away your lives to no purpose.”

“It don’t make no differ’nce,” Joe said doggedly. “Life ain’t worth
_much_ to such poor scamps as me, at best—an’ it won’t be worth _nothin’_
if Ross Douglas is tortured an’ killed by the Injins. No, gov’nor, me an’
Bright Wing’s goin’ after him. You’ll give us leave to go—an’ not have
us desert, won’t you, gov’nor?”

Joe asked the question pleadingly, tears standing in his pale, watery
eyes.

“Yes, _go_!” Harrison said, grasping the woodman’s calloused hand. “I
discharge you here and now. And may the Almighty’s protecting power
accompany you!”

“Amen! Thank you, gov’nor—an’ good-by,” Farley answered.

That afternoon Farley and Bright Wing shouldered their rifles and set
out on the trail of the Indians. The next day the army started upon the
return journey to Fort Harrison and Vincennes—the wagons loaded with
wounded soldiers. The campaign had been short, sharp, and effective.

[Illustration]




CHAPTER V.


On that fateful morning of the battle of Tippecanoe, Ross Douglas fought
in the front ranks until the savages broke and fled. Then he joined in
the hot pursuit. Duke kept close at his master’s side, growling and
baying viciously. In the charge Bright Wing got separated from his white
comrade, and returned to camp. Ross impetuously pressed onward, keeping
his eyes upon the flying foe and glancing neither to the right nor the
left, until he found himself at the foot of the slope leading up to the
Indian village. He looked around in surprise—he and the dog were alone.
He beheld the troops—a dense, dusky mass—a half mile away.

“Cowards!” the young man muttered scornfully. “Why have they given up
the pursuit? Now’s the time to win a glorious victory and make a lasting
peace. Fools! To come hundreds of miles to indulge in a mere skirmish.
They should follow up their success, and annihilate the Prophet and
his bloodthirsty band. If they stop at this, nothing will have been
accomplished. But I may as well go back with the others. Ah! who’s that?
Bradford!”

It was indeed the scar-faced scout. At full speed he came running down
the slope, gesticulating wildly. What could it mean? Ross had just
reloaded his rifle. Now he rested his finger upon the sensitive trigger
and wonderingly awaited the deserter’s approach.

“Flee—flee for your life, Douglas!” Bradford shouted excitedly.

Duke, who had been trying to warn his preoccupied master of approaching
danger, by a series of—low hoarse growls, now began to bark furiously.
Ross hastily glanced around him. He was almost surrounded by a party
of Indians. They had been in hiding behind a clump of bushes near the
foot of the incline, awaiting the chance to cut off the retreat of some
venturesome white. The gray fog rising from the marshy prairie had helped
to conceal them. While the unsuspecting Douglas had stood gazing at the
walls of the town, his cunning enemies had risen from their hiding-place,
and like silent specters glided out upon the soft prairie and thrown
themselves in a semicircle around him. Now they yelled exultingly and
began to close in.

Ross did not wait to see or hear more. Instantly he resolved to make a
dash for liberty. “Come, Duke!” he cried; and with the fleetness of a
deer sprang away, attempting to break through the line of his foes.

Bradford was at the bottom of the slope. “Hold!” he shouted frantically.
“It’s too late—you’ll throw away your life!”

But Douglas did not heed the warning. He eluded the grasp of one of the
Indians who barred his way; discharged his rifle full in the face of
another; struck down a third—and leaping over his prostrate body, sped
on. A half-score of guns cracked simultaneously. But the bullets failed
to reach the moving mark; and master and dog were beyond the line of
their enemies. They would have distanced their pursuers and escaped, had
not an unforeseen accident occurred. Ross’s foot became entangled in a
bunch of coarse, wet grass, and he tripped and fell heavily. Ere he could
rise his enemies were upon him.

Duke sprang at the throat of the foremost assailant, and dog and brave
fell to the ground. Over and over they rolled—the hound striving to bury
his fangs in the Indian’s throat, the savage attempting to sheath his
knife in the animal’s heart.

Douglas got upon his feet, clubbed his rifle, and laid about him
vigorously. But his foes overpowered him and pressed him to the earth.
Seeing which, Duke relinquished his hold upon the throat of his prostrate
adversary and flew to the aid of his master. The dying warrior gasped,
and attempted to arise—blood spurting in crimson jets from his lacerated
arteries.

At the critical moment, Bradford rushed among the braves, and flinging
them right and left, thundered in the Indian tongue:

“Hold, you mad devils! Would you overpower and murder a man who has
fought bravely for his life? Harm not a hair of his head, or your lives
shall pay the penalty. He is _my_ prisoner.”

Bending down, he assisted Douglas to arise. As soon as he could speak,
the young man called to the bloodhound:

“Here, Duke! Down—down, I say!”

The obedient animal left the savage with whom he was struggling,
and crouched at his master’s feet—panting, whining, and rolling his
blood-rimmed eyes. The Indians drew apart a short distance, grunting and
grumbling in a surly and threatening manner. For a full minute the two
white men stood looking at each other. Douglas’s chest was still heaving
from his recent exertions; and his words came brokenly:

“You saved my life. I thank you for it! But I’d rather you had left me to
my fate.”

“Why?” Bradford asked coolly.

“Because I don’t like to be under obligations to a traitor,” Ross replied
boldly.

The younger man expected to see the older’s face pale with anger. But
a smile actually rested upon Bradford’s scarred visage, as he returned
calmly:

“You’re mistaken, my young friend. I’m no traitor. _You_ are loyal to the
Americans—_I_ am loyal to the English.”

“Then you are a spy in the employ of the British.”

“Y-e-s. Or an agent to look after their interests among the Indians,
rather.”

“I despise you none the less,” Ross cried.

Bradford continued to smile as he said:

“You are young—therefore you are indiscreet. I have saved your life; I
would be your friend. But if you don’t desire my friendship, I can turn
you over to the tender mercies of those red fiends, who are hungering
to tear you limb from limb. Even now they are grumbling about my
interference. I may lose my life for my temerity. You’re ungrateful.”

“If you regret your act of mercy and fear for your own safety,” Douglas
sneered, “call your savage hounds and tell them to do their worst. I can
die fighting.”

“I don’t regret what I have done,” Bradford returned huskily, a shade
of sadness in his voice, “nor do I fear for my own safety. I don’t
value life—I don’t fear death. And I’ll save you or perish with you.
But you must listen to reason; you must do my bidding. Just at present
I have great influence with the Indians. I’ll exert it to the utmost
in your behalf. But you and your vicious dog have sorely punished your
assailants. Two warriors are dead and several others are wounded. Their
comrades thirst for revenge. Hist! Here they come. Say not a word—leave
it all to me.”

A stalwart Indian came forward and grunted surlily:

“The paleface’s arm is strong—his aim is sure; the fangs of his dog are
long and sharp. Two braves are sleeping with their fathers; and three
others are binding up their wounds. The paleface and his dog must die.”

“No, he shall _not_ die, chief,” Bradford cried angrily. “He fought for
life and liberty. You assailed him twenty to one. I rescued him—he is my
prisoner. I shall take him to the village with me.”

“He is _not_ Scar Face’s prisoner,” the chief returned fiercely, laying
his hand upon his tomahawk—while his warriors crowded around him,
muttering threateningly.

“Tenskwatawa shall decide,” Bradford answered coolly.

“Tenskwatawa is a squaw! He promised us victory; we met defeat.”

“Say that to Tenskwatawa, and he will cast a spell upon you.”

A grayish pallor overspread the chief’s dusky visage. His eyes dilated
and his jaw dropped. Bradford quickly followed up the advantage he had
gained. Leaning forward, he whispered in the Indian’s ear:

“Shall I repeat your words to the Prophet?”

Abject terror took possession of the chief. He trembled, and gasped for
breath. His warriors uttered startled grunts and drew away. Bradford
continued sternly:

“Then, take your braves and be off to the village. I will follow with the
prisoner.”

Without a word in reply, the savages obeyed the order. Bradford waited
until they had disappeared within the walls. Then turning to Douglas, he
said:

“Come—you must accompany me.”

“We’re alone,” Ross answered quietly; “you can’t compel me to go with
you.”

“_My_ gun is loaded—_your’s_ is empty,” was the significant reply.

“True—but you wouldn’t shoot me.”

Bradford started.

“What makes you think that?” he asked quickly.

“I don’t know. But you wouldn’t.”

“No, I wouldn’t injure you—even if you left me to my fate.”

“Your fate? I don’t understand you.”

“If you leave me to return to the village alone, I shall meet death at
the hands of the savages. They’ll kill me for breaking faith with them.”

“Then go with me to the camp of the whites——”

“And be shot as a _spy_!” Bradford completed.

“True!” Douglas said slowly and impressively. “Bradford, you _are_ a
British spy—an enemy of my country. I hate you—I despise you!”—The older
man turned pale to the lips, but did not interrupt his companion.—“But
you have befriended me; and I’ll not be guilty of the sin of ingratitude.
You shan’t sacrifice your life for my liberty. Take my arms. I’m your
prisoner.”

“Keep your arms,” Bradford returned hoarsely, his chest heaving, his
white lips twitching. “Reload your gun. We may have to fight shoulder to
shoulder. Let’s be prepared to sell our lives dearly.”

Silently Ross reloaded and primed his rifle. Then he said simply:

“I’m ready.”

“Come,” was the gruff response.

Side by side, the two men ascended the slope and entered the unguarded
gateway of the palisade. Duke accompanied them. An extraordinary
spectacle met their gaze. Hundreds of armed warriors—Shawnees,
Winnebagoes, Miamis, Wyandots, and others—were swarming promiscuously
about. Squaws and children bearing bags and bundles hurried hither and
thither. All was bustle and confusion. The whole resembled a hive of
angry bees into which some venturesome youngster had thrust a stick.

“What’s the meaning of all this?” Ross inquired of his companion.

“They are preparing to abandon the town,” was the reply.

“Shall we go with them?”

“If we’re alive at the time—yes.”

They elbowed their way through the throng, attracting no little attention.

“Scar Face,” muttered a Winnebago, as they passed.

“Fleet Foot,” grunted a Wyandot.

“Does he mean you?” asked Bradford turning to his companion.

“Yes.”

“You merit the name. Does the Wyandot warrior know you?”

“Undoubtedly. I’ve traded among the members of the tribe, for years.”

“Do you speak their language?”

“I speak several Indian tongues.”

“So much the better. Our mutual knowledge may be of value to us.”

They were conversing in low tones, all the while proceeding in the
direction of the council-lodge.

“And they call you Scar Face,” Douglas carelessly remarked.

“Yes,” answered his companion, in a tone of intense bitterness—the red
scar upon his cheek blazing like a beacon light of danger.

Ross instantly realized his mistake, and hastened to say:

“I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings. I wouldn’t do that needlessly,
though I look upon you as an enemy.”

“I fully understand your feeling toward me,” Bradford replied, his
features working. “It’s unnecessary for you to explain.”

Douglas was surprised. Who was this strange man, to whom he owed his life
and for whom he felt such antipathy—and who appeared determined to be his
friend? To relieve his embarrassment, the younger man asked:

“Have you spent much of your life among the Indians?”

“Half of it,” was the curt reply.

By this time they were nearing the entrance of the council lodge; and
Bradford continued:

“There—we have safely run the gauntlet of scowling looks and threatening
gestures. I feared we should not get through so easily. Now we’ll have an
interview with Tenskwatawa. Oh! there he is.”

In front of the council lodge stood the Prophet. He was alone. His head
was bowed; his chin, buried in the folds of his buffalo-robe. He was a
bronze statue of gloom—the personification of utter dejection.

“Come,” whispered Bradford to Douglas. “Let’s hurry to him while he’s
alone. Our safety depends upon our winning him to our side.”

Ross hesitated and drew back.

“Don’t be a fool!” Bradford hissed. “This is no time for squeamish
notions of independence.”

“But I hate him!” Douglas panted. “I would _kill_ him!”

“Nevertheless,” was the unmoved reply, “he holds the winning cards, at
present. Our lives are in his hands. No doubt the chief and his warriors
have been to him. Come—and leave everything to me.”

At that moment Tenskwatawa lifted his head and fixed his one eye upon
them. A malicious smile flickered about the corners of his sensual
mouth—and was gone. Again he was a graven image.

Bradford was about to speak, when a gigantic Indian accompanied by a
score of warriors unceremoniously elbowed him aside and stopped before
the Prophet. The newcomer was Winnemac, the great Pottawatomie chief.
His hands were clenched; his features, black with rage. The Prophet kept
his gaze fixed upon the ground and gave no heed to the angry chief’s
presence.

“Tenskwatawa is a Shawnee squaw!” Winnemac thundered.

“He promised us success; we received defeat. He said the palefaces were
crazy; but they were in their senses, and fought like devils. He told us
that we should rejoice over the destruction of the White Chief’s army;
we mourn for our young men slain. He assured us that we should not taste
death; we feasted upon it. Tecumseh is a brave warrior; Tenskwatawa is a
squaw! See, braves! I spit upon him and slap his face!”

And suiting the action to the words, the enraged chief spat upon the
Prophet and dealt him a resounding slap upon the cheek.

The assembled warriors yelled in derision. Scores of others, attracted
by the uproar, came running to the spot. Bradford and Douglas found
themselves in the center of a mob of hooting, gesticulating demons, ready
to wreak their rage upon any object that offered. The two white men
looked anxiously about them, but saw no way of escape.

Tenskwatawa did not resent Winnemac’s insult. Instead, he lifted his hand
to command silence; and, as soon as he could make himself heard, began
meekly:

“Tenskwatawa is no warrior—he is the Prophet of the Great Spirit.
Tenskwatawa is no squaw, though he has borne the burdens of his people
for many moons. The Great Spirit promised Tenskwatawa the victory, and he
gave the message to his children. The Great Spirit did not lie——”

“Tenskwatawa lied!” Winnemac shouted fiercely.

Unheeding the interruption, the Prophet continued:

“The Great Spirit made no mistake; but Tenskwatawa blundered. He parted
with his sign—his power. He gave it to the noble Winnemac, that he might
lead his warriors to victory. Tenskwatawa robbed himself of his power—he
was helpless. The noble Winnemac could make no use of the sign—he knew
not the secret of its power. The battle was lost. Tenskwatawa blundered.”

Grunts of approval followed this apparently frank confession. Seeing
which, Winnemac cried sneeringly:

“Tenskwatawa lost his power—and it is gone forever. He is a babbling
papoose!”

“Return to him his sign, and he will show the noble Winnemac that he is
mistaken,” the Prophet returned quietly.

“Take it!” sneered Winnemac, drawing the ring from his finger and
contemptuously flinging it at the feet of its owner.

Tenskwatawa secured the talisman and restored it to its accustomed
place upon his right hand. Instantly a remarkable change took place in
his aspect and demeanor. No longer was he a humble suppliant begging
pardon for past mistakes. He proudly drew himself erect, his lips curling
scornfully. The pupil of his eye contracted. The ring upon his finger
scintillated in the rays of the morning sun. With a sinuous, snake-like
movement, he glided to Winnemac’s side; and suddenly pushing the
sparkling jewel before the startled chief’s eyes, hissed:

“The sign—the power! Look—look! you cannot take your eyes from it!”

Winnemac’s features froze—became rigid, expressionless. His eyeballs
bulged from their sockets and remained fixed. The Prophet slowly waved
his hand to and fro. The Pottawatomie’s head turned from side to side—his
gaze followed the movements of the talisman. Faster and faster the
Prophet’s hand flew. Then, of a sudden, he leaned forward and whispered
in the chief’s ear:

“You are drowsy. Sleep—sleep! Your limbs are heavy—feeble. Sleep—sleep!”

Winnemac’s eyelids dropped; his frozen features thawed. He trembled,
swayed—and sank upon the ground, a senseless clod. Tenskwatawa pointed
his finger at the sleeping warrior and shouted triumphantly:

“Look, children! Look upon the valiant Winnemac. He doubted my power, he
spat upon me and defied me. See! he lies helpless at my feet. The Great
Spirit willed it—and he sleeps. Awaken him, if you can. You cannot. The
loudest thunder would not rouse him; the keenest torture would not cause
him to stir. Thus will he sleep forever, unless the Great Spirit, through
me, wills that he awake.”

The assembled braves pressed forward and craned their necks, to gaze
upon their vanquished chieftain. One look was sufficient. To their
untutored minds, a miracle had been wrought. They surged backward—silent,
awe-struck.

“Listen!” screamed the Prophet, his countenance purple with rage and
excitement. “My children, you have scoffed at my power. Shall I do with
you as I have done with the great Winnemac? Shall I cast a spell upon
you—shall I cause you to sleep forever?”

Again he lifted his hand and flashed the glittering gem before their
eyes, his head swaying from side to side in a serpentine manner. Shrieks
and groans of terror arose from the assembled warriors. Some prostrated
themselves to the earth and pled for mercy; others fled from the
scene—craven fear depicted upon their faces.

“What’s the meaning of it all?” Douglas inquired in a low tone, of his
companion. “Is it a clever play—for our benefit?

“No,” answered Bradford with a positive shake of the head. “Tenskwatawa
possesses some wonderful power. I don’t know what it is—but I’ve felt it.”

“And couldn’t you resist it?”

“_I_ could—yes. But _many_ can’t—as you have witnessed. Hush—he is
speaking.”

The Prophet was saying:

“Arise, my children. The Great Spirit forgives you—_I_ pardon you. Have
no fear; no harm shall befall you. Go and prepare for your journey. We
must leave this sacred spot; the white man’s presence has defiled it. But
the Great Spirit will go with us. He has promised. At another time, He
will give us the victory over our enemies. The noble Winnemac shall sleep
no longer. See!”

Tenskwatawa, clapping his hands thrice in quick succession, cried sharply:

“Winnemac, awake—arise!”

The Pottawatomie suddenly opened his eyes; and, springing to his feet,
gazed wildly around him, a bewildered expression upon his face. Little by
little he recovered his scattered faculties and remembered where he was
and what had happened. A horrified look settled on his countenance, as
his eyes rested upon the Prophet. He shivered like one with an ague; and
his teeth chattered.

“The bold and warlike Winnemac has been asleep in the early morning,”
Tenskwatawa remarked sneeringly.

“Ugh!” was the guttural reply.

Drawing his blanket over his head to hide his face, the Pottawatomie
turned and staggered from the spot. The assembled warriors quickly
followed him, leaving the two white men alone with the Prophet.

“Again I have witnessed the power of Tenskwatawa,” Bradford said, smiling
and extending his hand toward the red hypnotist. “Surely he speaks with
the Great Spirit.”

Evidently the Prophet understood the flatterer’s purpose; for, ignoring
the extended hand, he answered sternly:

“Yes; Tenskwatawa speaks with the Great Spirit. And the Great Spirit
informs him that the young man at Scar Face’s side must die.”

Bradford was not disconcerted. He returned coolly:

“Is Tenskwatawa sure he heard the Great Spirit’s words aright?”

“Tenskwatawa heard aright,” was the haughty reply. “The young paleface is
of the Seventeen Fires. He is an enemy of the redmen. To-day he fought
against them, slaying two and wounding three. The Great Spirit says he
shall suffer death by torture.”

“Did the Great Spirit inform Tenskwatawa that this young man—Fleet
Foot—is my friend?”

“No. But is not Scar Face the friend of the redmen?”

“He is.”

“Then how can an enemy of the redmen be the friend of Scar Face?”

“Fleet Foot fought only to save his life. He was attacked by twenty
braves. I ran to his rescue. I saved his life and brought him here. He is
my prisoner. Let Tenskwatawa enter the council lodge and again talk with
the Great Spirit.”

“Tenskwatawa has no need to talk further with the Great Spirit nor with
Scar Face,” the Prophet muttered in a decided tone. “The young paleface
is of the Seventeen Fires; he fought with the great White Chief—he must
die.”

“If Fleet Foot meets death at the hands of the redmen, I meet death with
him,” Bradford said firmly.

An evil smile flickered around the corners of Tenskwatawa’s wide mouth,
as he replied menacingly:

“If Scar Face be so anxious to meet death, he has not far to go. I will
call my children and give him and Fleet Foot as toys, into their hands.”

The Prophet opened his lips, to carry his threat into execution. As
though understanding the import of what had been said, Duke raised
his bristles and growled hoarsely. Startled by the sound, the Prophet
recoiled a step. Taking advantage of his unguarded attitude, Bradford
dropped his gun, and leaping forward, caught the Shawnee around the body
and carried him into the council lodge. Douglas and Duke quickly followed.

Setting the red hypnotist in the center of the bare floor, Bradford
panted fiercely:

“You infernal impostor and scoundrel! Your uncanny power has no influence
over me. I am no superstitious Winnemac. You would give Fleet Foot and me
into the hands of your red fiends, eh? Well, you shall die first!”

Bradford spoke in the Shawnee tongue; and the Prophet understood every
word. The boastful braggart cowered and trembled. Cowardice was written
in every lineament of his features. A sickly pallor overspread his face.
He could not articulate a sound. He fearfully rolled his eyes from side
to side. But no chance of escape offered—no attendants were at hand.

Turning to his companion, Bradford asked hurriedly:

“You brought my gun in with you?”

Ross nodded.

“Well, see that both pieces are in order. I’ll kill this miscreant—then
we’ll make a running fight for it. It’s all that is left us.”

Tenskwatawa was shaking like one with senile palsy. Bradford drew his
knife and swiftly advanced upon him. The base wretch dropped upon his
knees and supplicatingly raised his hands. He tried to speak; but naught
save the chatter of his teeth broke the stillness of the big, dark room.

“Die, treacherous devil!” Bradford hissed as he raised his arm to strike.

“Mercy!” Tenskwatawa managed to gasp.

“Mercy!” sneered Scar Face, still holding the knife aloft. “Dare you beg
for mercy? What mercy have _you_ ever shown? You condemn my friend and me
to death—yet ask me to show mercy to _you_!”

“Mercy!” the craven lips whispered. “Scar Face and his friend shall go
free; my children shall not harm them.”

A husky laugh gurgled in Bradford’s throat, as he answered:

“You are a fool—you think to deceive me. As soon as we are out of your
presence, you will call your red hounds and set them upon us. No! I
cannot trust you—your hour has come. Prepare to meet the Great Spirit
whose name you have defamed. You are a treacherous cur—and you shall die!”

“Have I ever deceived you, Scar Face?” the Prophet asked tremulously,
in his terror dropping the figurative form of speech to which he was
addicted, and speaking in the first person.

“N-o,” Bradford admitted.

“Nor am I deceiving you now,” the kneeling savage hastened to say. “You
and your friend shall go free—none shall molest you. You shall come and
go at your pleasure. I was mad to threaten you——”

“Indeed, you were!” Bradford interrupted, dropping his arm, but still
retaining a firm hold upon his knife. “Now, Tenskwatawa, if you have
come to your senses, arise and give heed to what I say. This is the
second time you have pitted yourself against me—and both times you have
been worsted. The next time I shall not bandy words with you. Do you
understand my meaning?”

The Prophet, who had arisen to his feet, nodded meekly.

“Very well,” Scar Face continued, “you are desirous of wresting your
lands from the grasping Americans. The British are your allies. They
have furnished your children with arms, ammunition, and clothing. I am
their agent. Do you wish me to return to my people and tell them you
sought to take my life?”

Tenskwatawa sullenly but emphatically shook his head.

Bradford proceeded: “Had you caused my death, my people would have
learned the fact. They would have withdrawn their help, and avenged my
murder. You know I speak the truth. You were mad to harbor the thought
of opposing my will. Your brother—the great and warlike Tecumseh—is my
friend. What would he have said to you?”

The Prophet shivered and was silent. Bradford hastened to conclude:

“Let us have a final understanding, then. This young man is my friend——”

“Hold!” testily interrupted Douglas, who had been chafing under the
oft-repeated assertion. “I’ll not admit that I’m your friend, to save my
life, even.”

Tenskwatawa uttered a grunt of surprise. But Scar Face resumed placidly:

“He _is_ my friend, although he denies it. But he is an American; and as
an American, is the enemy of the redmen and their allies, the English.
This morning he fought against us; he would fight against us again.
Therefore we shall keep him prisoner. But he must receive neither insult
nor injury at our hands. Tenskwatawa, you have made two mistakes within
the last twenty-four hours. You must not forget your promise to me—and
thereby make another.”

“Tenskwatawa will not forget his promise,” the Prophet answered humbly.

Bradford approached the Indian and whispered a few words in his ear. The
latter nodded and glanced toward Douglas. Then the two white men and the
dog withdrew from the lodge. When they were out of sight and hearing, the
Prophet stamped the earth and tore his hair, in a frenzy of impotent rage.

On reaching the open air, Bradford turned to his companion and said
briskly:

“Wait for me here. I’ll be gone but a few minutes.”

And without tarrying for an answer, he disappeared around the corner of
the building. On his return he remarked:

“Well, we have escaped from our difficulty. It was a bold plan that I
followed—but the only one; and it succeeded admirably. But Tenskwatawa is
a weak and treacherous villain, and will bear close watching. His success
in overpowering Winnemac made him reckless—mad.”

“Do you think he’ll keep his promise?” Ross asked.

“Yes.”

“Then you are safe; and I’ll return to the army.”

“But you can’t,” Bradford answered smilingly.

“Why?”

“Because you are my prisoner.”

Douglas’s anger arose; and he answered hotly:

“Your prisoner! Hiram Bradford, you saved my life. Then I accompanied you
here, that the vengeance of the savages might not fall upon you—that you
might not suffer for my escape. You have cowed the Prophet—you are safe.
I’m going back to my friends.”

“Again I say—you _cannot_.”

“And again _I_ say—why?”

“Because you are my prisoner and must accompany me whither I’m going.
I have just given the order that you be closely watched. Escape is
impossible. Give me your promise that you’ll not attempt it.”

“I’ll do nothing of the kind,” Douglas cried angrily. “Do you imagine for
a moment I’ll submit to your high-handed proceeding? Do you think I’ll
remain a captive when the way of escape lies open?”

“There _is_ no way of escape, my boy,” was the cool reply. “You’ll
gracefully submit to the inevitable.”

“Why have you done this thing?” demanded Douglas, almost choking with
fury.

“I?” returned Bradford with lifted brows. “I have done nothing but save
your life and look after your safety. Your temerity led you into the
lion’s jaws. They snapped shut—and you are a prisoner. And a prisoner
you must remain for the present. If I permit you to return to your
people, I endanger myself. Besides, you heard me promise Tenskwatawa that
I would hold you captive, to keep you from fighting against the British
and Indians, in the war that is surely coming. Then, I have other reasons
for desiring to keep you with me—reasons I don’t care to divulge at
present. Come, be reasonable! We shall be the best of friends yet. I—I
have learned to like you, although you persist in saying that you hate
me——”

“Hate you!” Ross broke forth. “Hiram Bradford, I despise you—I _loathe_
you! You shall pay for this. Here, you are surrounded by hundreds of
murderous savages ready to do your bidding—and I’m helpless. But I have
friends who will follow and rescue me. Some day I shall meet you alone.
Then I’ll plunge my knife into your black heart—and rid the world of a
villain!”

“No—no! You don’t mean what you say—you cannot!” gasped Bradford, his
disfigured face as pale as death and his lips quivering.

But Ross made no reply. Tossed by a tempest of rage, he whirled and
strode away to a distant part of the inclosure. Bradford silently watched
the young man until he disappeared among the groups of savages. Then the
older man sunk his chin upon his breast and groaned bitterly:

“He hates me—despises me! God! How great is my punishment! I love him; I
would gladly shed my last drop of blood for him. And he loathes me—would
murder me!”

A few minutes later, he was his cool, collected self; and was moving from
place to place, searching for Douglas.

[Illustration]




CHAPTER VI.


It was the middle of the forenoon. Ross Douglas stood at one of the
openings in the palisade, moodily watching the stream of savages filing
through the gateway and setting out upon their journey toward Wildcat
Creek, twenty miles away. The sun was bright; the air was light and
warm. But Ross’s heart was cold and heavy. His emotions were at war.
He condemned the impetuosity that had led him into such a trap, and
pronounced himself a fool. He cursed the cowardice of the soldiers who
had neglected to follow up their advantage, and had left him to fall into
the hands of the Indians. And he gritted his teeth when he thought of
Bradford, who—as he thought—had meanly deceived and tricked him. Then his
thoughts reverted to Franklinton and Amy Larkin—and he groaned aloud.

“Let’s be moving; we have a long tramp before us.”

He glanced up and encountered the gaze of Bradford.

“What’s our destination?” Ross inquired stiffly.

“We are going to camp on Wildcat Creek, twenty miles from here,” Bradford
returned pleasantly.

“Shall we cover the whole distance to-day?”

“Certainly.”

“It’s a long jaunt.”

“Do you consider it so?” in evident surprise.

“Yes; it’s a longer walk than I feel inclined to undertake.”

“Aren’t you used to long journeys afoot?”

“Yes; but I’m not accustomed to making them against my will.”

“Oh”—and the older man smiled. “Perhaps you’d prefer to ride.”

“I’m no horseman.”

“I can easily overcome that difficulty.”

“How?”

“I can have you tied on the animal’s back,” was the frigid reply.

Douglas remained silent; he was too angry to speak.

“Come, now,” Bradford said coaxingly. “There’s no use in kicking
against fate. You’re going with me—willingly or unwillingly. I would be
your friend. Don’t force me to deal harshly with you. You hate me, I
know. But I have your good at heart, and I’m your friend, in spite of
appearances—in spite of all you may say or think.”

Tears were in the speaker’s eyes, and his voice was trembling. Ross
looked at him wonderingly. For a half minute both were silent. Then the
younger man said quietly:

“I’m ready.”

Side by side, the two dropped into the moving line and passed through the
gateway.

For an hour they walked onward over the uneven ground, neither
speaking. Squads of savages were on all sides of them, all bearing in a
south-easterly direction. Some were mounted, some were afoot. All were
in a panic to escape from the vicinity of Harrison’s army. Squaws and
children bent and groaned under their burdens, as they stumbled along;
but the haughty warriors, bearing their arms only, scorned to offer them
assistance.

Another hour passed. The sun had almost reached the zenith. The way was
growing rougher, but with dogged persistence the rabble pressed forward.

All this time the silence between Douglas and his companion remained
unbroken. Now the latter laid his hand upon the former’s arm and said:

“You have had nothing to eat to-day?”

“Nothing.”

“I have some dried-beef. Will you share it with me?”

“Gladly.”

They drew out of the line, and seated themselves by the side of a
small stream. Bradford produced a quantity of dried-beef and a horn
drinking-cup from the pouch that hung at his side. Silently they ate of
the food and drank of the water from the brook. Duke seated himself upon
his haunches and begged for his share. Ross patted the hound’s head
and tossed him several strips of the cured flesh. Seeing which Bradford
remarked:

“You’d better eat that meat yourself or save it for another meal. The
Indians, in their haste, have left behind nearly all their supplies.
There’s not food enough among them to last twenty-four hours; and the
chance of procuring more isn’t good. Don’t you see how the braves are
scowling at you as they pass? When there’s scarcity of food, the Indian
eats sparingly; his dog fasts.”

“Yes, I know,” Douglas returned as he dropped another piece of beef into
Duke’s capacious mouth. “I’m not unacquainted with their customs.”

“And when famine threatens,” Bradford pursued, “they kill and eat their
dogs.”

“I’m aware of the fact.”

“Do you catch my meaning?”

“I do.”

Neither again spoke for some moments. Ross noted that some of the Indians
that passed were munching parched corn and nibbling pieces of dried-beef.
Others had no food at all, apparently. They looked gaunt and haggard, but
stoically plodded onward, without a murmur.

“Well, what do you think about it?” Bradford asked suddenly.

“About what?” was the quiet rejoinder.

“You know what I mean. Shall I shoot the dog?”

“Of course not,” Ross answered unmoved.

“You can step aside and——”

“You’re considerate of my feelings.”

“Believe me, it’s better so,” Bradford went on earnestly.

“It takes a large quantity of food to appease the hunger of fifteen
hundred human beings. The supply is meager. Scarcity is already here;
absolute want will soon arrive.”

“A flattering prospect you hold out to your guest,” Ross remarked dryly.

“I’m telling you the truth, at any rate. By the way, how much better off
would you be with Governor Harrison? I know that the supplies of the
army were almost exhausted two days ago. By this time, the soldiers are
feasting on horse-flesh.”

“I should be a free man, at least,” Douglas interrupted in a tone of deep
dejection.

Bradford sighed as he resumed:

“At this season of the year, game is scarce in this locality. If the
worst comes, the savages will kill and eat all the horses and dogs in
camp—your own surly brute included.”

“Not until they have disposed of me,” Ross answered, his eyes flashing,
his nostrils dilated.

“That’s just what I fear. The dog will get you into trouble. Let me put a
bullet through his brain.”

“The moment you do, I’ll put one through yours,” was the fierce reply.
“Let me hear no more on the subject. That dog is one of the true and
disinterested friends I’m fortunate enough to have. He’d give his life
for me—I’d shed my blood for him.”

Again Bradford sighed deeply; but he said no more.

They arose, shouldered their guns, and resumed their toilsome march. Just
as they dropped into the moving line of savages, Tenskwatawa, mounted
upon a magnificent black horse,—a gift of the English government,—rode
past them. At the side of the clean-limbed steed, trotted a nimble,
sure-footed gray pony; and seated upon its back was a young woman. The
robe of rich furs that enveloped her person neatly concealed the fact
that she rode astride. The hood of her cloak was thrown back, and a
cataract of fine red-gold hair rippled down her shoulders. Her face
was beautiful, her skin milk-white and satiny; and her eyes were the
violet-blue of the midsummer skies. The rein she held in her small
shapely hand was of braided horsehair, ornamented with shells and
jingling coins; and the housings of her plump palfrey were of crimson
cloth, trimmed with a fringe of gold.

The Prophet sat stiffly erect in the saddle, looking neither to the right
nor to the left; but not so, his fair companion. Douglas and Bradford
stepped aside to let the riders pass. As they did so, the prisoner
glanced up and encountered the young woman’s gaze fixed upon him. He
could not remove his eyes from her face; he did not try to do so. Boldly
he stared at her until her lids dropped, her cheeks flamed, and the
faintest hint of a smile parted her red lips, revealing a row of even,
white teeth. Then she shyly peeped at him from under her long lashes;
and turning aside her face, rode on.

Ross was surprised; excited. He stood staring after the lovely
apparition—his lips apart, his chest heaving—until Bradford, touching him
on the arm, said:

“What’s the matter—have you seen a ghost?”

“An angel, rather,” Douglas replied so solemnly that his companion burst
out laughing.

But the younger man did not join in the older’s merriment. Instead, he
asked impatiently:

“Who is she?”

“An Indian squaw.”

And Bradford continued to laugh as though greatly amused.

“Squaw!” Ross answered in a tone of deep disgust. “She’s no squaw—not a
half-breed, even. She’s a vision of loveliness. If she be mortal, she’s a
pure Caucasian. Who is she?”

“Tenskwatawa’s daughter,” replied Bradford, his bright eyes twinkling
mischievously.

“The Prophet’s daughter—bah!” was the scornful rejoinder. “Do you expect
me to believe so transparent a falsehood? Do you think me blind? She’s a
Caucasian, I tell you. Her eyes, her complexion, her hair—all indicate
the fact.”

“You forget there are red-headed Indians,” Bradford suggested.

“I forget nothing. I have seen red-haired savages. But their complexions
were swarthy, their eyes black.”

“And I’ve seen them fair, with blue eyes and auburn hair.”

“They were of mixed blood, then,” Douglas said positively.

“Possibly.”

“Possibly! You know they were. No Indian, male or female, pure blood or
cross-breed, could be as fair as this young woman. Her features, her
manner, her every characteristic bespeaks the white blood in her veins
and stamps her as a white woman. You’re trying to deceive me. Now tell
me. Who is she?”

“I have told you what Tenskwatawa says and what his tribe believes. Like
you, he calls her an angel, and tells how the Great Spirit sent her to
him.”

Again Bradford was smiling, a peculiar, unfathomable smile.

“The lying impostor stole her somewhere,” Ross answered earnestly.

His companion continued to smile, but said nothing.

“How long has she been among the savages?” the younger man pursued.

“Since her birth, perhaps. How should I know.”

“But you _do_ know.”

Again the older man was silent.

“Why do you refuse to answer my questions?” Ross cried irritably.

Once more that peculiar, fleeting smile elevated the corners of
Bradford’s mouth and accentuated the puckered scar upon his cheek.

Swiftly the two strode forward, overtaking and passing groups of
stragglers, as they went. Descending into the river valley, they
overhauled the main body of savages; and with them crossed the stream. As
they were toiling up the opposite slope, Douglas turned to his companion
and asked suddenly:

“What’s her name?”

“The Indians call her La Violette,” Bradford answered, as he gave a hitch
to the pouch at his side and shifted his gun from one shoulder to the
other.

“Ah!” Ross ejaculated.

“What do you mean by that knowing exclamation?” the older man inquired
sharply.

“Nothing; only——”

“Only what?”

“That’s not an Indian name.”

“No?”

“No, it’s not. It’s French.”

“Indeed?”

“Yes.”

“And it signifies?”

“You know its significance as well as I. La Violette means the violet.”

“Well?”

“Her name confirms my belief. She’s a white woman.”

“Ah!”

“Yes. The appellation refers to the color of her eyes.”

“Do you think she’s French?”

“I don’t know—but _you_ do, Hiram Bradford. Some person familiar with the
French language gave her the name. She’s a prisoner—was kidnapped when a
child, probably.”

“What a keen observer and logician you are,” Bradford chuckled dryly.

“I’m no blind fool, at any rate,” Douglas retorted angrily.

Then in an injured, half-pleading tone:

“Why don’t you tell me all you know of her?”

“Why should I?” laughed the other, huskily. “You’re making your own
observations and drawing your own conclusions. And no doubt your
preconceived opinions would remain unshaken, no matter what I might say.”

“I have formed my opinions from what you’ve told me and what I’ve seen.”

“Is it possible you give credence to my words?”

“Of course”—in a surprised tone. “Why not?”

“I know of no reason except this: You hate me—consider me an enemy—and
doubt my integrity.”

Bradford said this in a voice thick with emotion. Ross stopped and stared
hard at the speaker. He felt himself imperceptibly drawn toward the man.
His heart was gradually softening—as wax in a warm hand. To relieve his
embarrassment and conceal his feelings, he returned gruffly:

“But you have told me the truth in this instance?”

“So far as I’ve told you anything—yes. But why are you so interested
in the Prophet’s daughter? Are you so susceptible—are you already
smitten—that you insist on throwing such a glamor of romance around her?”

“Nonsense!” Douglas exclaimed.

But his cheeks flushed; and he did not meet his companion’s steady gaze.

“Have a care!” Bradford cried.—And Ross could not tell from his
countenance, whether he meant his words in jest or in earnest.—“You must
not set your affections there. The Prophet’s angelic daughter cannot be
for such as you—a despised paleface, a member of the Seventeen Fires.
Tenskwatawa has placed her above all things earthly. His followers
idolize her—worship her. She has as much influence with them, almost, as
the Prophet or Tecumseh. Stern chiefs have sighed for her; young braves
have died for her. Her smile is considered a benediction; her frown, a
calamity. Her word is law. It is said she twists Tenskwatawa around her
finger and holds Tecumseh under her thumb——”

“And you accuse me of throwing a glamor of romance around her,” Ross
smilingly interrupted.

Bradford laughed heartily and continued:

“At any rate, you’ll do well to heed my warning. I don’t want to see you
cut into giblets, for daring to aspire to her heart and hand. Shun her
presence as you would shun a pestilence. Tenskwatawa’s daughter is not
for you.”

Douglas, looking at the speaker, again encountered that inscrutable smile.

Both remained thoughtful and silent for some time—all the while steadily
plodding onward. The sun declined toward the western horizon. The surface
of the country through which they were passing was seamed with gullies
and ravines. The trail sprang from one, only to tumble headlong into
another. Precipitous hills succeeded sloping elevations. The forest grew
denser. Just as the sun dropped into the brown billows of the prairie
beyond the Wabash and disappeared, the long line of weary and hungry
savages began to descend into the valley of Wildcat Creek.

Here the trail was narrow and difficult. Douglas and his companion were
marching with the main body of Indians—immediately behind Tenskwatawa and
his daughter. The shadows gathered around them; the air grew chill. The
sharp click of a hoof upon a loose stone, or the guttural exclamation of
a stumbling brave alone broke the silence. Into Ross Douglas’s mind came
the thought to dart into the bushes, that bordered the winding path, and
attempt to escape. Hurriedly he glanced around him—impatiently he awaited
a favorable opportunity.

“Don’t think of such a thing,” said Bradford’s husky voice in his ear.

Douglas started. Was it possible his companion read his thoughts? He
returned in a tone of well-assumed surprise:

“Don’t think of what?”

“You have it in mind to try to escape,” was the quiet reply. “Banish the
thought—the attempt means death. Don’t you see the braves have drawn
close around us and are watching your every movement?”

“Y-e-s,” Ross hesitatingly admitted. “At whose order has it been done?”

“Mine.”

“I didn’t hear you speak.”

“It wasn’t necessary—a sign was sufficient. No, you’d be taking a
foolhardy risk to——”

The sentence was cut short by a storm of shouts and exclamations coming
from the head of the column, farther down the trail. A pack-horse,
stumbling, had fallen from the narrow path into a deep ravine. The
tumult raised by the savages frightened several others of the beasts of
burden; and they whirled and came flying back up the trail. These in
turn stampeded others still—and the whole swept the narrow way like an
avalanche.

Ross Douglas heard and understood all. In the panic that was sure
to ensue he saw a chance to escape. To right and to left sprang the
warriors. Ross loosened the knife in his belt, firmly gripped his rifle,
and was ready to dart away in the darkness.

“Quick!” shouted Bradford. “Let’s scramble up this bank. Quick—or we
shall be trampled to death!”

Grabbing Douglas by the arm, he sought to drag him in that direction.
But the younger man held back. The thunderous roar of the galloping
horses drew nearer. They turned a sharp bend in the road and loomed into
view. In the gloom they resembled a rapidly approaching thundercloud.
Tenskwatawa’s black steed neighed wildly and, taking the bit in his
teeth, whirled and dashed away. The gray pony crouched in its tracks and
trembled. Douglas jerked loose from his companion’s restraining grasp
and leaped toward the brink of the ravine on the right, intending to
drop into the depths. But at that moment La Violette’s shrill scream of
affright smote upon his ear. Abandoning all idea of escape, forgetting
his own danger—everything, he threw down his gun and sprang to her
assistance.

“My God!” groaned Bradford, staggering toward a place of safety. “Both
will be killed! In my excitement I didn’t think of _her_. Too late—too
late!”

Reaching the bank on the left, he sank upon the ground and covered his
face with his hands.

A bound brought Douglas to the young woman’s side. It was the work of
a moment, to snatch her from the saddle and bear her limp form up the
slope. Relieved of its fair burden, the terrorized pony turned and fled
up the trail, with the stampeding pack-horses snorting and panting behind
it. As they labored up the steep grade, with their heavy packs still
clinging tenaciously to them, their terror gradually subsided; and near
the top of the hill, the Indians surrounded and caught them.

When the stampede had thundered by, Bradford got upon his feet and
stared wildly around. In the deep gloom he caught a dim outline of
Douglas supporting the trembling form of La Violette. Running to them, he
exclaimed in a voice faltering with emotion:

“Both of you are alive. But are you unharmed?”

“Unharmed and untouched,” Ross replied calmly.

“Thank God!” was the fervent response.

The young woman lifted her head from Douglas’s shoulder and, gently
withdrawing from his embrace, said tremulously:

“I sincerely thank you for rescuing me from death. But I do not know you.
Will you tell me to whom I owe my life?”

She spoke in excellent English, but with a slightly foreign accent. After
a moment’s silence, Ross answered:

“My name is Ross Douglas.”

“You are an American?”

“I am.”

“And a prisoner?”

“Yes.”

Extending a small, warm hand—which Douglas quickly imprisoned in his
broad palm—she remarked naïvely:

“You risked your life to rescue me from danger, although you are an enemy
of my people. I will not forget your valor. I will do what I can to
procure your release——”

“Perhaps, La Violette, you are not aware that your rescuer is _my_
prisoner,” Bradford interjected, laughing.

Petulantly stamping her moccasined foot, she replied proudly:

“I neither know nor care _whose_ prisoner he is. He has saved me from a
horrible death; I will befriend him.”

Then hastily withdrawing her hand from Ross’s detaining clasp:

“But my father! Where is he?”

“Have no fear for Tenskwatawa’s safety,” Bradford said in reassuring
tones. “His horse carried him out of danger. Ah! I hear the sound of
hoofs. He’s returning.”

The panic-stricken savages were resuming the march. Down the trail came
a body of braves with the runaway pack-horses. At their head rode the
Prophet, leading his daughter’s pony.

“La Violette! La Violette!” he called wailingly.

“Here, father—here I am,” she answered in a clear, bird-like voice, as
she descended to the trail.

Tenskwatawa sprang to the ground and, enfolding her in his strong arms,
murmured gutturally:

“The Great Spirit is very kind. He spared your life, my daughter.”

“Yes, father,” La Violette assented; “but the young paleface carried me
out of the way of danger.”

“Who?” in a low, fierce tone.

“Fleet Foot,” Bradford answered from the darkness.

“Ugh!” the Prophet grunted ungraciously.

Then he quickly lifted the young woman to her saddle; and, remounting
his own steed, again set forward. Bradford and Douglas closely followed
the two. The young scout had recovered his rifle, and was again watching
for a chance to dart away in the darkness. But the Indians were close
about—the risk was too great. He felt that in saving La Violette’s life
he had thrown away his one opportunity of regaining his freedom; and he
tried to condemn himself for a sentimental fool. But when he essayed to
shape the thought in his mind, the girl’s fair face arose before him and
rebuked him.

An hour after darkness had fallen, the Indians encamped upon the site of
an old village. Several ramshackle huts were still standing. Two of these
Tenskwatawa appropriated to his own and his daughter’s use. Bradford
seized upon a third for himself and his prisoner.

Soon huge fires were blazing along the banks of the stream, effectually
dispelling the cold and darkness. The savages cooked a liberal part of
the food they had; and—like true children of the forest—feasted upon it,
nor asked how or whence more was to be obtained.

In the middle of the dirt floor of one of the cabins standing near the
creek bank a fire burned brightly. The smoke escaped through a hole in
the dilapidated bark roof. On opposite sides of the pile of blazing
faggots sat Bradford and Douglas.

“Are you sorry you didn’t escape at the time of the stampede?” the former
asked suddenly.

“Of course,” returned the other, without looking up. “Why do you ask?”

“Oh!” Bradford chuckled, “I thought perhaps the fact that you had formed
the acquaintance of the charming La Violette—and had received her promise
of aid—had reconciled you to captivity.”

“It’s unnecessary to make answer to such a nonsensical supposition,” Ross
replied pettishly.

Then after a moment’s silence:

“How long do you mean to keep me prisoner?”

“Truly, I don’t know.”

“A few weeks?”

“Yes; or months—or years.”

“Humph! Do you take me for a child?” Ross cried scornfully.

“Oh, no!” was the suave reply.

“Do you expect me to make no further effort to escape?”

“I trust you won’t.”

“Why?”

“Because it would be useless—dangerous.”

“Useless! What’s to hinder me from stabbing you to the heart, at this
very moment, and making my escape in the darkness?”

“Peep out at the door,” Bradford returned coolly. “There’s a better
answer to your question than I can give you.”

Ross acted upon his companion’s suggestion, and beheld two stalwart
braves standing guard, one on each side of the doorway. Returning to the
fire, the young man flung himself upon the ground and maintained a moody
silence.

“There—there!” the older man murmured kindly. “Don’t take it to heart.
I must be cruel to be kind. To-day I’ve allowed you to keep your arms,
thinking you might need them to defend yourself against the defeated and
maddened Indians. But that danger is past. And now I must ask you to give
them up. Will you hand them over quietly or must I force you to give them
up?”

“Why should I make useless resistance?” Douglas cried passionately. “You
have me in your power—your red fiends stand ready to do your bidding.
Take my arms. But, remember—you shall pay dearly for the indignities you
are heaping upon me!”

Hiram Bradford sighed deeply as he arose and passed Ross’s gun and knife
through the door, to one of the guards outside. Then, rolling himself in
his blanket and hugging his own rifle to his breast, he remarked:

“I’m going to try to sleep. You’d better follow my example.”

Douglas made no reply. Duke curled up at his master’s side, and lay
blinking at the red coals. The fires gradually burned down; and slumber
and silence fell upon the camp.




CHAPTER VII.


Several days passed. Ross Douglas’s arms were not restored to him. He was
permitted to wander about the camp at will; but he noted that whenever
he approached the confines of the place, two or more armed and watchful
warriors were always near him. Each night he was closely guarded; each
day he was constantly watched. He evolved one plan of escape after
another—only to cast them aside as impracticable. He fumed and fretted—it
did no good, however. He was still a prisoner—and doomed to remain such,
so far as he could foresee.

Bradford remained cool, suave—but inflexible as steel. He procured for
his prisoner the best the camp afforded; he granted him many privileges.
But all the while he maintained a rigid surveillance over his every
movement. Ross could not understand the man or his motives; nor could he
analyze his own feelings toward him. One moment the younger man enjoyed
the older’s company, and chatted pleasantly with him; the next he hated
the sight of the scarred face, and was ready to leap upon its possessor
and tear him limb from limb.

La Violette kept to herself. When she left her cabin she did not mingle
with the savages. An aged squaw was her attendant. More than once Ross
saw her straying up and down the bank of the stream. But she took no
notice of his presence; and he did not approach her. Yet at night he met
her in the land of dreams, and held converse with her.

Soon the small quantity of food the Indians had brought with them from
the Prophet’s Town was exhausted. Absolute want prevailed. Hunting
parties went out in all directions, but returned scantily laden with
game. The Miamis left for more favorable hunting-grounds; the Winnebagoes
departed for their northern homes. But the Shawnees, Pottawatomies,
Delawares, and others remained. The gaunt wolf of famine was staring
them in the face. Bradford’s prediction came true. The savages began to
kill and eat their dogs and horses. But Duke and his master still had
cornbread and venison three times a day.

One morning Douglas, accompanied by the bloodhound, was walking about
the camp. In front of Tenskwatawa’s cabin he was met by a concourse of
braves, in the midst of which stalked a tall and commanding figure.

“Tecumseh!” was the cry that rose on all sides.

It was the redoubtable chieftain. Unheralded he had returned from his
southern tour, to find his people defeated, discouraged, and in want.
The work of years had been undone in an hour. Cohesion was lost, and
the tribes were scattering. To the great warrior’s mind, his brother’s
egotism and precipitancy were to blame for it all. He had just arrived.
His handsome features were set and stern; his black eyes, ablaze with
anger.

Unheeding the joyful shouts that greeted him, he strode up to the
Prophet’s hut and unceremoniously kicked open the rickety door.

“Tenskwatawa, come forth!” he thundered.

A guttural exclamation, followed by the sound of shuffling footsteps,
came from within. Then the Prophet, bowing and smiling, stood in the
doorway.

“Welcome, my brother!” were his words of greeting.

Dashing aside the extended hand, Tecumseh cried angrily:

“How dare you bid me welcome to this poor place—you who have disobeyed my
orders and defeated my purpose!”

Tenskwatawa scornfully curled his lip, as he replied:

“My brother, after a long absence, returns to his people. I bid him
welcome and extend to him my hand. He rejects it—and, in answer to my
greeting drops angry words. I fail to understand his meaning.”

Tecumseh drew his magnificent figure to its full height and keenly eyed
the speaker. His deep chest heaved spasmodically. The assembled warriors
maintained a breathless silence. Instinctively they knew that a struggle
for the mastery was on between the two Titans of the Shawnee tribe.

“You know well what I mean!” Tecumseh at last managed to articulate.
“For years I have labored to bring about a union of the tribes. I have
traveled far—I have sat by many council-fires. You offered me your
advice and aid. I accepted both. I loved and trusted you. Together we
accomplished much. A few months ago I went to visit our brothers of the
land of flowers and sunshine. They have promised to join us in a war to
recover our own. When I started on my journey, I cautioned you to do
nothing that would excite the suspicions or arouse the animosities of
the Seventeen Fires. You promised to follow my advice—to obey my orders.
But scarcely were my footprints cold, ere you allowed our young men to
go forth to pillage and murder. You had certain knowledge of this—yet
you winked at it. The inevitable happened. I return to find my people
defeated—humiliated. You, Tenskwatawa—you alone are to blame for all!
Wag your deceitful tongue, and let our people know what excuse you can
fashion!”

The Prophet’s repulsive countenance was contorted with rage, as he burst
forth:

“I have nothing to say to my children. I have explained all to them; and
they are satisfied. But to you, Tecumseh, my brother, I have this to say:
I have aided you; I have furthered your plans. You went away and left me
to hold in check our restless young men. They refused to listen to my
words. I could not control them. The palefaces sent an army against us.
I talked with the Great Spirit. He promised me the victory. My children
went into the battle. They fought valiantly; but they were overcome.
Smarting with defeat, they heaped reproaches upon me. They buffeted me
and spit upon me. I bore it all. I showed them my power—I acknowledged my
mistake. And all was well. Now you come to abuse me. I have borne much—I
will bear no more!”

Scarcely had the Prophet concluded, when Tecumseh, beside himself with
boiling fury, shouted:

“Yes, you _will_ bear more—you will bear _this_ at my hands!”

Springing forward, he caught his brother by the throat and choked
him until his brutal face was purple. The savages looked on in utter
amazement; but no one offered to interfere. Tenskwatawa’s tongue
protruded. He gurgled and gasped for breath. Douglas turned his back upon
the sickening spectacle. As he did so, his eyes met those of Bradford. In
answer to the younger man’s mute appeal, the older sadly shook his head.
Ross understood. Not a soul in the assemblage dared to brave Tecumseh’s
mad rage.

Nevertheless, there was one in the camp who did not stand in awe of the
great chief. That person was La Violette. From her cabin door she had
noted Tecumseh’s arrival, had observed the meeting of the two brothers,
and had witnessed their wordy encounter and its result. Now she appeared
upon the scene. The warriors saw her coming and respectfully stepped
aside to let her pass. With the speed and grace of a fawn, she ran toward
the spot where the Prophet was struggling in the iron grasp of his
enraged brother. Her light feet appeared scarcely to touch the ground;
her unconfined tresses streamed behind her; her violet eyes sparkled with
excitement.

A small white hand was laid upon Tecumseh’s arm, and an imperious young
voice commanded:

“Hold, noble chief! Would you kill Tenskwatawa—the prophet of his
people—my father!”

Like one suddenly recalled from a delirium, Tecumseh loosened his hold
upon his brother’s throat and staggered back a step. Slowly he lifted his
eyes. They met those of La Violette—and he stood abashed before her.

The Prophet, released from the other’s cruel grasp, sank upon the ground,
shivering and moaning. The purplish hue forsook his face; a deathly
pallor succeeded it. He attempted to arise, but his limbs refused to do
his bidding. His lips trembled. He was overcome with fear.

La Violette looked upon the cowering wretch, and her face flushed
scarlet. Her violet eyes snapped angrily. Shame—not pity—was in her
voice, as she cried:

“Arise, father! You are not badly hurt. Here—let me help you.”

Stooping, she assisted the craven to his feet. He stared helplessly
around him—and could hardly stand. With the whispered words,—“Go and
hide your weakness!”—La Violette pushed him into the cabin. Then boldly
walking up to Tecumseh and taking him by the arm, she said in a low tone:

“Is it thus that wise men settle their differences? For shame! Follow
Tenskwatawa—and come not forth until you have a message of good cheer for
your disheartened people.”

Tecumseh haughtily straightened his lithe form and folded his arms upon
his chest, as though about to resent her cutting words. But again their
eyes met—and, bowing deferentially, he stalked into the hut, closing the
door after him.

La Violette—like Tecumseh and Tenskwatawa—had spoken in the Shawnee
tongue; but Bradford and Douglas, standing near, had heard and understood
every word. Now she stepped in front of the two white men and, addressing
the older, demanded in English:

“Scar Face, why did you not interfere in Tenskwatawa’s behalf?”

“I didn’t dare,” Bradford replied truthfully.

“Dare!”—tossing her head contemptuously—“Are you not a man?”

“Yes; but——”

“But a coward?”

Bradford’s face colored a dull red as he answered:

“La Violette, you know I’m no coward—whatever else I may be. But it would
have been worse than useless for me to interfere. I should have incurred
Tecumseh’s lasting displeasure—and accomplished nothing.”

“Did _I_ not accomplish something?” she cried disdainfully. “And are you
not stronger than I?”

“Stronger, yes,” Bradford replied calmly. “In your weakness lies your
strength. Tecumseh and Tenskwatawa grant you privileges they would accord
to no other. You can safely do and say things for which another would be
sentenced to death!”

“Bah! You lack courage—you fear death!” she retorted scornfully. “You
are afraid of the great Shawnee chief and his brother, the Prophet. Yet
you are the agent of the English—sent among the tribes to counsel and
guide them. Do you think Tecumseh and Tenskwatawa have strengthened
their influence over their people, by quarreling before them—by making a
spectacle of themselves?”

Bradford silently shook his head. Douglas looked with wonder and awe
upon the frail, beauteous being before him. Her face was alight with
animation; her form quivering with restrained feeling. Ross had seen the
influence she exerted over the two crafty Shawnees. A sudden realization
of wherein lay the real strength of the Indian confederacy flashed upon
his mind; and he started and changed color.

La Violette proceeded:

“Hiram Bradford, you are the agent of the British. You are here to look
after their interests. Are you fulfilling your mission when you allow
the two great organizers of the confederacy madly to tear down all they
have built? Look! Look at the braves of the different tribes talking
among themselves. Do you not know what it means? Winnemac is jealous of
Tenskwatawa; Stone Eater covets Tecumseh’s power and place; White Loon
is ripe for revolt. The warriors are defeated, dispirited. They stand
ready to join in open rebellion and follow a new leader—a new prophet.
The edifice that Tecumseh and Tenskwatawa have built is tottering to its
fall. The open quarrel between the two has further weakened its crumbling
foundation. When Tecumseh arrived—but a few minutes ago—the braves
greeted him with shouts of joy. Now all are sullen and silent. Listen!
Some are whispering that Tecumseh is in the right; others are saying that
Tenskwatawa cannot be in the wrong. But by far the greater number are
declaring for a new leader—and a new prophet. Are you blind and deaf,
Scar Face? Have not the English made common cause with the Indians?
Tecumseh’s overthrow—Tenskwatawa’s downfall—mean ruin to the plans and
projects of your people. Rouse yourself! There is work for you to do. All
may yet be well; but the breach between Tecumseh and the Prophet must be
closed. Will you come with me and help to do it?”

“Yes,” Bradford answered meekly, an expression of great perplexity upon
his scarred visage. “But what can I do?”

“Come. I will show you.”

Taking him by the hand, she led him into the Prophet’s hut.

Like one in a trance, Douglas stood staring at the closed door. He was
dazed—thunderstruck.

“Am I mad or dreaming?” he muttered to himself. “Who is she—_what_ is
she? So young—so beautiful! I thought her a helpless captive; I find
her the power behind the throne. All is mystery—chaos. Bradford’s an
impenetrable sphinx, but she—she’s an inexplicable riddle. She’s no
ignorant savage; she’s an intelligent, educated white woman. What then?
She’s not Tenskwatawa’s daughter—that’s plain. But who _is_ she? What
does she among the Indians? Bradford, even, bends to her will. She
regards the savages as her people; she’s hand and glove with the English.
Evidently she hates all Americans. And she didn’t deign to notice
me”—with a sigh—“who saved her life. So graceful—so charming; but mystery
of mysteries! She has forgotten her promise to me—ah!”

He cut short his whispered soliloquy and quickly glanced around him. In
little groups and knots, the braves were talking and gesticulating. Down
by the creek, half-naked children were paddling in the icy water and
shouting and laughing. Three squaws, bearing bundles of fagots with which
to replenish the camp-fires, passed the spot where the young man was
standing. One of the trio—a bent and wrinkled hag—revealed her toothless
gums, in a sardonic grin, and, pointing to Duke, cackled hoarsely, in the
Delaware language:

“See! See the dog. He is big and fat. The sight of him makes my mouth
water. What a stew he would make! Why has he not been killed?”

“Come on,” chuckled one of her younger companions. “The dog belongs to
Fleet Foot. Do you not see him standing there? I know him—he used to buy
furs of my father. But he is Scar Face’s prisoner now. Come on! To-night
the dog will disappear from his master’s side; and to-morrow we shall
pick his bones. My husband told me. To-morrow we shall feast.”

“And the paleface—Fleet Foot—should die, too,” grumbled the third squaw.
“He has a great appetite—he eats much. And there is no food to spare——”

Then the three passed out of Ross’s hearing. He smiled grimly as he
whispered to himself:

“So they would kill Duke to _eat_—and kill me to keep me from _eating_.
And that comely Delaware squaw remembers me. I wonder how many others in
the camp know me—and how many would befriend me, if I should appeal to
them. And I used to live among such beings; they were my associates, my
friends. Bright Wing and a few others alone remain true to me. By the
way, I wonder where that Wyandot and Joe Farley are. Are they grieving
over my strange disappearance? How excited the savages are. I will act
upon the idea that occurred to me a little while ago. Oh! to regain my
liberty—to see Amy once again——”

His soliloquy ended in a long-drawn sigh. Softly whistling to the hound,
he set off toward the upper end of the camp. Apparently the Indians gave
no heed to him, as he made his way among them. Soon he had left them
behind and was at the eastern limit of the camp—and alone.

At this point a shallow ravine sloped into the creek from the south. Its
bed was half-filled with logs and brush, and its sides were covered with
a dense growth of tall bushes.

On reaching this natural barrier to his further progress, Douglas stopped
and hurriedly cast a glance behind him. He was several hundred yards
from the nearest group of savages. What was to hinder him from wriggling
through the tangled growth that lined both sides of the ravine, gaining
the open forest on the other side, and making his escape? The Indians,
busy with their own affairs, would not notice his absence for some
time—hours, perhaps. True, he had no arms with which to protect himself
from wild men and wild beasts, or with which to procure game; but he
could hide during the daytime, travel at night, and live upon bark and
roots until he reached a settlement. He resolved to make the venture.
Hope rose high in his breast. He whirled to take a final look at the
camp. As he did so, his heart sank into his moccasins. Unperceived by
him, three warriors had crept along under the shelter of the creek bank,
and now stood a few yards from him, closely eyeing his movements and
grinning broadly.

Mentally cursing his ill-luck, Ross turned to retrace his steps toward
camp. At that moment Duke rubbed against his leg and whined softly.

“What is it, old fellow?” the master asked, stooping and patting the
dog’s head.

Again the hound whined plaintively, and rolled his great eyes toward the
ravine a feet away.

“Something in there, eh?”

Duke wagged his tail and capered about. Ross’s heart beat tumultuously.

“It must be a friend, then,” he murmured tremulously. “If it were an
enemy—man or beast—he’d growl. Can it be possible that Bright Wing or
Joe——”

“Hist!” was the faint whisper that came to the young man’s ears and
interrupted his cogitations.

Duke gave a short, sharp yelp of joy.

“Hist!” said the voice again in the softest whispered tone. “I see you,
Ross Douglas—an’ I see the redskins watchin’ you. Me an’ Bright Wing’s
hid in the brush here. Don’t look ’round, fer God’s sake! Do you hear an’
understand me?”

Douglas slyly nodded.

“Well,” continued Farley’s voice, “listen to what I’m goin’ to say. We’ve
been hidin’ ’round the camp fer three ’r four days. We’ve come to rescue
you—but we can’t do it this time; you’re too close watched. Go back to
camp an’ never let on you’ve heerd anything. We hain’t had a bite to
eat fer twenty-four hours. We’ve got to move away from here an’ hunt
somethin’. To-morrer evenin’ at dusk, stray out here ag’in. Bring a gun
an’ ammynition with you, if you can. Come anyhow. We’ll git you out o’
y’r scrape ’r die a-tryin’—we will, by Kizziar! Now go—an’ tie up the
dog. He might come nosin’ ’round an’ spile everything. You hear all I
say?”

Again Ross almost imperceptibly nodded.

“All right. Be off—the Injins is watchin’ you mighty close an’
suspicious-like.”

Dropping his chin upon his breast, the young man walked toward camp, the
bloodhound trotting at his heels. The intelligent animal did not so much
as cast a look behind him. Shouldering their guns, the three warriors
brought up the rear.

On reaching the center of the camp, Douglas perceived the savages
flocking toward the Prophet’s cabin. He followed them; and in front of
the door saw Tecumseh and his companions. The great chief was addressing
the multitude:

“My warriors and people, I returned from the land of sunshine and
flowers, to find you defeated and scattered. In my anger, I heaped
censure and abuse upon one who was not to blame. I lost control of
myself—I bow my head in shame as I acknowledge it. Tenskwatawa has done
well; no one could have done better. _I_ could not have done better. He
is your prophet. You know his power—you trust him wisely. We have met
with temporary defeat, but final success shall be ours.”—Lusty whoops
and cheers.—“The tribes of the north and west are steadfast; the tribes
of the south have promised to join us. The Seventeen Fires shall feel
our might. Our white brothers across the big water will still aid us. We
shall regain the land that is ours; we shall repossess the graves of our
fathers. In a few days we shall remove to the villages of the Miamis,
upon the Mississinewa. There we will bide our time—await our opportunity.
It will not be long in coming. Hundreds of braves will join us. Their
number will be greater than the leaves of the forest. The Seventeen Fires
will tremble at the tread of the brave redmen and their English friends.
Scar Face”—and he laid his hand upon Bradford’s shoulder—“is your friend.
He has advised and helped us in the past; he will continue to do so.
He will see that our brothers across the big water send us plenty of
arms, ammunition, blankets, and food.”—Prolonged cheering and yells of
delight.—“I have done. Tenskwatawa, my brother, whom I love and honor”—he
affectionately placed his arm around the Prophet’s neck—“has something to
tell you that you will be glad to hear. Let him speak.”

The grave and dignified chief waved his hand and, drawing his blanket
around him, re-entered the hut. The assemblage went wild. Warriors
shouted, danced, and yelled; squaws shrieked and children screamed. Those
who had been foremost in the contemplated revolt lent their voices to the
mad uproar. Such was the magnetic power of the great Tecumseh!

Now the Prophet stepped forward and raised his right hand, to command
silence. As he did so, the magic circlet upon his finger caught the rays
of the sun. A hush fell upon his audience, broken only by the breezy
whisper,—“The Sign of the Prophet! The Sign of the Prophet!”—Then all was
profound silence. Tenskwatawa swayed gracefully—rhythmically—to and fro,
as he began:

“The past is gone; the present is before us; the future is in the hands
of the Great Spirit. My children, we have made mistakes. Now let us bury
them forever; and with them our sorrows, our disappointments, and our
regrets. If ever again I transfer my power—my sign—to another, it will be
to one who can use it. And you will obey the orders of that one, as you
would obey my words. Hold fast to what I say. Listen! Again I have talked
with the Great Spirit. He has sent me to you with a message of good
cheer. He allowed you to suffer defeat to try your courage—to test your
loyalty. You have suffered much—you shall rejoice more. You have groaned
at your failure—you shall shout in triumph. You hunger to-day—you shall
feast to-morrow. Hear what the Great Spirit says through me, his prophet.
All that Tecumseh, my brother, has told you is true. All that you desire
shall be yours. You have been scorched by the fire of death—you shall be
healed by the water of life. I am your father—you are my children. The
Great Spirit has told me all these things.”

He stopped speaking. A faint murmur of approbation started with those
immediately in front. It grew and swelled into a thunderous roar of
applause. “The Open Door! The Open Door!” they yelled until their faces
were purple and their lips dripped foam. Many of them fell to the ground
and raised their arms supplicatingly. Silencing them with a wave of his
hand, Tenskwatawa proceeded:

“Listen, my children—and heed what I say! Your acts, your words, your
thoughts, are known to the Great Spirit—and through him are known to me.
You have cursed your prophet; you have planned to depose Tecumseh and
Tenskwatawa—to choose others to lead and advise you. The Great Spirit
understood all. But all is forgiven; for you were mad with defeat and
shame.”

Again he paused. Closely he scanned their faces for the effect of his
words. The stillness of death reigned on all sides. The ringleaders in
the revolt bowed their heads and glanced furtively at the dread being
before them. Suddenly the Prophet’s whole attitude and manner changed.
Every sinuosity of his graceful body became a hard, straight line.
Rigidly erect, his brows lowering, his face contorted, his one sinister
eye flashing—he was an avenging demon.

“Listen!” he shouted in thunder tones. “My children, you have displeased
the Great Spirit. Another word—another thought—of the kind, and he will
desert your cause and ally himself with the Seventeen Fires. If there be
one among you that doubts my words, let him stand forth; and through the
power the Great Spirit has bestowed upon me, I will slay him with a look.
With a motion of my hand I can smite you blind. Do you still doubt? You
have seen what I did with the noble Winnemac. Is not White Loon as brave
and strong? Is not Stone Eater as valiant and bold? Look then!”

Again he was the bending, swaying, sinuous hypnotist. The glittering
talisman upon his finger shot its light into the eyes of the two
chiefs. Like charmed birds they fluttered and tried to free themselves
from its spell. Their frantic efforts were vain. Then they became
stiff—motionless, seeing nothing but the magic ring, hearing nothing but
the Prophet’s voice.

“Come!” he cried.

In straight lines the two chiefs advanced.

Bradford paled slightly. La Violette turned aside her face. Ross Douglas
had his eyes fastened upon the glittering jewel. Slowly he began to
move forward. Many others were coming under the hypnotic influence—were
approaching Tenskwatawa. The young American shook himself, dropped his
eyes to earth—and retreated to a safe distance.

“Stop!”

Like automatons the chiefs obeyed.

“You see nothing—you are blind!”

Tenskwatawa’s voice rang out clear and cold. Scores of the savages
clapped their hands to their eyes and groaned aloud. Stone Eater and
White Loon uttered piercing wails.

“You are helpless—you drop to the ground—you sleep!”

Down they fell like tenpins—the two chiefs at the Prophet’s feet.

“Behold the work of the Great Spirit!” he shouted triumphantly. “Now who
doubts Tenskwatawa’s power?”

A full minute he waited for a reply. Awe—consternation—were written upon
the faces of those who had not come under his influence. At last he
clapped his hands and cried shrilly:

“Awake—arise! Live and see!”

Those upon the ground tumbled over one another, in their efforts to get
upon their feet. Rubbing their eyes, they stared stupidly around. Then,
in a shame-faced manner, they silently slunk away from the presence of
the red hypnotist, who, dropping his voice to a sing-song monotone,
continued:

“Yes, my children, all will be well. Your chief, the great and powerful
Tecumseh, has spoken words of truth and wisdom. Do not despair; be
steadfast to our cause. The Great Spirit is with us—and all will be well.
He has promised. In a few days, at most, we will go to the Mississinewa.
Our white brothers across the lakes and beyond the big water will send
us supplies. Also, we will make our enemy—the Seventeen Fires—furnish us
with salt and ammunition. All will be well. The Great Spirit, through his
prophet, has spoken.”

Tenskwatawa rejoined Tecumseh within the hut; La Violette returned to
her own cabin. The Indians cheered and capered about in an ecstasy of
delight. This lasted for several minutes. Then they quietly dispersed
and commenced the preparation of their dinners. All thought of rebelling
against the rule of the self-elected chief and self-appointed prophet was
at an end. The kingly presence and sturdy eloquence of the one, coupled
with the serpentine grace and mesmeric power of the other, had the
desired effect upon the minds of the ignorant and superstitious redmen.
The threatened revolt was at an end.

“Well, what do you think of Tecumseh?” remarked Bradford, as he
approached the spot where Douglas was standing.

“He’s every inch a warrior,” Ross replied quietly.

“And every inch a man,” was the quick rejoinder.

“But a savage, still.”

“Yes. But a savage whose valor is equaled by his honor, whose thirst for
fame and power is tempered by his sense of right and justice. He has the
good of his people at heart; he believes their cause is just——”

“Can you say as much for the English, who are urging the Indians to take
up the hatchet against the Americans?” Douglas interrupted. “Have they
the good of the savages at heart?”

Bradford laughed a forced, uneasy laugh as he answered:

“Please don’t interrupt me with ill-timed questions. That’s a matter
of national ethics—a problem that you and I cannot grasp or solve. It
would be useless for us to discuss it. We look at it from different
standpoints. You’re an American; I’m an——”

“American, also,” Ross interjected.

The older man sharply eyed his companion for a half minute. Then he said
slowly:

“You’re a keen and intuitive observer. By birth I _am_ an American; but
I’m in the service of the British, and bound to do their will. To return
to Tecumseh, he’s the noblest Indian I’ve ever met. He is the soul of
honor—the personification of manly courage. His word is as good as his
bond. His people trust him, love him. Had he been at the Prophet’s Town
there would have been no battle. He wished to avoid a conflict until
he was ready for it. But a general Indian war is coming—inevitably.
The Americans will be arrayed on one side; the Indians and British on
the other. The Americans will fight to hold what they have gained; the
savages, to regain what they have lost; the English, to add to their
territory. You have learned much since you’ve been a prisoner. It
wouldn’t do to have you escape and return to your people. A captive you
must remain.”

Bradford ceased speaking, but Douglas offered no word in reply. The
former resumed:

“Tenskwatawa, also, is a wonderful man. He’s eloquent, cunning,
forceful.”

“He’s a cowardly scoundrel!” Ross said savagely.

“Yes,” Bradford admitted, “he’s a coward. I don’t admire him. He’s a
hypocritical knave. But he’s devoted to La Violette, and you can’t deny
that he’s shrewd and eloquent.”

“No.”

“Nor can you explain the power he exercises over his people.”

Ross shook his head.

“It’s something wonderful, startling, uncanny. The more I see of it, the
more I’m puzzled. I have felt it——”

“And I.”

“You?”

“Yes.”

“When?”

“To-day.”

“Ah! And yet you cannot understand it?”

“No.”

“It _is_ strange—very,” Bradford remarked musingly. “He says he receives
his power from the Great Spirit. I’m not a believer in miracles; yet,
for all I know, he tells the truth. But he has the power—there’s no
gainsaying that. You didn’t come completely under his influence?”

“No; but I should have done so if I hadn’t exerted all my will-power and
removed my eyes from the talisman—his sign.”

“I understand. Well, I’m hungry. Let’s hunt something to eat.”

“Where did he obtain the ring?”

“I don’t know. He has had it for years. Come on.”

Together the two sauntered away from the vicinity of the Prophet’s cabin.

The day passed quietly. Several hunting-parties returned to camp, laden
with game. The savages had an abundance of meat for supper and retired to
rest at an early hour. Bradford and Douglas stretched upon the earthen
floor of their hut and fell asleep. Duke occupied his usual place. At
the door, stood the two copper-colored guards. About midnight Bradford
was aroused by the sound of voices outside. He arose, softly opened the
door, and stepped out into the darkness. It was raining steadily. The
two guards were parleying with a company of braves who demanded that the
hound be brought out and given to them.

“What are you doing here?” Bradford asked sharply.

The leader advanced and answered shortly:

“The big dog.”

“Who sent you?”

“Lone Jack, the Delaware chief.”

“Well, go back to Lone Jack and tell him I said to come himself—that I
will give him a taste of powder-and-ball instead of dog-meat. Be off!”

Grumbling and snarling, the braves disappeared in the darkness; and Scar
Face re-entered the cabin.

At that moment Douglas stirred uneasily and murmured:

“Joe and Bright Wing—come—rescue——”

Bradford raised his head and listened attentively. Ross’s lips were
moving, but the words were so softly spoken that the listener could not
catch them.

“Poor fellow!” the older man whispered pityingly. “He’s dreaming of
rescue. How sweet is freedom. Well—well, the whole of life is but a
dream—a miserable nightmare——”

“At the ravine—to-morrow evening,” Ross mumbled.

Then he sighed deeply, changed his position—breathing heavily—and again
slept soundly.

Bradford started and sat erect.

“Ah!” he muttered, shaking his head. “There _may_ be something in that
dream—more than I thought. At the ravine—to-morrow evening. What can
_that_ mean? I must investigate. Perhaps his friends are near—and he
has met them at the ravine above here. What more likely? Forewarned is
forearmed.”

And, smiling grimly, he replenished the fire, rolled himself in his
blanket—and was soon sound asleep.

[Illustration]




CHAPTER VIII.


Steadily, monotonously, the rain poured down all night long. The
morning dawned cheerless and murky. The earth was sodden; every rivulet
was swollen; and the creek was bank full. A dense fog rose from the
water-courses and spread itself over the land. The feeble rays of the
winter sun could not penetrate it; and at midday the depths of the forest
were gloomy and oppressive.

The savages huddled together in their mean hovels and silently watched
the dreary downpour. Nothing broke the stillness, save the steady drip of
the rain and the rumbling roar of the fast hurrying streams. All the fuel
was wet, and the fires burned dismally. It was a wearying, soul-trying
day.

Douglas and Bradford sat by the fire that smoldered in the middle of
the floor of the miserable hut they occupied. Occasionally, one or the
other arose and peeped out at the pouring rain. But the scene was too
depressing; and, shivering, he returned to the fire. The pungent smoke
refused to find its way out at the hole in the bark roof, but swirled and
eddied about the interior and added to the general discomfort.

Neither man was in a talkative mood. Hour after hour, they sat staring
into the ash-masked embers, each busy with his own thoughts.

As the day advanced, Ross’s apathy left him. He grew strangely restless,
and like a caged animal paced from one end of the cabin to the other.
Bradford noted his companion’s changed mood, but said nothing. By four
o’clock it was growing dusk. Douglas suddenly picked up his hat and
started for the door.

“Where are you going?” Bradford inquired.

“For a walk,” was the non-committal reply.

Duke arose, stretched himself, yawned, and rubbed against his master’s
legs.

“Surely you’re not going out in such a rain,” Bradford remarked. “You’ll
get wet to the skin.”

“What’s a little rain to a man who has spent his days in the open air,”
Douglas returned quickly, still moving toward the doorway.

“Wait!”

And Bradford sprang to his feet and placed himself in front of the other,
his broad back against the closed door.

“What do you mean?” Ross cried, drawing himself up stiffly.

It was a strange scene. The flickering firelight alone lighted the black
interior and outlined the forms and faces of the two men. The bloodhound
stood looking from one to the other. Outside, the rain fell and the wind
soughed fitfully.

“I mean that you’re not going out to-night,” Bradford answered firmly.

Douglas’s temper was rising.

“You dare to say that I shan’t go out to-night, if I choose?” he asked.

“Yes; that’s what I mean.”

“And you think I’ll submit?”

“You must—you can’t help yourself.”

“That remains to be seen.”

“Oh!”

“Yes.”

They stood glaring at each other, like brutes at bay. The older man was
cool and collected; the younger, angry and excited. Each was striving to
stare the other out of countenance; but neither shrank from the ordeal.

“Stand aside!” Ross cried chokingly.

“I will not.”

“The consequences be upon your own head, then!”

Scarcely were the words out of his mouth, ere Douglas leaped forward and
grappled with his antagonist. Around and around the small, dark room
they whirled, each striving to trip and throw the other. Douglas was the
stronger, the more active; Scar Face, the cooler, the more skillful. They
were evenly matched.

Duke snarled viciously, and ran around the two combatants, seeking
an opportunity to leap at Bradford’s throat. Both men were breathing
heavily. The terrific exercise and excessive strain were telling upon
them. But the younger man’s wind was the better—was in his favor.
Besides, each moment he was growing cooler, more determined, while
his antagonist, seeing defeat staring him in the face, was losing his
presence of mind.

Of a sudden, Douglas swung Bradford clear of the ground, and with
stunning force dashed him against the log wall. Scar Face’s hold relaxed,
and he dropped to the floor, senseless. In a moment the dog was upon the
helpless man, and would have buried his fangs in the throbbing throat,
had not Ross panted:

“Down, Duke; out of the way!”

The hound sullenly obeyed, growling fiercely. Douglas leaned against the
wall and breathed hard for some seconds. Then he stooped and carefully
examined his fallen foe.

“He’s only stunned; thank God I didn’t have to kill him!” he ejaculated.

Then, taking a bundle of thongs from a peg upon the wall, he proceeded to
bind the prostrate man, hand and foot. When he had finished, he secured
the other’s gun, ammunition, and knife, and calling to the dog left the
hut, noiselessly closing the door behind him.

By this time it was quite dark. Along the creek bank, the camp-fires
twinkled like watchful eyes. With long, sturdy strides, Douglas set off
toward the ravine up the stream. The smell of the heavy fog was in his
nostrils; the booming roar of the turbulent creek in his ears. He met
or saw no one. He left the camp behind, and neared the spot where he
expected to meet his friends.

Suddenly he stopped and whistled softly. No reply. He drew nearer to the
ravine, and again he whistled. Still no reply. The bloodhound whined and
impatiently scratched the soft, wet earth.

“Find them, Duke,” Ross commanded.

The dog ran forward and disappeared in the bushes.

Douglas awaited the outcome of his experiment. Presently he heard an
eerie-like whisper:

“Come right straight ahead, Ross Douglas. Crawl into the bushes, an’ be
mighty still while you’re doin’ it.”

It was Farley’s voice. Douglas obeyed the words. Dropping upon hands and
knees, he wormed his way through the thick copse of wet bushes, for some
yards. Suddenly a hand was clapped upon his shoulder, and these whispered
words fell upon his ear:

“Drop down an’ keep still. The Injins is all ’round us. They’ve got onto
our game, some way, an’ have been huntin’ fer our hidin’-place ever sence
the middle o’ the afternoon. Me an’ Bright Wing’s laid here fer twelve
mortal hours, without a bite to eat. How the redskins got onto our scheme
is more’n I can tell; but they’ve done it. Have you got a gun with you,
Ross?”

“Yes,” was the cautious reply.

“All right. We didn’t dare to answer y’r whistle, fer fear the Injins
might hear us. They was mighty close right then. That dog o’ yours’s got
a heap o’ sense—he has, by ginger! He jest nosed ’round us an’ never
barked n’r nothin’. Wher’ are you, Bright Wing?”

“Me here,” came from the depths of the Wyandot’s chest.

“Well, lead off, an’ we’ll foller you. This is a ticklish business, ’r
my name ain’t Joe Farley! Ross, y’r dog was goin’ back to you, but I
c’ncluded I’d best risk callin’ you. Go ahead, Injin, we’re right at y’r
heels.”

“Ugh!” was the guttural response from the blackness.

To the bottom of the ravine they stealthily descended; crept through the
water and mud of its bed; and ascended the opposite bank. Bright Wing led
the way; Duke brought up the rear. Reaching the open wood, they arose to
their feet and silently threaded their way through the intricate mazes of
the black forest.

They had proceeded but a short distance, however, when Bright Wing
dropped to the ground and lay motionless. The others followed his
example. Duke growled menacingly, and ere his master could lay a
restraining hand upon him, darted into the wall of blackness ahead. To
the ears of the three comrades came a sharp exclamation, followed by the
sounds of a tussle. Then all was silent.

“What’s the meaning of those sounds?” Ross inquired softly of Farley.

“Don’t know,” was the reply in the same cautious undertone.

“S’pect the purp got hold of a redskin’s guzzle, an’ shut his wind off so
quick he couldn’t——”

“Ugh! Duke him bite bad Shawnee much hard,” the Wyandot volunteered.
“Here Duke him is now. Come.”

The dog trotted back to his place and, panting, threw himself upon the
ground. Again they moved onward, creeping along inch by inch and pausing
frequently to listen. In this manner they covered quite a distance. They
had arisen to their feet, and were congratulating themselves that they
had eluded the vigilance of their watchful foes, when the patter of
moccasined feet sounded on all sides of them. They were surrounded.

A short and sharp conflict in the intense darkness ensued. Rifles were
discharged and blows were struck at random. Then the three comrades found
themselves beyond the line of their enemies, and blindly dashed away in
the impenetrable blackness.

For some time they continued their mad flight, through thickets and over
fallen logs, stumbling, falling, scrambling to their feet and running on.
At last they paused momentarily to listen. All sounds of pursuit had died
out. Naught was to be heard but the patter of the rain-drops upon the
dead leaves and the boom of the creek near at hand.

“We have distanced them,” Douglas panted.

“Yes,” Farley gasped in reply. “But it was a mighty close shave. Is
either o’ you fellers hurt?”

“I’m not,” Ross replied.

“Me no hurt,” Bright Wing grunted. “Where dog Duke?”

“Here at my side,” Douglas answered.

“I guess I’m the only critter that got a scratch,” Joe grumbled. “I alluz
was an unlucky mortal. One o’ them red devils has raised a strawberry on
my cheek, as big’s a walnut. He must ’ave struck me with the butt of his
hatchet. I’m much obleeged to him that he didn’t use the blade. I’d ’ave
needed a surgeon, I would, by Polly Ann! Seemin’ly the cusses didn’t want
to kill us; they didn’t fire a gun. Wanted to take us alive, I reckon.
But our charge was too much fer ’em. But we want to reload our rifles,
an’ git out o’ here. They’ll git torches an’ be hot on our trail ’fore a
half hour, ’r I miss _my_ guess. Gol-fer-socks! But I’m hungry. I could
eat hoss-meat now an’ relish it. Say, fellers, which way do we want to
steer?”

“It makes little difference,” Ross answered impatiently. “Any direction
that will carry us from this vicinity is good enough for me.”

“That won’t do,” Joe said firmly. “We’ve got to do one o’ two ’r three
things: steer fer Fort Harrison on the Wabash, Fort Defiance on the
Maumee, ’r make a break ’cross the country fer Franklinton on the Scioto.
The question is which way ’ll we go. What do you say, Injin?”

“Me say go toward rising sun; go toward home,” Bright Wing answered
promptly.

“What do you say, Ross?”

“I’m willing to abide by Bright Wing’s decision. But let’s be off.”

“All right,” returned Joe. “We’ve got to ford the creek then, an’ keep
bearin’ east. We want to strike through by Greenville an’ Fort Recovery.
Come on. Le’s git out o’ here, an’ find a place where we can cook some
meat. The Injin’s got some in his pouch. I’m jest ’bout starved, I am, by
cracky! Injin, take the lead.”

All night they pressed forward, bearing toward the northeast. At daylight
they went into camp upon a rocky elevation, and, after kindling a fire
and cooking and eating a quantity of venison, stretched themselves upon
the damp ground and fell asleep.

       *       *       *       *       *

While they are snatching a few hours of repose, let us go back to the
Indian camp upon Wildcat Creek.

Fifteen minutes after Douglas’s departure, Bradford regained
consciousness. At first he lay and stared vacantly around him. Then a
keen remembrance of all that had occurred came to him, and he attempted
to arise. He tugged at his bonds; half arose to a sitting posture; and
fell back helpless.

“Overpowered, but not outwitted!” he muttered, rolling his aching head.
“The Indians are on the _qui vive_, and will recapture him. Also, they
will take his venturesome comrades prisoners. I hope they’ll not hurt
either of the three.

“How long have I lain here? I must have received a severe blow; I’m
dizzy, and my head aches. It’s a wonder he didn’t kill me while he had
the chance. Perhaps he doesn’t hate me as he did. God grant that it may
be so! Of course he has taken my arms with him. Well, I can’t blame him;
I robbed him of his own. I was a fool to send away the two guards. I
should have kept them at hand day and night. Why don’t the redskins come;
what can be the cause of their delay?”

Again he essayed to arise, and again fell back with a groan. The fire had
burned down; the room was in darkness. No sound came to his ears, but the
patter of the rain upon the bark roof, the fitful sough of the wind, and
the sullen boom of the rushing stream. A half hour passed. He strained at
the thongs that bound his limbs, but accomplished nothing.

“Curse the luck!” he cried angrily. “Why don’t the red hounds put in an
appearance? Can it be possible he has escaped them? How strong and active
he is. He was too much for me, with all my skill as a wrestler. Mercy,
how my head aches! And how manly and brave he is; a young man of whom any
father might be proud! But he hates me—hates me! In the name of all the
fiends, must I lie here helpless while he makes his escape? I shall go
mad. Hark! Footsteps and voices.”

A moment later the door flew open, and a number of braves strode into the
room.

“Is that you, Long Gun?” Bradford asked excitedly.

“Ugh!” grunted the leader of the party.

“And the palefaces—where are they?”

“Gone.”

“Gone!” shouted the prostrate man, writhing like one undergoing torture.
“Gone! You shall pay dearly for allowing him to escape!”

Long Gun kicked the half-burned faggots into a blazing pile. Then folding
his arms upon his brawny chest, he answered composedly:

“Scar Face should not talk big and loud. See! He lies helpless, like
a tethered dog. He can bark, but he cannot bite. He snaps and snarls,
and finds fault with Long Gun and his warriors, because they did not
capture the armed palefaces, in the black forest. But Scar Face could
not overpower _one unarmed paleface, in his own cabin_. The young man
joined his friends. They fought in the darkness and made their escape. My
warriors bear the marks of the fight.”

“Fool!” Bradford bellowed chokingly. “Don’t stand there gloating over my
predicament! Sever my bonds at once.”

The chief silently obeyed. Bradford struggled to his feet, shook himself,
and rubbed his stiffened limbs. Then he inquired briskly:

“All three escaped?”

“Ugh!”

“And the dog?”

“Ugh!”

“Which way did they go?”

“Long Gun and his warriors tried to follow them, but could not. The black
night swallowed them.”

“Bah!” sneered the white man. “And you call yourself a Shawnee warrior!
Do not palefaces leave tracks in the dark, as well as in the light? You
must find their trail; you must follow and overtake them. Do you hear me?
Rouse yourselves! Get torches! I will accompany you. Five pounds to the
brave who first strikes their trail; ten pounds to him who first gains
sight of them! Let’s be off! Hurry! Hurry!”

Stimulated by the prospect of reward, the braves hurriedly prepared
for the pursuit. Out of the cabin they trooped, Long Gun in the lead.
Bradford accompanied them. The camp was enveloped in darkness; the rain
still fell steadily—persistently. Up the creek they proceeded, their
flaming torches lighting the surface of the muddy stream. They reached
the ravine, crossed it, and disappeared in the thick woods. And still the
rain fell, and still the camp was wrapped in darkness and slumber.

The next day, the allied tribes at Wildcat Creek packed their scanty
effects and set out for the village of the Miamis, upon the Mississinewa.

       *       *       *       *       *

Now let us return to the escaped captive and his friends.

The sun was several hours high when Ross awoke. The sky was clear; the
morning air crisp and biting. The young man stretched his limbs and
drank deeply of the sweet, invigorating atmosphere. The grateful odor
of cooking meat greeted him. A brisk camp-fire blazed at his feet; and
suspended over it, by means of a tripod of green sticks, was a hunk of
venison, roasting. Douglas took in all this at a glance. Then he looked
around for his companions. They were nowhere in sight.

“Strange,” he muttered, picking up Bradford’s rifle and carefully
examining it. “Are mysteries never to end? Where can Farley and Bright
Wing be? Of course they have not deserted me. But where are they? Why
didn’t they wake me? They have gone to investigate something, probably,
for they have left the meat cooking. How soundly I must have slept! Their
absence makes me uneasy.”

Dropping upon the ground, he continued his critical examination of the
gun he held in his hands, all the while communing with himself:

“An excellent piece of English manufacture, and richly carved and
ornamented. It must have cost a pretty sum of money. Bradford will
hardly thank me for relieving him of it. He must have set great store by
it.”—And the speaker smiled.—“I wonder what he thought and did when he
regained consciousness and found me gone, and himself unarmed and tied.
A mysterious personage! He kept me a prisoner; yet he was kind to me and
protected me. And La Violette, how beautiful! A form and face to drive a
man mad with love. But all her witcheries could not efface from my heart
the image of little Amy Larkin. Pshaw! what nonsense I’m talking. Am I
a love-sick schoolboy, doomed to fall in love with every pretty face I
see? Divorce La Violette from her romantic environment, and she would be
commonplace, perhaps. At any rate, she is naught to me; nor I to her. Why
should I bestow a thought upon her? She forgot her promise to me, as soon
as she had made it. I’ll think of Amy—gentle, loving, faithful little
girl!”

A moment he hung his head and was silent. The blazing camp-fire crackled;
the roasting meat steamed and sputtered. Presently Ross shook himself,
and again looking about him, murmured impatiently:

“Confound the luck! Where can those two runaways be? We should be upon
our journey. We are still within reach of the Indians and Bradford. At
this moment a party may be hot upon our trail. We’re wasting precious
time. The campaign is over; and I’m anxious to return to Amy, to fulfill
my promise. But Bradford! How my mind reverts to that man. The threads of
our lives have crossed. Will they remain entangled? Ah! What are these
letters engraved upon the stock of his gun? J. D.—eh? Those are not _his_
initials. Evidently he stole the piece—as _I_ did. Bradford! I hate the
treacherous villain—but I could not kill him. Duke hated him, too. Ah!”

Hastily he scrambled to his feet and once more swept his eyes around the
place, grumbling in an irritable undertone:

“Where _is_ the hound? I hadn’t thought of him. He wouldn’t go far from
my side, unless he were forced to do so. I’ll call him.”

As has been stated, the site of the three friends’ bivouac was the summit
of a small, rock-strewn elevation. It was bare at the top, but surrounded
at its base by a fringe of stunted bushes. On all sides of it stretched
the forest.

Douglas threw his rifle upon his shoulder and swiftly descended the
slope, softly calling the dog’s name as he went. Just as he reached the
bottom of the gentle declivity, there was a stir in the underbrush, and
Duke bounded forth to meet his master. A moment later, the limbs parted
and the smiling face of Joe Farley peeped out. The hound fawned at Ross’s
feet and whined gleefully.

“He seems mighty glad to see you,” Joe remarked as he stepped into the
open.

“Yes,” Douglas answered dryly, keenly eyeing his friend.

“What’s the matter?” Farley laughed. “Did you sleep so long you let the
meat burn up? A purty cook you’d make.”

“The meat’s cooking nicely,” Ross interrupted. “But why did you leave it?
What are you doing down here?”

“Jest stepped down here to take a squint ’round an’ see if I could find
anything o’ the Injin.”

“Bright Wing?”

“Yes.”

“Where is he?”

“I don’t know no more’n the man in the moon. When I woke up an hour ago
he was gone. You was sleepin’ so good I didn’t want to wake you. So I
hung up the chunk o’ venison, started a fire under it, an’ come down here
to see what I could see. After a little while the dog follered me.”

“And what discovery have you made?”

“None. I hain’t seen hide n’r hair o’ the Injin, n’r nobody else. I don’t
see what’s become o’ him. I can’t make it out.”

Douglas was silent; and Joe asked:

“What do you make of it?”

“I don’t know what to think,” Ross replied meditatively. “One thing is
certain, however. We’re tarrying too long.”

“Of course,” assented Joe.

“But we can’t proceed until Bright Wing returns.”

“No, of course not.”

“What do you suggest?”

“That we go an’ have somethin’ to eat while we’re waitin’. I’m as holler
as a gun bar’l. I’ve fasted fer three ’r four days, an’ it seems I can’t
git filled up, somehow. I’m jest like a feller in love—I am, by Caroline!
Can’t git enough of it. I remember one time when a score o’ purty women
was hankerin’ after me. They was perfectly distracted over my good looks.
But I wasn’t in love with one of ’em; an’ it didn’t take me long to git
enough o’ their billin’ an’ cooin’. Then I remember another time w’en
a small piece o’ linsey-woolsey got in my mind, an’ I couldn’t git ’er
out. She was purty as a pictur’, an’ sharper eyed ’n a blackbird. But she
didn’t keer a continental fer me; an’ I nearly starved to death fer the
want o’ her love. I pined away to skin an’ bone, an’ become a reg’lar
shadder. Served me right, fer the way I’d used them other women, I
reckon. I ain’t much on religion, but I b’lieve a man gits his punishment
fer his evil deeds right here on earth—I do, by Samanthy! But what’re you
thinkin’ ’bout, Ross Douglas?”

Ross stood absent-mindedly gazing into the somber depths of the
surrounding forest. Evidently he had heard little that his loquacious
friend had been saying. But at the question he started, and replied
serio-comically:

“I was thinking I had heard you speak of your numerous conquests before,
Joe.”

“So you have.”—And the other nodded solemnly and vigorously.—“The Good
Book says that from the fullness o’ the gizzard the tongue wags—’r words
to that effect. I never _was_ good at quotin’ Scriptur’. Anyhow, a man’s
liable to talk ’bout what’s on his conscience. It’s a consumin’ fire that
won’t let him rest. As fer _me_, toyin’ with women folks’s affections has
been my besettin’ sin. Now I’m gittin’ up in years, I’d like to find a
purty woman, an’ marry an’ settle down. But I’ve burned out the candle
o’ the Lord’s mercy an’ blowed the ashes in his face, an’ he won’t hear
my prayers.”—Here Joe sighed deeply, lugubriously.—“Be keerful you don’t
do the same thing, Ross Douglas. Let my horrible example be a warnin’ to
you. Don’t toy with women’s hearts. As I was goin’ to say——”

“Did I understand you to say you’re hungry, Joe?” Douglas interrupted.

“Of course, I’m hungry,” Farley answered in an injured tone. “I’m alluz
hungry. When I was a boy I foolishly took a drink o’ water out of a frog
pond, an’ swallered ’bout a dozen tadpoles. Well, sir, them tadpoles
growed to frogs; an’ they’re in my stomach yit. They take all the
victuals I put into my mouth; an’ w’en they git _re’l_ hungry, they set
up such a croakin’ I can’t sleep fer the noise they make. Once I got to
foolin’ ’round a log bear-trap in the woods, an’ the door fell down an’
shut me in. I was a pris’ner fer ’bout a week; an’ was nearly starved to
death an’ crazier ’n a loon, w’en some fellers found me an’ let me out.
Well, sir, first them frogs went to croakin’ fer somethin’ to eat, an’
they kep’ it up fer four days, never lettin’ up a minute. Then they got
dry fer water, an’ they commenced hoppin’ ’round in my inside an’ tryin’
to git out. Talk ’bout sufferin’! The ol’ martyrs never had to stand
what I stood out there in that bear-trap. The ’xperience left lines o’
sufferin’ on my comely visage, that I hain’t never got red of. It come
purty near spilin’ my beauty ferever—it did, by Melindy Jane! W’y,
dang-it-all-to-dingnation! I tell you——”

“Joe.”

“Well?”

“If you don’t mean to feed your colony of frogs on charred meat, you’d
better look after that roasting venison. It’s scorching; I smell it.”

“By my great uncle’s snuffbox, but that’s a fact! An’ me a-standin’ here,
a-blowin’ my bugle, like a shaller-pated fool!”

Farley loped up the slope, to the camp-fire, and rescued the hunk of
venison from the coals where it had fallen. Douglas followed leisurely, a
preoccupied look upon his dark, handsome face. Duke trotted at his heels.

“It’s done now—an’ _good an’ done_!” Joe grumbled. “But it’s all we’ve
got, an’ we’ll make the best of it. Dang a long an’ limber tongue,
anyhow! Mine’s alluz gittin’ me into some dangnation trouble. Well, we
can cut off the burnt parts an’ feed ’em to the dog. Jest see the hungry
purp! Looks like he’d like to take a slice out o’ me, this very minute.
Ther’, Duke, clap y’r jaws on that. Gone a’ready, an’ wantin’ more?
Ross Douglas, I may have a colony o’ frogs in me, but this houn’ o’
yours is infested with a tapeworm bigger ’n a black-snake—he is, by King
Solermen’s harem! Git y’r knife out, an’ le’s fall to an’ eat; no use to
wait on the Injin—no tellin’ where _he_ is.”

Ross’s preoccupied air had not deserted him; and he ate sparingly of the
tempting food. The eccentric woodman ravenously devoured great slices
of the meat, grudgingly tossing the dog the burnt portions. At last he
paused in his masticatory process and exclaimed:

“Ross, somethin’s botherin’ you the worst kind; an’ whatever it is, it’s
takin’ y’r appetite.”

“I’m thinking,” Douglas replied.

“Well, what’re you thinkin’ of?”

“Of what has become of Bright Wing.”

“An’ what’s yer c’nclusion?”

“That he has gone back over our trail, to discover if we are followed.”

“It’s more’n likely,” Joe assented. “But we can’t do nothin’ but wait fer
him, can we?”

“No.”

“Well, that’s settled then. Say!”

“Well?”

“Why didn’t you kill that Bradford—the low-lived skunk—when you had a
chance? ’Twould ’ave saved us no end o’ trouble, p’r’aps. Maybe he’s on
our trail this minute, with a band o’ murderin’ red devils at his back.”

“It’s probable.”

“Well, why didn’t you kill him?”

“I had reasons for not doing so.”

“What was they?”

“I don’t care to say.”

“Huh! You’re gittin’ closer ’n a clam,” Joe muttered irritably.

Then he continued:

“An’ you didn’t kill that ol’ cuss of a Prophet?”

Ross remained silent.

“N’r Tecumseh, n’r none of ’em?”

“I was hardly in a position to make a wholesale slaughter of my enemies,”
Ross replied laughingly. “I was a captive, and surrounded by hundreds of
bloodthirsty savages. I consider myself fortunate to have escaped with my
life.”

“Yes, that’s so,” Farley assented in a dissatisfied tone. “But it seems
to me this campaign hain’t amounted to much. Tecumseh’s back among his
warriors; an’ Bradford an’ the Prophet’s still alive. They’ll be hatchin’
more devilment, ’fore the next new moon. Howsoever, I’ve done _my_ part
an’ hain’t got nothin’ to regret. But I don’t want to be a soldier no
more; I’d ruther fight on my own hook. This thing o’ drivin’ oxen from
one end o’ the Indiany Territory to the other ain’t what it’s cracked up
to be.”—And he sighed feelingly.—“All I want’s to git back to my cabin
on the ol’ Scioto—W’y, ding-it-all-to-dangnation! There’s the Injin this
blessed minute!”

Both white men hastily arose and ran to meet their red comrade, who came
bounding up the slope, with the speed and grace of an antelope. Ere they
reached his side, they saw him place his finger upon his lips, in token
of silence.

“What is it?” Douglas asked in an anxious whisper.

Bright Wing drew a full breath and replied:

“Scar Face and many braves.”

“Where? How far away?”

“Three—four gunshots.”

“And upon our trail?”

“Ugh!”

“Are they moving rapidly?”

“Ugh! Soon be here. Scar Face, bad Shawnees and Pottawatomies. Come fast;
soon be here.”

“Let’s be off, then,” Ross said calmly. “We have no time to lose.”

“Grab up that piece o’ meat, Injin, an’ put it in y’r pouch,” Joe cried,
excitedly. “You can eat it on the run. We’ve had our sheer. Dang the
varmints, anyhow! They mean to give us a long an’ hot chase.”

Quickly they descended the eastern slope, worked their way through the
fringe of bushes surrounding its base, and set off at a rapid pace
through the forest. Bright Wing led the way. They bore toward the
southeast. With the foresight and cunning of trained woodmen, they
exercised all the arts of their craft to throw their pursuers off their
trail. Here they followed the bed of a stream, soaking their moccasins
in the icy water to hide their faint footprints; there they doubled on
their track and took a new direction. At intervals, they separated and
made wide detours from the main course, only to meet again further on.
Occasionally they paused momentarily, to drink from some running stream
or to strain their senses for sight or sound of their enemies. Then on
again—swiftly, tirelessly.

The noon hour came and went. The sun—now veiled by scudding clouds, now
shining brightly—began a descent of the western arc of the heavens. The
wind rose raw and disagreeable. Black cloud banks began to pile up on
the horizon, indicating an approaching snowstorm. The short winter day
advanced rapidly.

The topography of the country again changed. The surface of the land grew
flatter; open glades appeared here and there in the thick woods. At last
Joe stopped and remarked complainingly:

“I’ve gone ’bout as far’s I’m goin’ in one day—I have, by Molly! My
feet’s wet an’ cold, an’ I’ve got a crick o’ the rheumatiz in my back,
that’s pesterin’ me like the nation. Feels like a swarm o’ hornets had
took a roost there. We hain’t got nothin’ to eat, which is purty sad; but
we can build a fire an’ rest an’ roast our shins, which ’ll be some sort
o’ comfort, anyhow. I’m o’ the ’pinion we’ve throwed the redskins off our
track; we hain’t heerd n’r seen nothin’ of ’em sence we broke camp. I’ve
purty nigh come to the c’nclusion that you was mistaken, Injin—that you
didn’t _see_ no one follerin’ us.”

Bright Wing’s beady eyes flashed.

“Joe heap big fool some more!” he grunted contemptuously. “Bright Wing
see Scar Face and many braves. Bad Shawnees and Pottawatomies still on
trail. Like hound; no give up and go back. Want scalps bad. Bright Wing
go on. Joe stay; build fire; loose scalp. Ugh!”

“An’ a heap you’ll keer, if I _git_ my hair raised,” Farley retorted
crossly. “You’re jest like the rest o’ y’r people.”

“Joe!” Douglas interrupted sternly.

“Well, what is it?” was the surly response.

“Once more you are talking idle nonsense. Your tongue will again get you
into trouble. You know, as well as I, that Bright Wing has told us the
truth. We can’t stop here; we _musn’t_. Such an act would be the sheerest
folly.”

“Yes, I s’pose you’re right,” Joe admitted in a mollified tone. “We’ve
got to keep on. Dang the redskins, anyway! The doctors says exercise is
a good thing; but I ain’t hankerin’ fer any more of it, jest now. They
say it’s a mighty powerful thing to give a feller an appetite; an’ I
can believe that statement without half tryin’, fer them frogs in me
has gone to croakin’ like sixty. That’s what made me so flustered an’
cantankerous. Well, Injin, lead on. I’ll foller you, if I wear my legs
off up to my shoulders—I will, ’r my name ain’t Joseph Peregoy Farley!”

Once more they set forward. But they had gone only a hundred yards, when
the Wyandot, with a startled grunt, came to an abrupt stop.

“What ’ave you diskivered now?” Farley inquired, stepping forward.

“A fresh trail!” Ross exclaimed, stooping and examining the moist earth
and damp leaves.

The three comrades bent down and closely scrutinized the numerous tracks.
The light in the forest was dim; and they painfully strained their eyes
over the alarming discovery, as they attempted to read its meaning
aright. After a minute’s examination, they arose and silently looked at
one another. Presently Douglas said in an undertone:

“What do you make of it, Bright Wing?”

“Redmen,” was the emphatic reply.

“And quite a number of them.”

“Ugh!”

“Of course that trail was made by redskins,” Joe volunteered in a stage
whisper. “’Cause ther’s nobody else in these parts to make it. An’ more’n
that, there’s a score ’r more of ’em, an’ they’re movin’ in the direction
we’re goin’. That trail ain’t more’n a few hours old, at most. I’ll tell
you my explanation o’ the affair.”

“What is it?” Ross asked.

“W’y, dang-it-all-to-dingnation! that Scar Face an’ his murderin’,
scalpin’ gang o’ red devils has sarcumvented us an’ got ahead of us,
that’s what. Though how in the name o’ Dan’l Boone they ever done it, I
can’t imagine! They must ’ave found some short cut.”

Bright Wing decidedly shook his head and grunted:

“No believe.”

“You don’t believe Joe’s theory that the trail was made by Scar Face and
his band?” Douglas said quickly.

“No believe.”

“By whom, then?”

“Winnebagoes.”

“But,” Ross objected, “the Winnebagoes have returned to their northern
village.”

“Not all go,” the Wyandot asserted positively.

“Why do you say that?”

“Winnebagoes make tracks.”

And the Indian pointed to the fresh trail.

Stooping and passing his finger over a moist spot of bare earth, Bright
Wing replied triumphantly:

“See, moccasin track. No Shawnee moccasin, no Pottawatomie moccasin;
Winnebago moccasin.”

In silent wonder the two white men stood staring at their red friend. At
last Farley burst forth:

“Well, if that don’t beat _me_! The idee o’ tellin’ one moccasin track
from another! I’d as soon think o’ tellin’ one bear’s track from
another—I would, by Hanner Ann! It’s easy to tell a _wolf’s_ track from
a _fox’s_, but to tell _one_ redskin’s track from _another’s_ is a thing
I never learnt; an’ I never could, if I lived a thousan’ years. But no
doubt the Injin’s right, Ross Douglas. It’s prob’ly a huntin’ band o’ the
Winnebagoes that’s loiterin’ ’round in this neck o’ woods. An’ we’ve got
redskins behind us, an’ redskins before us. Now what ’re we goin’ to do?
That’s what I’d like to know.”

“It will soon be dark; we must push forward,” Ross replied.

“An’ tumble plump into the clutches o’ the Winnebagoes,” Joe answered.
“They’re devils to fight; an’ as cruel an’ bloodthirsty as the Shawnees.”

“To remain here means to fall into the hands of the band upon our trail,”
Douglas returned hastily. “The Winnebagoes know nothing of us; perhaps we
can avoid them. What have you to say, Bright Wing?”

“Scar Face and braves back there; Winnebagoes out there,” the Wyandot
answered, indicating each direction with his finger. “Go that way.”

“You mean we should leave the Winnebago trail to the south, until we have
passed them?”

“Ugh!”—With a vigorous nod.

“Very well. Let’s be moving.”

“But,” cried Joe, “that’s goin’ to take us ’way out of our course.”

“It’s better to leave our course than to lose our lives,” was Douglas’s
answer, as he shouldered his rifle and followed the Indian.

Farley offered no reply, but silently brought up the rear. Duke
trotted softly at his master’s side. The shadows of night gathered
noiselessly—swiftly. The four dusky figures moved forward. The sky was
thickly obscured by clouds; the darkness was intense. Snow began to fall
in fine, downy flakes. Still the four black forms—now a part of the
general blackness—glided onward, slowly and cautiously.

“I say we’ve got far enough,” Farley ventured at last, in a soft whisper.

Douglas was about to turn and make reply, when Bright Wing suddenly gave
a grunt of warning and dropped to the ground. His companions followed his
example. A hoarse growl rumbled up from Duke’s deep chest, as he crouched
like a tiger preparing for a spring. The next moment the sound of light
footfalls came to the ears of all.

“Surrounded!” gasped Douglas.

“Fell into a trap, jest as I expected!” muttered Farley. “We’re out o’
the fryin’-pan into the fire!”

Duke uttered a vicious bay and sprang to his feet. Then the forest rang
with a chorus of fiendish yells, as though all the imps of hell had
broken loose at once.

In a moment the three men were upon their feet. The belching rifles of
their enemies surrounded them with a ring of flame. Ross Douglas felt
a stinging, burning sensation in his right breast. He discharged his
gun, and staggered against a neighboring tree. Sparks of red and green
light flashed before his eyes; a cataract roared in his ears. Dimly he
discerned the savage forms swarming around him; faintly he heard the
whoops of the Indians and the lusty cheers of his two comrades. Then he
grew faint and dizzy. His limbs trembled; his brain swam. He coughed; and
a stream of hot blood welled up in his throat. His legs failed him, and
he sank upon the ground. As one in a dream, he heard Farley saying:

“The poor boy’s done fer, Bright Wing! He’s bleedin’ from the mouth, an’
senseless. ’Taint no use to stand by him no longer; he’s past all help.
Le’s try to cut our way out o’ this muss. We can’t more’n die! An’ maybe
it’ll draw the cusses away from the spot, an’ save his scalp!”

The Wyandot’s war-whoop and Farley’s stentorian bellow again sounded
above the yells of their enemies. Fainter and fainter grew the
indescribable sounds of conflict in the darkness; and Ross was alone.
No, not alone; for a dark body sprang to his side and, whimpering
pitifully, crouched and licked his face. It was Duke.

Then the wounded man became blind, deaf, unconscious. And the soft snow
fell and covered him, as a winding-sheet.

[Illustration]




CHAPTER IX.


When Ross Douglas regained consciousness, it was still night; but the
heavens were clear and starlit. The snow had ceased to fall; the air was
still and cold. A thin mantle of spotless white covered the earth. In the
uncertain light, the bare tree trunks looked like files and squads of
ghostly soldiers.

The wounded man attempted to change his position, but the pain in his
right breast warned him to lie still. His attempted movement attracted
the attention of his faithful, four-footed friend, who was sitting by his
side. The hound whined plaintively, and licked his master’s face. Ross
put out his hand and patted the dog’s head. This so pleased Duke, that he
frisked about and barked joyfully, doing his best to entice his beloved
master from his icy bed upon the frozen ground.

Douglas instantly remembered what had occurred, and fully realized his
forlorn and helpless condition. But he was not one to yield to despair.
Lying there desperately wounded—in a wilderness full of savage enemies,
and far from any settlement—he resolved to outwit death or die gamely.
He began an examination of himself and his surroundings. He found that
he still lay at the foot of the tree where he had fallen. His wound had
ceased to bleed, but his hunting-shirt was stiff with frozen blood; and
the saline taste of the crimson life-tide was yet in his throat. Every
breath caused him a pang; and a deep inspiration gave him excruciating
torture. But he could move his arms and legs without much pain or
difficulty. Again he essayed to arise, but fell back with a groan; he was
too weak from fasting and loss of blood.

“If only I could get upon my feet!” he murmured. “I shall freeze here.”

Seeing that his master could not arise, Duke had returned to his former
position. Now he tilted his muzzle aloft and bayed mournfully.

“There—there, old fellow!” Ross said soothingly. “Keep up your courage.
Things are not entirely hopeless so long as we two are together. Ah!
Perhaps you can help me to get up. Here, let me get my arms around your
neck. That’s it. Now, Duke, pull—pull!”

The bloodhound was accustomed to obeying his master’s every command.
Digging his claws into the flinty earth, he stretched his lithe, muscular
body, in an attempt to do the bidding of the being he loved. Ross clung
tenaciously to the noble animal’s neck. The result was he was dragged
to a sitting posture. The effort cost him much pain, but he gained
his object. Duke was delighted; he ran about in a circle and barked
vociferously.

Leaning his back against the tree-trunk, Douglas panted:

“This is better! I’m off the flat of my back—half-way upon my feet.
After a short rest I’ll make a further effort. What should I have done
without my faithful dog?”

In attempting to shift himself to an easier position, he placed his hand
upon his gun, which was lying where he had dropped it. With a joyful
exclamation, he caught it up and feebly dragged it across his lap. Then,
taking the skirt of his hunting-shirt, he carefully wiped and dried the
weapon, remarking to himself as he did so:

“I have a gun—I have ammunition—I have flint and steel. If I can manage
to light a fire, I shall be in no danger of freezing. Then, perhaps, I
may be able to shoot some animal for food—provided it comes near my camp.
I must have something to eat.”

He sighed breathlessly. Then drawing his legs well under him and using
his gun as an aid, he commenced slowly to arise to a standing posture,
all the time keeping his back firmly pressed against the tree-trunk. The
task was a herculean one; but after several failures he succeeded. Duke
simply went wild with delight, rolling over and over in the snow and
barking frantically.

After resting a few minutes, Douglas, leaning heavily upon his rifle,
tried to take a few steps. His legs trembled and threatened to give
way under him, and every fiber in his body ached and quivered; but he
resolutely put out one foot after the other. His head swam, and he
reeled and tottered like an infant. But he succeeded in making his way
to another tree, against which he leaned, gasping for breath. Standing
there, he tremblingly reloaded his rifle.

“Better than I expected!” he whispered with bloodless lips. “Much better!
Now I shall seek a sheltered spot and build a fire.”

Putting his resolution into action, he slowly and painfully worked his
way to a small depression, a short distance from the scene of conflict.
It was half-filled with drifted leaves and snow, and almost surrounded by
bushes and briers. Near it were the dead and dry limbs of a fallen tree.

Staggering into this natural shelter, Ross dropped upon the ground.
Duke accompanied him. The wounded man laboriously cleared the cave of
the accumulated mass of snow and leaves. When he had finished his hard
task, he took out his flint and steel, and, after several discouraging
failures, succeeded in starting a fire. Upon the tiny flame he piled
sticks from the fallen tree-tops, which soon were ablaze. With a sigh of
relief and comfort, he fell back and closed his eyes.

After a time, however, the genial warmth penetrated his chilled and
stiffened frame and aroused him from the partial swoon into which he had
fallen. Sitting erect, he held out his hands to the welcome blaze and
murmured tremulously:

“What a man _can do_! Oh, this cough! It almost strangles me; and the
pain is awful. Still I’m better off than I was—much better. I shall
not freeze, at any rate. But I must have food. I am _so_ weak. Let me
see,”—rolling his eyes heavenward,—“the stars indicate that it’s after
midnight. I’ll rest by the fire until morning; then I’ll do what I can to
procure something to eat.”

Again he coughed spasmodically—hackingly. When the paroxysm had passed,
he continued his whispered, broken monologue:

“I wonder what became of Bright Wing and Joe. I’m glad they thought me
dead. They’d have sacrificed their lives by staying; and done me no
good. They may be dead; they may be prisoners among the Winnebagoes;
or they may have escaped. If they got away unharmed, they’ll return to
Franklinton and report my death. My God! My God! Amy—dear girl! The news
will break her heart. And—great heavens! She may be persuaded to marry
George Hilliard!”

Bowing his head upon his hands, he groaned. He was suffering mentally and
physically. His temples were throbbing; his skin was hot and dry. The
demon of fever was dancing through his arteries.

For some time, he sat silently staring into the depths of the fire. Above
him the stars winked pitilessly; around him the lean shadows glided among
the trees and eerily mocked him. No eye but God’s was upon him; no hand
was stretched forth to save him.

He mused mumblingly—half deliriously:

“Even God will not help me. He would not, if he could. He has laid down
inflexible laws for the government of the universe; he will not alter
them to accommodate the individual. But I’ll not despair—I _will_ not! I
will overcome all obstacles; I will cheat fate. The snow has concealed
all signs of our encounter with the Winnebagoes; has covered our trail.
Bradford and his braves will never find me. On the morrow I’ll procure
food; then I shall be stronger. I’ll work my way eastward, by easy
stages. Now I’ll lie down and try to snatch a few hours of natural sleep.
Oh! This terrific cough and pain! And my head!”

He piled more dry wood upon the fire, and stretched himself upon the
ground. Duke nestled at his back and helped to keep him warm. The red
blaze crackled cheerily; the smoke and sparks ascended in gyrating
columns. The wounded man lay and watched them until his eyelids closed.

When he awoke it was broad daylight. The fire had burned down; only
a few gray embers and charred bits of wood marked its place. Duke,
with bristles erect, was sitting by his master’s side, growling
mutteringly—warningly. It was this sound that had awakened the sleeper.

Ross rubbed his eyes and sought to arise. But his limbs were as lead; his
blood was as ice. He stirred; and a thousand needles pricked his flesh.
By great effort he sat erect. His head gave him keenest torture; his
eyes threatened to drop from their sockets. His sight was dim. Strange
noises rang in his ears. He tried to take a deep breath; but the pain in
his chest caused him to moan aloud. His heart was thumping tumultuously.
Thor’s hammer was beating in his brain.

Again the bloodhound uttered a hoarse, rumbling growl; and this time,
sprang to his feet and advanced a step or two from his master’s side.

“Someone or something is approaching,” was Douglas’s mental comment. Then
aloud: “Watch them, Duke—but do not leave me!”

But the dog had no intention of deserting his charge. Rigidly erect,
menace and defiance in his attitude, he stood his ground. Ross listened
intently, and thought he heard stealthy footsteps beyond the fringe of
bushes that shut him in. But, through the interstices in the brush and
brambles, he could see no one. Once more the hound growled, and more
sharply than before. Then Douglas caught the patter of moccasined feet
upon the snow-covered leaves, and the buzz of whispered words. A moment
later the bushes parted and a painted Shawnee peeped into the glade.

Duke’s bristles quivered; his wicked eyes blazed. Revealing a double row
of ivory fangs, he snarled savagely and crouched for a spring. Excitement
lent strength to Douglas’s limbs. In some way—he never knew how—he got
upon his feet and flung his heavy gun to his shoulder. With a grunt of
surprise and terror, the Indian instantly withdrew his painted visage.

Ross sank in a heap upon the ground, whispering brokenly:

“Too weak—too weak! I’m at their mercy. Ah! Duke, old fellow, our time
has come—for you will die fighting for me!”

And closing his aching eyes, he lay gasping.

Then came a thunderous rush among the bushes; and a half dozen savages
stood within the cove, and as many rifles were pointed at the form of
the prostrate and helpless man. Duke leaped at the throat of the nearest
brave, and with him rolled upon the ground. At that moment a husky voice
bellowed:

“Stop, you cowardly curs! Would you murder a wounded and helpless man?
Harm a hair of his head, and I’ll have the life of the last one of you!
Didn’t I tell you he was to be taken alive? Out of my way!”

It was the voice of Hiram Bradford. Douglas had just enough consciousness
left to realize what was occurring, just enough strength remaining to
call off his dog. Then he swooned.

Bradford shoved the savages right and left, and bent over the form of the
unconscious man. He placed his hand over Douglas’s heart and listened
to the faint, irregular respiration. He gazed earnestly, sadly, upon
the pain-contorted features of the young man. His own face was pale;
his brown, sinewy hand trembled. Arising, he said to the savage band he
commanded:

“Start a fire; and be quick about it!”

Then to the Pottawatomie, whom Duke had attacked and who was now
threatening to kill the dog, as the animal lay whining at the feet of his
senseless idol:

“You shall not touch the dog. If you do, I’ll shoot you dead in your
tracks. The brute did his duty—that’s all. He was protecting the life of
his defenseless master. He is a noble specimen of his race. I command you
to let him alone.”

The Pottawatomie sullenly obeyed. Bradford again turned his attention to
Douglas.

“Poor boy!” he murmured softly to himself, his lips quivering. “Although
you hate me, and would kill me now, perhaps, had you the opportunity—I
love you. God knows I’ve wronged you enough in the past. Yet, when you
had the chance, you did not kill me. Would you do it now? Heaven knows!
Oh! Why didn’t you stay with me? Then this would not have occurred. Now
you are wounded unto death—dying, I fear, before my eyes. No! you shall
_not_ die. I’ll save you—I _will_! And who has done this monstrous deed?
Is it the work of white men or red? Whichever it be, they shall pay for
it, if I have to follow them to the ends of the earth. I vow it before
God! Shot through the breast, there you lay in the ice and snow, until
you regained consciousness. Then you pluckily made your way here and
built a fire, bravely fighting against all odds. Somebody left you for
dead—somebody deserted you. But your faithful dog stayed by you. I have
hated the brute; _now_ I could kiss his surly face. Yes, my boy, I can
read it all; you have left in the snow a record of your desperate fight
for life!”

The strong man bowed his head. The savages, engaged in building a fire
and preparing to cook some meat, did not notice the agitation of their
leader. His features worked spasmodically, and the scar upon his cheek
twitched painfully, as he continued to whisper to himself:

“God of heaven, tell me who has done this awful thing! The snow has
hidden all signs of the conflict—if conflict there was. It, also, covered
your trail, my boy, and I stumbled upon you by chance. But, my God! Of
what am I thinking? Do I mean to let you die without an effort to save
you?”

Like one electrified, he leaped to his feet. All his emotion had
vanished. Once more he was himself—the cool, firm, diplomatic leader of
savage men. His ordinarily husky voice rang out sharp and clear as he
cried:

“Listen, braves! This man is not dead—he must _not_ die. You have done
well—you shall have the gold I promised you. In addition, each one of you
shall have five pounds, if you do all in your power to help me to get him
to camp alive. Stir yourselves! Cook your meat quickly. Then cut boughs
and prepare a litter on which to carry him. Here, Long Gun, assist me.”

By this time a huge fire was roaring, that rendered the cave warm and
comfortable. A part of the company raked red coals from their bed, and
upon them commenced to broil slices of meat; while others began to cut
limbs and withes, and weave and bind together a strong and elastic litter.

Bradford seated himself and took Douglas’s head upon his lap. Then he
produced a flask of brandy, and with Long Gun’s help succeeded in pouring
a small quantity down the unconscious man’s throat. A second and third
time he repeated this, ere there were any signs of returning life. At
last the feeble heart began to beat more regularly and forcibly. The
pulse at the wrist became perceptible; color commenced to creep into the
marble face. A long-drawn respiration heaved the wounded chest, and a low
moan escaped from the blue lips. The white lids lifted; but there was no
intelligence in the fever-bright eyes. The wan demon of death had yielded
his throne to the riotous imp of delirium.

Bradford shrunk back and shuddered as these words fell upon his ear:

“Ah, Hiram Bradford, we’ve met at last, in a death-struggle! Now I have
you at my mercy. You kept me a prisoner against my will—you kept me from
the woman I love. You have wounded me—starved me—frozen me. Now you shall
die—_die_!”

Douglas’s hands were clenched as though he held an enemy by the throat.

“Ugh!” ejaculated Long Gun. “The Great Spirit has robbed the young
paleface of his senses. Like a dog dreaming of the chase, he fights in
his sleep.”

The Shawnee understood but little Ross said, but read aright the meaning
of the wounded man’s tone of voice and expression of countenance.

“Silence!” Bradford commanded sharply.

Then, caressingly smoothing the flushed face of the delirious man, he
murmured soothingly:

“Don’t fret yourself. Your enemies are gone; you are with friends now.
I’ll take care of you.”

“Who are you?”

The bright eyes opened very wide.

“Don’t you know me?” Bradford asked, anxiety in his tone and manner.

“Yes—yes, I know you, Joe Farley. Of course I know my old friend. I was
sure you would come back. But where is Bright Wing?”

“He’ll be here soon,” answered Bradford, sighing deeply.

“And Duke—surely _he_ hasn’t deserted me—where is Duke?”

At mention of his name, the hound crept forward and licked his master’s
hand. The dumb caress appeared to soothe and assure the sick man more
than anything else could have done. For, with a sigh of contentment, he
closed his eyes and whispered feebly:

“Oh, yes! Duke, old fellow, you are still with me. You’ll not let the
Winnebagoes return and scalp me. Watch over me, good dog, for I’m
sleepy—sleepy——”

Then he lay quiet. But his breathing was hurried; his pulse, bounding;
and he continued to moan occasionally, and mumble and babble words that
could not be understood.

“The Winnebagoes!” Bradford muttered, scowling darkly.

Arising, he began to hasten the preparations for departure. He partook
of the parched corn and broiled venison the savages had prepared.
Afterward he took a small portion of the tender meat, pressed its savory
juices into a drinking cup, and poured the liquid down his patient’s
throat. Ordering the litter brought to him, he stripped off his own
hunting-shirt—unmindful of the chill atmosphere—and rolled it into a
pillow for Douglas’s head. Carefully and tenderly placing his charge upon
the springy bed, he covered him with a ragged, scarlet blanket which one
of the Pottawatomies had worn around his shoulders; and selecting four
of the most stalwart warriors and giving them minute instructions how to
carry the litter, he ordered the band to start upon the return journey.

“Do we go back to Wildcat Creek?” Long Gun inquired.

“No,” Bradford answered, “we go to the villages of the Miamis, upon the
Mississinewa.”

“But are our people there?”

“Yes, by this time.”

“Ugh!” was the satisfied rejoinder.

And Long Gun relapsed into his wonted silence.

All day long, the band trudged through the sheeted woodland, stopping
only at noon. The Indians occasionally conversed in guttural undertones,
but Scar Face maintained a moody silence. A stillness as of death reigned
in the forest, unbroken save for the sharp rattling rap of a woodpecker
now and then, or the startling whir of a partridge’s wings.

Bradford walked beside the litter and looked after the welfare of his
patient. He gave him frequent doses of brandy, and at noon succeeded in
getting him to swallow a little shredded meat. Douglas coughed almost
continuously, and groaned at every sudden jolt of his swinging bed. A
circular bright-red spot appeared upon each cheek, and the arteries of
his temples and neck pulsated visibly. The wound he had received and the
consequent exposure had done their work but too well. He was suffering
from pneumonia.

At one time during the afternoon, he became violently excited and made
repeated attempts to arise from his couch. In vain Bradford sought to
soothe and quiet him. Apparently understanding the need of his presence,
Duke trotted to the litter and fondly licked the hot hand that was
frantically threshing the air. With a smile upon his face, Ross lay back
and wearily closed his wild, staring eyes.

“Wonderful!” Bradford muttered aloud, sadly shaking his head.

“Wonderful—wonderful,” repeated the delirious man, in a monotonous,
parrot-like voice. Then with animation:

“Oh, Amy! you here? No, it’s La Violette—or _is_ it Amy? La Violette—Amy;
La Violette—Amy. I don’t know.”

His words became an unintelligible jargon; but his fit of violence had
passed.

At nightfall the Indians went into camp. Bradford placed the litter near
the fire, and had a screen of boughs erected to shelter its occupant
from the night wind. Again he got his patient to take a small portion of
shredded meat and a little of the expressed juice. The supply of brandy
was almost exhausted; and he wisely resolved to save what was left for an
emergency. All night he sat by Ross’s side, giving him water, for which
the poor fellow begged piteously at frequent intervals, and protecting
him as best he could from the cold.

Duke fared well. Seeing his unparalleled devotion to his master, the
Indians took a fancy to the intelligent animal, and fed him all he would
eat.

At daylight the wearisome march was resumed; and at noon the party was
drawing near the Miami village upon the Mississinewa. As they entered the
town, hundreds of savages swarmed around them, and gazed in stupefaction
upon the unusual spectacle of four grave and dignified warriors bearing
the litter of a wounded paleface.

Pushing his way to the center of the village, a large collection of
well-built lodges and cabins upon the eastern bank of the stream,
Bradford asked for the Prophet. Tenskwatawa’s domicile was pointed out
to him. Unceremoniously pushing aside the curtain of skins, he entered
the dark hut. The Prophet lay stretched upon a fur rug near the center of
the floor, his feet to the fire that alone lighted the dismal interior.
He did not offer to arise at Bradford’s entrance; but greeted him with a
grunt of recognition. The intruder went straight to the point, by saying:

“My prisoner escaped. I have recaptured him and brought him here. But he
is badly wounded; and I want the largest and most comfortable cabin in
the village, in which I may place him and nurse him back to life.”

The Prophet arose to a sitting position, before replying. Then he made
the heartless rejoinder:

“Let the young paleface die! He is a member of the Seventeen Fires—he is
an enemy. His death will subtract one more from the number that ere long
will appear against us, to do battle.”

“He shall _not_ die,” Bradford returned firmly.

“Why?”

“Because I will not have it so.”

“Why does Scar Face so much desire to save the young man’s life?” the
Prophet inquired, with a cunning leer.

“Why I wish to save his life—why I _will_ save his life—concerns no one
but myself,” was the bold reply.

“Tenskwatawa, there is no use in our re-threshing old straw. I have told
you that this young man is my friend. I repeat it. You know me well
enough to realize that I will have my way—that I will not be balked in
whatever I undertake. Let’s have an end of all parleying. I want the
largest and best cabin in the place. Can I have it?”

“Scar Face asks for what is not mine to bestow.”

“What do you mean? Be quick. I have no time to waste in idle diplomacy.”

“This is the village of the Miamis,” was the shrewd answer. “The lodges
are theirs. They have granted my people the privilege of staying here,
but we must erect lodges for ourselves. When that is done, Scar Face
shall have one placed at his disposal.”

Bradford’s anger was rising. His face flushed, then paled; the red scar
upon his cheek quivered tremulously and twitched the corner of his mouth.
He nervously fingered the trigger of his rifle—which he again had in his
possession—as he said huskily:

“An end to your lies, Tenskwatawa! You cannot deceive _me_. The Miamis
are a part of your family. You are here in one of their cabins. Tecumseh
has another; and your braves are busily engaged in erecting others. I
want the best one in the village; and I am going to have it. Do you
understand?”

The Prophet’s repulsive face became more repulsive. He was angry—afraid.
He bent his head in reply, but did not open his lips.

“Well, go and give the order!” Bradford roared impatiently.
“Hurry!—before I lose control of myself and stamp the life out of your
miserable carcass!”

Tenskwatawa slowly arose. His limbs were shaking; his lips, trembling.
The arrant coward was desperately afraid his companion would carry his
threat into execution. And no help was at hand. When he could command his
voice, he said:

“But the best lodge has been given to La Violette and the woman who
attends her.”

“What of the council lodge?”

“I have made it a temple of the Great Spirit. You cannot have it.”

And the Prophet flung up his head, with a gesture of weak defiance.

Bradford was furious. He was on the point of giving full sway to his
seething passion, and beating the brains out of the miserable wretch
before him; but he thought of the wounded man upon the litter outside,
and checked himself.

“Where is La Violette?” he hissed fiercely.

As if in answer to the question, the curtain of skin was pushed aside,
and the young woman stepped into the room. Bradford turned at her
entrance. By the dim light of the flickering fire, he saw that she was
pale and excited.

“Hiram Bradford, what is the meaning of this?” she cried sharply.

He thought she referred to his presence in the Prophet’s hut, and was
attempting to frame a suitable reply, when she imperiously stamped her
little foot and demanded:

“Answer me! Why have you killed that young man? And you claimed to be his
friend!”

“Do you mean Ross Douglas?” Bradford returned wonderingly.

“I mean Fleet Foot—Ross Douglas—yes.”

“He’s not dead,” Bradford hastened to explain, “but he’s——”

“Desperately wounded,” she completed in icy tones.

“Yes.”

“Why did you do it?”

“You wrong me. I didn’t harm him——”

“No,” she interrupted angrily, “but you permitted the warriors you had
with you to shoot him, when he was trying to regain his liberty. It was
murder! For shame! You are worse than a wild beast!”

As she finished speaking, her breast was heaving and tears were in her
violet eyes.

In a few words Bradford explained to her what had happened, and asked her
for the use of the cabin she occupied. The cloud partially lifted from
her face, and she answered quickly:

“I am glad that neither you, nor the warriors under your command,
committed this awful deed. For I have learned to look upon you as a
brave man, and merciful even to your bitterest enemies.”—Bradford winced
slightly.—“You can have the cabin I have occupied, on one condition.”

“Name it,” he said promptly.

“That I be permitted to nurse your—your friend, shall I say?—back to
health.”

For a moment she keenly eyed him, to note the effect of her words.
Then, seeming to realize that she had made an unusual proposition, she
continued confusedly:

“I—I promised when he saved my life, to do all in my power to set him
free. I meant to keep my word. But his friends came to his rescue, and he
regained his freedom without my assistance; only to lose it again. Now
he is in great need of tender care; and I want to repay him for risking
his life in my behalf. I feel that I am indebted to him. Do you accept my
proposal?”

“Gladly,” Bradford answered quickly, a strange light flashing in his blue
eyes. “Nothing would please me more than to have your assistance.”

“Then it is settled,” she returned quietly. “Carry him to the cabin at
once. I will come soon.”

The Prophet witnessed all that passed; but he offered no opposition to
the arrangement. Perhaps he felt it would be useless to do so.

After thanking the young woman, Bradford withdrew and had the wounded man
carried to the place agreed upon. As he placed his charge upon a couch of
soft furs and strove to make him as comfortable as possible, the older
man whispered to himself:

“Oh, if I can save his life! If I can save his life! Fate is playing into
my hands. All will yet be well. I shall realize my desire. But he might
_die_! Oh, God! He _must_ not, he _shall_ not!”




CHAPTER X.


For days Ross Douglas lay unconscious, fighting all the powers of fever
and delirium—battling for his life. Hiram Bradford was his constant
companion and nurse. La Violette was an able and devoted assistant.

On the day following his arrival in the village of the Miamis, Bradford
procured from a French trader—who had just come across from Canada—a
quantity of brandy, and a few drugs, the uses of which he knew. Armed
with these, he assumed the province of physician and strove manfully to
save the young man’s life.

La Violette was unremitting in her tender care. She prepared hot
poultices of cornmeal and dried herbs, which relieved the patient’s
distressing cough, and gave him rest, when all other means failed.
Several times a day she brought him nourishing broths, and coaxed him
to drink them. Her deft fingers rearranged his bed of furs; and her
caressing touch soothed him to slumber. When Bradford was snatching a
few hours’ sleep or taking exercise in the open air, the young woman sat
by the patient’s couch—all her soul in her beautiful face. At such times
her countenance was transfigured. Caressingly stroking Douglas’s raven
locks, damp with the dews of suffering, she fixed her violet eyes upon
his dark, handsome features and listened eagerly to the words that fell
from his lips. He was delirious—there was little sense to his babble. It
mattered not to La Violette; she loved to hear his voice.

When he tossed restively and coughed and moaned, she patted his great
brown hand and spoke soothingly to him. And with a smile flitting about
his mouth, he fell asleep. Then with swift, timorous glances around her,
she bent and tenderly pressed her ripe lips to his white brow. She was
drinking deeply of the rosy, intoxicating cup of love, unmindful of the
lees at the bottom.

Duke had a place in one corner of the cabin. At times he would leave his
bed and, trotting to his master’s couch, would fondly lick his hand. Then
he would throw himself upon the ground and intently watch all that was
going on. The hound barely tolerated Bradford’s presence, and would growl
warningly whenever the latter attempted any playful familiarity. But La
Violette could take the surly animal’s head upon her lap, and pull his
pendulous ears, with impunity.

One day Bradford lay asleep upon a pile of furs, in one corner of the
hut. La Violette was watching at Douglas’s side. A violent fit of
coughing assailed the patient, and he groaned aloud. His hands—growing
thinner and whiter day by day—clutched frantically at his throat. His
wan, emaciated countenance was contorted by a spasm of pain. Duke softly
trotted to the young woman’s side and, dropping at her feet, beseechingly
looked up into her face.

“Yes—yes, noble fellow,” La Violette murmured tearfully, “I will do all I
can for him. For”—in the faintest whisper—“we love him—you and I!”

At that moment Bradford awoke, and, through his half-closed lids,
dreamily watched the play before him. He saw La Violette pat the
dog’s head and whisper to him. Then she turned her attention to the
restless sufferer—renewing the poultice upon his chest, changing the
position of his head and gently soothing him to rest, as a mother would
quiet a fretful child. It was a pretty picture; and Bradford smiled a
self-satisfied smile, as he gazed upon it. He was about to close his
eyes, in an attempt to sleep again, when he observed La Violette bend
down and passionately kiss the unconscious man’s lips.

“Amy, Amy!” Douglas mumbled, his dry tongue hardly able to shape the
words. “Is it you, Amy—and have you come to me at last? I’ve wanted you
so long—so long! And you are still true to me? Say that you are, Amy. For
I dreamed—or did someone tell me?—that you were false—false!”

La Violette started back as if someone had dealt her a sharp blow. She
glanced apprehensively toward Bradford’s couch; but he appeared to
be sleeping. Her beautiful face was colorless; her violet eyes were
swimming with tears. Bending over her charge, she whispered faintly:

“Who is Amy?”

“Amy, Amy,” Douglas repeated, parrot-like.

“It is not Amy,” she murmured tenderly—lovingly. “It is I—La Violette;
and I love you!”

“Ah!” the delirious man ejaculated, and opened his eyes very wide.

She started back. She feared—yet hoped—he had recognized her, understood
her meaning. His next words undeceived her, however.

“You—you cannot fool me,” he mumbled huskily. “You are Amy. I—I love you,
Amy——”

And then he closed his eyes and lay quiet, the movement of his parched
lips alone telling that he was communing with the phantoms that beset his
feverish brain.

La Violette bowed her golden head and wept convulsively. Duke thrust his
cold muzzle against her hand, in token of sympathy. Impulsively the girl
threw her arms around the animal’s neck, and hugged him. Then she again
hid her face and gave way to her acute grief. Already she was beginning
to taste the bitter dregs in the bottom of the cup of love.

Bradford arose, and, lightly moving to her side, laid his hand upon her
shoulder. She sprang to her feet, an exclamation of alarm upon her lips.
When she saw who it was that confronted her, she proudly threw back her
head—her eyes alight with anger. Tossing aside her disheveled hair, she
cried scornfully:

“Hiram Bradford, you have been spying upon me.”

“I was awake,” he returned quietly. “I saw all. You love him.”

Her face grew crimson—then paled.

“And if I _do_?” she said defiantly.

“Nothing,” he answered, his husky voice huskier than usual. “I’m glad you
_do_ love him. And—if he live—he shall be yours. You were made for each
other.”

“Do—do you think he is—is going to die?” she asked falteringly.

“No; we two will save him. He’ll learn to love you—the lesson will not be
a hard one.”

“But——” and she hesitated.

“Well?”

“He loves another.”

“How do you know that?”

“I had it from his own lips.”

Bradford playfully patted her cheek—which caused Duke to growl
menacingly—as he replied:

“Pshaw, little one! You must give no heed to the vaporings of a delirious
brain. Wait until he’s himself. You’ll see how easily you can win his
love. He babbled of you when I was bringing him here.”

“Did he?” And a glad light sprang into her eyes.

“Yes. Leave everything to me. I’ve been your friend in the past; I’m your
friend now. And both of us are _his_ friends. Now go for a walk in the
open air—and get some color into your cheeks.”

The days and weeks dragged drearily. Ross Douglas did not arise from
the depths of fever and delirium, into which his wound had plunged him.
Daily he grew weaker and thinner. In spite of the unremitting care of his
nurses, he seemed slowly but surely drifting toward the shores of the
unknown. November passed; December came—and Christmas was drawing near.
And still the hosts of death laid siege to the citadel of his life.

In the meantime, disaffection again arose in the ranks of the Prophet’s
followers. The winter was severe; and food was scarce. Many of the
Indians drifted away from the Mississinewa, in search of game, or
returned to their old homes. Tecumseh sat in his cabin, moodily pondering
over the condition of affairs. Yet had it not been for his presence, his
and his brother’s followers would have deserted, to a man. As it was,
only the Miamis and a faithful few of the various tribes remained. In the
latter part of November, Tenskwatawa sent messengers to Fort Harrison,
to ask for a share of the annuities that were being distributed to the
peaceable savages. These messengers succeeded in deceiving the agent at
the post, and returned to Mississinewa with a large amount of provisions
and other stores.

About this time, also, the English—learning of the Prophet’s defeat and
misfortunes—sent him a supply of arms, ammunition, blankets, and cooking
utensils. Bradford distributed these goods impartially.

Toward the last of December, the weather suddenly grew warmer and game
again appeared in the vicinity of the village. Despondency and gloom gave
way to feasting and rejoicing.

One morning, a few days before Christmas, La Violette sat by Douglas’s
couch. Bradford had been up all night. Now he lay sleeping the sleep
of utter nervous exhaustion. The fire in the middle of the room burned
dimly—casting angular shadows upon the rough log walls. Outside the rain
fell drearily. The earth was water-soaked; the air, fog-laden and chilly.

Nothing broke the stillness of the room, but the muffled, sullen rush of
the distant stream and the low, incoherent mutterings of the restless
patient. Uneasily he moved his head from side to side, and aimlessly
picked at imaginary objects in the air. He was the shadow of his
magnificent self. His hollow, burning eyes were wide open and staring;
his parched lips, drawn apart. No color was in his face, except the
hectic spots upon his sunken cheeks.

La Violette was pale and worn. As she looked upon the wreck of virile
manhood before her, she sighed deeply, and despondently shook her head.

Even as she looked upon the sick man, an abrupt change came over him. His
lips ceased to move—and gradually turned blue; his teeth set themselves
with a sharp click. The hectic spots upon his cheeks faded, leaving his
face of marble whiteness; and an icy sweat bathed his brow and temples.
A rigor shook his emaciated form from head to foot; his breathing became
irregular.

La Violette caught his hand in hers, and found it cold and clammy.
Springing to her feet, she ran to Bradford and aroused him. He was wide
awake in an instant.

“What’s the matter?” he inquired anxiously.

“_He—is—dying!_”

The words fell like leaden balls. Bradford felt each of them strike his
heart. The girl’s face wore a horrified expression. Without waiting
to hear more, Bradford ran to his patient’s bedside. After a hurried
examination he announced:

“The crisis has arrived! He’s not dying—we can yet save him. Don’t get
excited—don’t lose your head. Roll that hot stone in a blanket, and place
it to his feet. That’s right—you’re as steady as a clock. Heat another
blanket to wrap around him. Have no fear—we shall save him. Now get me
the flask of brandy and the small white powders that are in the pocket of
my hunting-shirt. What a brave little woman you are!”

Her hands were shaking like aspen leaves; but she obeyed his orders. When
the medicines were in his possession, Bradford poured out a quantity
of the fiery liquid and dropped into it the white powder. Then quickly
mixing the two, he forcibly poured the whole down the dying man’s throat.

Silently he watched for the effects of the powerful draught. They
were not long in showing themselves. The rigor passed; and a warm glow
suffused the patient’s neck and face, and rose to his temples. Pulse and
respiration gradually grew steadier—stronger; and feet and hands regained
their accustomed warmth. A natural moisture overspread the body. And the
sick man sank into a deep, dreamless sleep.

For an hour the two nurses sat by Ross’s side—neither speaking a word. At
last Bradford yawned and remarked:

“He’s all right now, little girl. The worst is over. I’m going to finish
my nap. Don’t disturb him—let him sleep as long as he will. When he
awakes he’ll be conscious. Call me, if he rouses before I do. Be brave a
little longer; and all will be well.”

For hours the two men slept. La Violette scarcely dared to breathe, for
fear of waking her charge. Noon came. Bradford arose, and, approaching
the couch, closely inspected the sleeper.

“He’s doing nicely,” he said. Then noting La Violette’s pallid face:

“Come—you must get out of here. I don’t care to take charge of another
patient just now. I never did like the practice of the profession. Take a
turn in the open air—and get something to eat while you’re gone.”

But she resolutely shook her head, as she replied:

“I will stay by him until he awakes. You go—you need air and exercise
more than I.”

“You’ll go when I return?” he asked.

“If he be awake—yes.”

Bradford smiled to himself, as he passed through the door, murmuring:

“I know your desire, my sweet maid. You want your face to be the first
he shall see when he regains consciousness—your voice to be the first
he shall hear. Ah! Love may make cowards of men; but it makes angels of
women.”

After Bradford left the cabin, La Violette kneeled upon the bare ground
at the sleeping man’s side and gazed long and earnestly into his face,
moving her lips as though in prayer. Then she timidly took his thin
hand between her soft palms and kissed it gently—reverently, again
and again. At last he stirred and opened his eyes. The blank stare of
delirium was gone; there was intelligence in the look he fastened upon
her. Embarrassed, she dropped his hand and drew herself erect, her face
aflame. His lips moved; and she caught the faint whisper:

“La Violette.”

She nodded, but placed her finger upon her lips, in token of silence.

“Where am I?” he persisted.

“With friends,” she answered feelingly. “But you are very weak; you must
not talk.”

Unheeding her words, he went on in a feeble, whispering tone:

“I’m so helpless. Have I been very ill?”

“Yes; you have been very ill. Please do not try to talk; the effort will
hurt you.”

Leaving his side, she brought a cup of gruel from the fire—where it had
been warming upon the coals—and insisted that he drink it. Like a fretful
child, he pushed it aside and whimpered:

“Answer my questions—answer my questions!”

Seeing that he was growing excited, she said soothingly:

“Drink this for me, and I will answer your questions. Take it all—that’s
right. Now, what do you want to know?”

“Where am I—at Wildcat Creek?”

“No; you are at the village of the Miamis, upon the Mississinewa.”

“Who brought me here?”

“Hiram Bradford.”

“Bradford? Ah, yes! I remember now. I was wounded by the Winnebagoes.
My companions left me, thinking I was dead. How long have I been
here—several days?”

“Several weeks.”

“So long! Who has taken care of—of—me?”

He was panting for breath. Noting which, she answered kindly but firmly:

“Bradford has taken care of you. But you must talk no more—you are too
weak. Close your eyes and try to sleep.”

“And you have—helped to nurse—me,” he went on brokenly. “I know—you
have. I was dimly—dimly conscious of your presence. But I thought you
were—were——”

“You must talk no more,” she sternly interrupted. “If you do not obey
me, I will leave you here alone.”

A feeble, flickering smile for one brief moment illuminated his ghastly
features. Then it was gone, and he murmured faintly:

“No, don’t leave me. I’ll obey you.”

And obediently he closed his eyes, and was soon fast asleep.

A few minutes later Bradford returned.

“Still sleeping?” he inquired softly, gazing into the upturned face.

“He has been awake,” La Violette answered quietly.

“Ah! And he recognized you?”

She nodded.

“Did he ask you any questions?”

“He wanted to know where he was, who had brought him here, and who nursed
him.”

“You answered his questions?”

“Yes.”

“And then?”

“I gave him some gruel and commanded him to go to sleep.”

“And he obeyed you. I couldn’t have done better myself. Now you must
keep the promise you made me. Take a short walk; then eat something and
seek the rest you so much need. I don’t want to see you back here until
to-morrow morning. Come—you must do as I say.”

Listlessly, pathetically, La Violette left the cabin; and Bradford took
her place by Douglas’s couch.

Ross improved very slowly. It was the first of February before he could
totter across the room and take a peep at the outer world. He was greatly
reduced in flesh and strength; he was nervous and irritable. His muscles
were soft, his buoyant disposition was gone, and his mind seemed feeble
and apathetic. Bradford and La Violette did all they could to cheer and
encourage him—but in vain. Like a water-logged vessel, he drifted this
way and that in the eddy of conflicting emotions—and made little progress
toward the haven of health.

Out of patience, at last, Bradford said to him:

“Look here, young man! Do you want to get well? If you do, you’ve got to
rouse yourself. Shake off your lethargy and be a man. You’re acting the
baby. I’m ashamed of you.”

Ross proudly straightened his thin form. His nostrils dilated and
quivered. Something like his old self-reliance flashed in his hollow
eyes, as he cried in piping tones:

“Hiram Bradford, you’re very brave now; you insult a man who is too
weak to give you the drubbing your words merit. You’ve forgotten that I
defeated you in a fair contest of strength and skill—when I was myself.
Yes, I _will_ rouse myself; I will try to recover my health—if for no
other purpose than to make you eat your words!”

A spasm of pain contorted Bradford’s scarred face. But quickly recovering
his equanimity, he chuckled huskily:

“That’s it—get angry at me. I thought I could stir you. You feel better
already, don’t you?”

Douglas earnestly scanned the speaker’s face for a full minute. Bradford
burst out laughing. With a sheepish grin, the younger man said:

“I understand you now. Your words and actions are a part of your plan of
treatment, eh? Well, I’ll shake off my lethargy—if I can. I’ll be a man,
and strive to recover my health and strength. I _am_ ashamed of myself.
Please forgive my childish petulance. Here is my hand.”

The two shook hands, silently—solemnly. Then Douglas continued:

“Twice you have saved my life, Bradford. I am grateful—I don’t hate you
as I did. I may as well confess that I rather like you—that I feel you
are my friend. I want to thank you for your unremitting and tender care.
Yet I cannot understand why you keep me a prisoner. And here I give you
fair warning: As soon as I’m able, I’ll again try to escape.”

A smile almost beatific lighted the elder man’s marred visage, as he
replied feelingly:

“I _am_ your friend; and I am delighted to know you begin to realize it.
Please say again that you don’t hate me.”

“I don’t hate you,” Ross said quietly.

“And you wouldn’t harm me, if you could?”

“No—unless——”

“Unless what?”

“Unless you should offer injury to me or some one dear to me.”

“Which I’ll never do,” Bradford answered earnestly. “Now we understand
each other. You’re to try to get well; I’m to help you. You’re going to
try to escape; I’m going to try to prevent you from succeeding. Have I
stated the case correctly?”

“Yes,” Douglas returned smilingly.

“Very well. Now you’d better lie down and take a nap. You’re tired.”

From that day, Ross began to improve more rapidly. His cough gradually
subsided; his appetite grew better. He commenced to regain strength and
flesh. But the lancinating pain was still in his chest; and it took but
little exercise or excitement to exhaust him. Then, too, his mind was
perturbed. The stronger he grew, the more he chafed under the yoke of
captivity. He worried about Amy. He thought of her by day, and dreamed
of her by night. Was she alive—was she well? Was she grieving over his
supposed death, or was she wholly unaware of the misfortunes that had
befallen him?

“If I only knew!” he would groan in his anguish. “Did Bright Wing and Joe
escape and return to Franklinton? If they did, have they told all they
knew? And, thinking me dead, she may have married George Hilliard!”

Then, in his excitement, he would stride up and down the room, until he
was in a state of nervous collapse and compelled to seek his bed, to lie
fretting and planning until sleep came to his relief.

Bradford noticed that his patient was always worse after being left to
himself for a short time, and shrewdly suspected the cause. He spoke to
La Violette about the matter; and they decided that one or the other of
them would be with Ross constantly.

As spring approached, the weather grew milder. On fine, warm days,
Douglas and Duke—always accompanied by Bradford or La Violette—took short
strolls through the village. But on wet, cold days, he was compelled
to crouch by the fire in his miserable cabin, a prey to his own gloomy
thoughts. It was on such occasions that La Violette came as a ministering
angel to cheer and comfort him. She talked to him, sang to him, read to
him—her heart upon her sleeve, her soul in her beautiful eyes. But he
was blind—he saw nothing. To him she was a fair, lovable child—unused
to the ways of the world. She talked to him; he heard only her words,
and gave no heed to the tender inflection of her voice. She sang quaint
little love ballads to him; he closed his eyes and listened dreamily to
her bird-like notes—scarcely noticing the sentiment of the song. She read
to him from two or three old French books, tales of love and chivalry;
but he took the stories for what they were worth—and lost sight of the
reader. He noticed her marked preference for his society; but thought
only that she desired to amuse him—to be amused herself. He looked upon
her and pronounced her very beautiful; he thoroughly enjoyed her society.
He was interested in her, and wondered who and what she was. He respected
her, pitied her, felt grateful for what she had done for him. He would
have fought for her—died for her. But did he love her—did she love him?
He never asked himself the questions. Perhaps he did not dare to do
so—perhaps he was willfully blind. At any rate, he was true as steel to
Amy Larkin.

One day when La Violette had been reading to him for some time, she
stopped suddenly and, closing her book, remarked naïvely:

“You are not interested in what I have been reading. Do you want me to
sing to you, or talk to you?”

“Talk to me, please.”

“Of what or whom?”

“Of yourself.”

“Of myself?”—in pleased surprise. It was the first time he had manifested
so great an interest in her.

“Yes, of yourself,” he repeated.

“But there is so little to tell,” she objected.

“There is much I’d like to know,” he said earnestly. “May I ask you some
pointed questions?”

He lay upon a fur rug at her feet. As he turned to look at her, their
eyes met. He unflinchingly met her ardent gaze; she dropped her white
lids and blushed. Then recovering herself she answered composedly:

“You may ask me any questions you choose.”

“And will you answer them?”

“I will.”

For the moment he was disconcerted. He had expected her to refuse his
request. However, he said:

“How long have you been among the Indians?”

“Among the Indians?”—in well-feigned surprise.—“I _am_ an Indian.”

Her eyes were dancing mischievously.

“You are not a _savage_,” he replied coldly. “You can’t deceive me.”

“I am not a savage—but I am an Indian, surely. Tenskwatawa is my father.”

And she laughed merrily.

“Why do you tell me that? Do you expect me to believe so palpable a
falsehood?”

Instantly her mood changed. Her lips trembled and unshed tears stood in
her eyes, as she answered sadly:

“Because it is all I know to tell. My earliest recollection is of playing
among the children of the Shawnees. Tenskwatawa was pointed out to me as
my father. From that day until I was ten years old—as nearly as I know my
age—I was under his charge. During all that time the aged Indian woman,
who is my attendant now, ministered to my childish needs and wants—was
all the mother I ever knew. At the age of ten I was an uncouth little
savage. I went with the tribe from one camp to another. I knew no other
life—I cared for naught but the companionship of my savage friends——”

“How similar to my own experience!” he muttered.

“What did you say?” she asked quickly.

“Pardon my interruption,” he replied. “Please go on with your story.”

“When I was ten years old, we were encamped upon the Maumee. There
it was that I first saw Hiram Bradford—so far as I know. It was in
the autumn when he came among us. He appeared to have great influence
with my father, Tenskwatawa. One day I overheard the two talking—or
quarreling, rather. Both were very angry. I heard my name mentioned;
and with childish intuition I knew that some calamity threatened me. I
ran and hid; but shortly my father found me, and told me I was to leave
the tribe and accompany Scar Face—that is the name Bradford bears among
the Indians. I remember I cried bitterly and clung to Crane Bill, my
nurse. But Bradford took me in his arms and bore me away. He took me to
Quebec and placed me in charge of some French women, who taught a mission
school. There I remained six years—and there I received the little
education I possess. Two years ago he took me from my good friends—whom I
had learned to love dearly—and brought me back to the tribe.”

She stopped abruptly, her breast heaving.

“Go on,” Ross said gently.

“There is no more to tell,” was the half-whispered reply.

“That’s all you know of yourself?”

“It is”—nodding.

“Do you know anything of Bradford’s history?”

“Nothing.”

“You are eighteen years old?”

“As nearly as I know.”

“And you know nothing of your people?”

“You are among them.”

“You mean these dirty, idle savages?”

“Yes. They are all the friends I have ever known, except Bradford, the
teachers and pupils at the mission school—and yourself.”

“You haven’t the faintest recollection of your parents—your childhood
home?” he persisted.

“Sometimes,” she answered chokingly, “I dream of lying as a babe in the
arms of a fair-haired, blue-eyed woman, and seeing her smile down at me.
But that is all—it is but a dream.”

“Has Tenskwatawa always been kind to you?”

“Kind and deferential.”

“But you know—you feel—that he isn’t your father?”

For a few seconds she was silent. Then she said:

“The tribe believes he is my father—that I am a gift from the Great
Spirit. Crane Bill, my old nurse, told me one time that Tenskwatawa found
me in the forest, where the Great Spirit had placed me. That is all I
know.”

“Have you never questioned Tenskwatawa?”

“I have.”

“What did he say?”

“He said that what the tribe believes is true—and would say no more.”

“And Bradford?”

“He patted my cheek and told me to be patient—that one day I should know
all.”

“Nothing more?”

She shook her head.

“He has always treated you kindly—respectfully?”

“Always.”

“And you like him?”

“I do.”

“Better than you like me?”

He asked the question innocently—playfully, as he would have put it to a
child, expecting her to answer in the same spirit. But she did nothing of
the kind. Instead, she placed her hand upon his and began passionately:

“Fleet Foot, you will never know——”

Then she suddenly checked herself, and, hiding her face, burst into tears.

Douglas was surprised—horrified. For the first time, he had an inkling
of the truth. He did not know what to do—what to say. Her disheveled,
red-gold hair, her beaded dress of bright-colored cloth, her slender form
shaking with sobs—all gave her the appearance of a grieved child. The
temptation assailed him to take her in his arms, kiss away her tears,
and tell her he loved her. But Amy Larkin’s face arose before him; and
condemning himself for a weakling, he set his teeth and regained control
of himself. When he felt equal to the task, he gently but firmly removed
her hands from her face and said:

“There—you mustn’t cry anymore. I don’t doubt your friendship.”—He
accented the word.—“You’ve been very kind to me; and I appreciate all you
have done. Now, if you’ll listen, I’ll tell you the story of my life, in
return for what you have told me of yours. Are you ready to hear me?”

“Yes,” she answered in an almost inaudible tone, as she dried her eyes
and sought to compose her features.

Unheeding her evident embarrassment, and the dry sobs that at intervals
shook her willowy form, he proceeded to tell her of himself. She listened
with rapt attention. When he had finished his narrative, he said:

“You see, La Violette, there is great similarity in our experiences.”

“Yes,” she murmured softly.

“The knowledge should make us closer friends.”

He laid stress upon the word friends.

“I cannot be a better friend to you than I have been—than I have tried to
be, at least,” she replied tremulously.

Then she arose and darted from the room.

When he had recovered from the surprise her sudden departure had caused
him, he muttered gloomily:

“Am I an egotistical fool, or has she—untutored in the ways of the
world—shown me her woman’s heart? I pity her—her lot is a sad one. Who is
she? No matter; I mustn’t wrong her. She’s innocence itself. A child—a
mere child! Yet a woman with a woman’s heart! She is beautiful—lovable.
A wild flower—a violet. A face and form to charm an artist! If it were
not for—Bah! Of what am I thinking? Oh, that I were my old self—that I
might escape from this hateful place and return to the little woman who
is grieving over my prolonged absence!”

Contracting his brows, he strode to the door and looked out at the
falling rain.

[Illustration]




CHAPTER XI.


The sprightly month of April brought sunny days and warm showers, opening
buds and singing birds.

Ross Douglas had almost recovered his wonted health and strength. A
slight twinge of pain in his chest, at times, and a little shortness of
breath, on exercise, alone remained to remind him of his tedious illness.

He wandered about the village at will; but he was unarmed, and dozens
of watchful eyes were upon him. He saw no chance of escape. At night
Bradford occupied the cabin with him, never leaving him alone.

Frequently he met La Violette and tried to talk with her; but she was shy
and reserved, and had little to say. He fancied that she avoided him—and
it piqued him. Man-like he could not understand that she was trying to
conquer her love for him; and he sought to re-establish their familiar
companionship. His influence over her was such—she loved him so—that he
succeeded. She could not resist his magnetic power. And with the true
abandon of a simple, passionate child of the forest, she again drank of
the intoxicating cup of love—and for the time was happy—in paradise.

Ross, also, became more cheerful. Perhaps he had missed her
companionship more than he would own—more than he knew. At any rate
he was happier when she was at his side—when her violet eyes looked
trustingly into his own gray ones, and her artless prattle fell upon his
ear.

One day in the early part of the month, Bradford entered the hut and
remarked:

“Douglas, I have your gun here—the one I took from you at Wildcat Creek.
Do you want it?”

“Certainly,” Ross replied with animation.

“You can have it—and this pouch of ammunition—on one condition.”

“Name it.”

“That you don’t try to escape again.”

“I won’t try to escape—for the present.”

“That’s rather indefinite,” laughed the older man. “Explain.”

“When I have determined to make another attempt, I’ll apprise you of the
fact. Is that satisfactory?”

“Perfectly. Here’s your gun. I think a little tramping about the woods
will do you good. At least, it will help you to pass the time. You may
go out with the Indians or by yourself, as you please. You have given me
your word—I can trust you.”

Having his trusty rifle again in his possession, Douglas felt more like a
man—less like a prisoner. Every day, almost, he took a long jaunt through
the woods adjacent to the village, his weapon upon his shoulder. His
object was twofold. He desired to toughen his muscles and regain his old
powers of endurance, and to become acquainted with the topography of the
surrounding country. For he meant to make another desperate effort to
escape, as soon as he felt equal to the task.

April gave place to May. The trees were in full leaf; the wild flowers,
in full bloom. The air was warm and fragrant; and the birds sang all day
long, in the dark, cool woodland.

Ross was now completely recovered from the effects of his wound, and
ready for the project upon which his heart was set. But he was in a
quandary. He could not make up his mind to break his promise to Bradford;
yet he feared the result of making known his intentions. Would not his
rifle again be taken from him and himself be confined and guarded as at
Wildcat Creek? While he debated the question, the sunshiny days sped
swiftly by.

About the middle of the month, a council of twelve tribes was held at
the Miami village. Ringing speeches were made by various chiefs. Each
tribe sought to lay the blame of the battle of Tippecanoe and its results
upon the other. Much bad feeling existed. Tecumseh made an effort to
reconcile and reunite the tribes of his confederacy, but failed. The
council was a _fiasco_—so far as the great chief’s desires and intentions
were concerned. After indulging in mutual recriminations, and expressing
themselves as being desirous of living at peace with the Americans, the
members of the council took their departure—and the farce was at an end.

A number of white men were present, as spectators, at the council.
But Bradford kept a close watch upon his prisoner; and the latter got
no opportunity to communicate with the visitors. Whether they were
Americans, or British subjects from across the lakes, Douglas could not
ascertain.

About the first of June, Tecumseh, accompanied by a number of warriors,
went to Fort Wayne and demanded ammunition. He was very haughty, and
firm in his old opinions and intentions. The agent sought to induce
him to remain at peace with the United States, but refused to give him
ammunition.

Tecumseh made answer:

“My British father will not refuse my request. To him I will go.”

And giving a defiant war-whoop, he disappeared in the adjacent woods.

He went immediately to Malden, where he joined the English.

A short time after Tecumseh’s departure for Canada, an Indian runner
arrived in the Mississinewa village. He brought the news that what had
been expected long, had happened at last—that war had been declared
between the United States and Great Britain, and that both nations were
making preparations for a final struggle for supremacy upon the border.
This intelligence greatly pleased Tenskwatawa and his braves. They saw a
chance for scalps and plunder—and promptly resolved to join the British.
The night of the messenger’s arrival was spent in feasting and rejoicing.
Speeches were made, and war-songs were chanted. When morning dawned,
numbers of the warriors at once set out for the scenes of expected
conflict.

If Hiram Bradford was elated over the news received, he succeeded in
concealing the fact from Douglas. The latter was depressed and sorrowful.
Well he knew what would be the fate of many exposed posts and settlements
upon the border, as the result of such a war.

La Violette listened attentively to the impassioned speeches of the
chiefs—speeches counseling murder and pillage—and sighed heavily. Yet
when Ross questioned her as to what she thought, she replied firmly:

“The redmen have been wronged—deeply wronged. Their cause is a just one.
They seek to recover what is their own; and they mean to take advantage
of this opportunity. They should not be blamed; for in vain have they
pleaded for justice. They will join the English, hoping to recover the
land of their fathers. If the Seventeen Fires be successful in the
struggle, the condition of the redmen will be no worse; if the English
gain the victory, the condition of the redmen will be bettered—I hope,
though I cannot fully trust the promises of the British. That the Indians
will commit excesses is to be expected. No one deplores their mode of
warfare more than I. But they are ignorant, superstitious, revengeful
savages. God made them such.”

“La Violette, you talk as though these same ignorant savages were your
people, your relatives—as though their cause was your own,” Ross said
sadly.

Her eyes flashed and her chest heaved, as she said angrily:

“What is it to you, Ross Douglas, how I talk—what I think? These
miserable beings are all the friends I have—all I expect to have. You
do not care who I am, what I am, or what may become of me! Why do you
concern yourself about what I _say_ or _think_? Your only desire is to
escape and return to your—your home, to forget that you ever saw me!”

Bursting into tears, she turned and left him staring after her.

For the next few days Douglas was in a fever of unrest. Now he had an
additional incentive to escape. His country again needed his services. He
could not delay much longer—he must make the attempt, though he should
court death in so doing. He said to himself:

“I’ll go to Bradford and give him warning of my intentions. I cannot
break my word—I cannot act a dishonorable part, even to gain my liberty.
No doubt he’ll disarm me and place me under close surveillance. No
matter; I’ll elude the vigilance of his red hounds in some way. Perhaps
I can make my way to Fort Wayne. The Indians are inflamed by the
declaration of war; it will not be safe for me to remain here much
longer—especially, if Bradford should be called away. Why does that man
hold me captive? Idle question! I can’t answer it. Great heaven! Almost
a year has passed since I left Amy. I’ll delay no longer. I’ll risk all
upon one cast of the die!”

That evening another Indian runner arrived in the village. He came from
Malden, and brought a message from Tecumseh to Tenskwatawa, to enlist all
the warriors he could, and send them to Canada at once. The great chief
promised that all who would come should be paid for their services and
share in the plunder.

Tenskwatawa at once set about the work. His persuasive powers were
great; the Indians feared his baleful influence; and scarcely a brave
dared to disobey his orders. Within a surprisingly short time, he had
a large number enlisted and ready to set out. Tecumseh had sent word
that the women and children of the warriors enlisting should be sent,
under escort, beyond the Mississippi; and that the Prophet should then
raise another force to attack Vincennes. The great Shawnee promised to
return and lead the attack upon that place. Tenskwatawa carried out his
brother’s orders to the letter.

La Violette did not accompany the women and children on their long and
lonely journey. The Prophet desired that she should do so; but she
appealed to Bradford, with the result that she was permitted to stay with
the few Indians remaining at the village—most of whom were Miamis that
stubbornly refused to cast their lots in with the British.

All this occurred within a few days after the arrival of the runner from
Canada.

This messenger also brought a sealed message from the English commander,
to Bradford. Immediately upon its receipt, the latter went to Douglas and
said:

“As you know, I’m in the employ of the British. I’ve just received
instructions to go among the various tribes still remaining neutral,
and try to enlist their services in behalf of the English government. I
must start at once. Probably I shall be gone some weeks. You will remain
here until I come back. You’ll not be lonely. La Violette will be your
companion.”—He smiled a meaning smile.—“On my return we three will go
to Canada. I’m sorry to part from you—for so short a time, even; but
it can’t be helped. I don’t mind telling you that if my mission proves
successful—as it will—it means thousands of pounds to me. And you shall
share in my good-fortune. You will do as I wish?”

“I will not,” was the positive answer. “Why should I?”

“Because I desire you to do so,” Bradford returned coolly.

“Then I should play the part of a passive traitor, simply to please you
who have wronged——” Ross began hotly, but came to an abrupt stop.

“Well?” And Bradford smiled broadly.

“I was going to say,” Douglas resumed calmly, “that according to your
admissions, I should play the traitor, to please you who have kept me a
prisoner for months and still have me in your power.”

“You’ll not be playing the traitor; you’ll remain neutral—that’s all.”

“A passive traitor is as bad as an active one. I cannot consent to your
proposal. I’ve been here too long already, much against my will. I wish
to revisit my home for a few days—then again offer my services to my
country. You say you are my friend. In some ways you have proven your
assertion. Let me depart in peace.”

“You put my friendship to a severe test,” Bradford laughed.

“You will not grant my request?”

“No—I cannot.”

“Why?”—impatiently.

“Because to allow you to leave here would upset my plans.”

“Your plans?”

“Yes; the plans I have laid for your future.”

“Please explain,” Ross said, a sneer curling his lip.

“I wish I _might_ explain to you—tell you everything,” Bradford answered
very earnestly. “But I don’t dare to do so at present. I fear it might
prove disastrous. Be patient just a little longer. You shall know all ere
long. Then you’ll bless me for having kept you here.”

“Never!” Douglas cried angrily. “I’m no child—and I’ll not stay.”

“You mean to try to escape again?”

“Yes.”

For a half minute Bradford dropped his head in thought. Evidently he was
greatly moved. At last he said sadly but decidedly—his husky voice hardly
audible:

“You’re an honorable, upright gentleman, Ross Douglas; you keep your
word, even when the breaking of it would give you the liberty you covet.
I would set you free—but no! You _must_ not—you _shall_ not leave the
place, until I am ready for you to do so. I’m off now. Good-by.”

Silently the two men shook hands and parted. Both were strangely moved.

A few minutes later Bradford was saying to a stalwart Shawnee brave—one
of the few remaining at the Mississinewa village:

“Long Gun, you are not to join any of the expeditions against the
Americans. Select a score of your most trusty warriors, and remain here
to protect La Violette and guard Fleet Foot. This evening when the young
paleface retires to rest, slip into the hut and disarm him. Do not lose
sight of him at any time—and guard him well each night. Remember that
he is fleet of foot, brave, and strong. Under no circumstances is he to
be ill-treated or injured. Keep him safe until my return, and you shall
have fifty pounds in gold. Here is ten pounds to bind the bargain. Can I
depend on you?”

“Ugh!” ejaculated the imperturbable Long Gun, as one by one he dropped
the jingling coins into his pouch.

Bradford hurried away toward Tenskwatawa’s cabin. Arriving there, he
found the Prophet alone; and, striding up to him, said brusquely:

“I am leaving upon a mission to the neutral tribes. During my absence, La
Violette is to remain here. Do you understand?”

Tenskwatawa nodded stiffly.

“Heed my words, then,” Bradford continued savagely. “If you drag her away
from here in my absence—and thus defeat my plans—I will choke the life
out of you, the first time I meet you. Beware!”

The cowering Prophet looked the impotent rage he felt, but did not open
his lips. As he left the cabin Bradford chuckled huskily:

“I have cowed him. The miserable coward—he is afraid to say his life is
his own!”

Then gravely:

“But he’s cunning—treacherous. What a wonderful, uncanny power he exerts
over his ignorant people! I must not be long absent. What a sweet revenge
it would be to him, to frustrate my designs. The only thing that will
restrain him is his abject cowardice. How he hates me! And for what?
Because I have made him bow the knee to me—the craven! Because my wishes
have run counter to his selfish purpose—because I have done as I please
concerning the welfare of that dear girl.”

Just outside of the door he met La Violette.

“I’m going away for a few weeks, La Violette,” he remarked. “In my
absence improve your opportunity to the utmost.”

“What do you mean?” she asked softly, dropping her long lashes over her
tell-tale eyes.

“You know what I mean, my little coquette,” he laughed lightly. “You have
ensnared Ross Douglas’s heart. Throw a few more cords of love around it,
to hold it secure.”

“Snared his heart!” she cried, petulantly stamping her moccasined foot.
“He _has_ no heart—it is in another’s keeping.”

“Not so, little one,” he answered positively. “He’s _betrothed_ to
another—he muttered her name in his delirium—but he’s learning to love
_you_. Already he loves you better than you know—than he suspects.
Yours is the name that falls from his lips during sleep. Be patient—but
persistent. Devote yourself to his comfort—make yourself necessary to his
very existence. Above all, see to it that he doesn’t escape during my
absence. Good-by.”

Ere she could make reply, Bradford had turned the corner of the cabin
and disappeared. A half hour later he had set out upon his journey,
accompanied by a half score of picked warriors.




CHAPTER XII.


The night of Bradford’s departure was quite warm for the time of year.
Ross Douglas sat in front of the cabin he had occupied since coming to
the village. The balmy air was laden with the scent of wild flowers—sweet
with the breath of the damp woodland. La Violette timidly stole to his
side and whispered:

“You are lonely. May I talk to you?”

“Certainly—I’m always glad to have your company,” he replied,—sincerity
in his voice and manner.

In low tones they conversed for some time, aimlessly rambling from one
subject to another. Each put forth an effort to entertain the other; but
in spite of their endeavors the conversation flagged. Silence fell upon
them. The stars peeped out; the moon rose above the tree-tops. At last
the girl sprang from her seat, and with a soft “good-night” slipped away
among the shadows.

Douglas promptly got upon his feet, and calling to Duke—who lay dozing
near the door—entered the hut. The place was in absolute darkness.
Without removing any of his apparel, the young man threw himself upon his
couch, murmuring:

“At last the opportunity has come; and I’m ready to take advantage of
it. I’ll snatch a few hours of sleep. Then when the camp is wrapped in
slumber, I’ll steal into the black forest, and leave this hated place far
behind me. No guards have been placed over me. I can hardly understand
it. But I ought not to complain, if fortune sees fit to favor me for
once. Ah, Amy! God favoring, I shall soon meet you and clasp you to my
heart!”

A short time he lay, open-eyed and thoughtful. Then sighing deeply, he
whispered:

“But I hate to part from La Violette. She’s a sweet, lovable, trusting
child. I have learned to like her very much. And—poor little girl!—she
likes me only too well, I fear. But I’m in nowise to blame. I haven’t
sought to win her heart. I have tried to hold her at arm’s length. But,
simple child of nature that she is, she can’t disguise her feelings. I
pity her. I hate to leave her here—to such a fate. But I can’t take her
with me—it’s out of the question. How lonely she will be! May God keep
and comfort my little wild violet, when I am gone!”

With this fervent utterance, he resolutely closed his eyes and fell
asleep.

An hour passed. Ross was awakened by the voice of the bloodhound. The
animal stood by his master’s bedside, growling fiercely. His bristles
were erect; his eyes, fixed upon the open door, through which the mellow
moonlight was streaming. Douglas raised himself upon his elbow and looked
toward the opening in the wall. A dusky form for one brief moment
darkened the doorway. Then, outlined in the bright moonlight, a stalwart
Indian stepped into the room. Instantly Ross was upon his feet.

“What do you want here?” he demanded angrily, in the Shawnee tongue.

The brave made no reply; but, gliding forward, secured Douglas’s gun
that stood in the corner of the room near the bed. Then he nimbly leaped
through the doorway—and was gone.

Beside himself with rage and disappointment, the young man shouted:

“Take him, Duke!”

Impatiently the bloodhound had been awaiting the word of command. With
a bound he cleared the doorway. Another leap, and he fell upon the
retreating savage, like an avalanche. The warrior dropped the rifle and
drew his knife to defend himself, uttering a blood-curdling yell as he
did so.

Ross hastened to the dog’s assistance. Dark forms slipped from the shadow
of the building, and silently surrounded the combatants. The hound seized
the hand that held the glittering knife, and gave it a wrench that
caused the weapon to fall to the ground. Douglas caught up his rifle,
and watched for a chance to deal the savage a stunning blow. But, at the
favorable moment, a number of warriors threw themselves upon him and bore
him to the earth. Realizing that further resistance would be suicidal, he
ceased to struggle and called off the bloodhound.

A few minutes afterward, he again lay upon his couch of furs in the
cabin, bound hand and foot; while Duke, stretched full length upon the
floor, lolled his red tongue and whined dolefully. Just within the door
stood a guard—silent and motionless as a bronze statue.

The news of the attempted escape and consequent struggle quickly spread
throughout the village, and occasioned no little excitement. Duke had
seriously injured the Indian he had attacked; and the warrior’s comrades
and friends threatened dire vengeance upon the dog and his master. Long
Gun sought to pacify the angry braves—but failed. They openly rebelled
against the chief’s authority, and swore they would kill the hound and
his owner. In his extremity Long Gun went to La Violette and laid the
case before her.

She answered him:

“Have no fear. Your prisoner shall not be harmed. Select those who _will_
obey you, and closely guard him to-night. To-morrow I will interfere in
his behalf.”

Well pleased, Long Gun returned to his post of duty and carried out La
Violette’s instructions. But had he known what was her real intention, he
would not have felt so complacent.

When the Shawnee chief had left her presence, La Violette threw herself
upon her couch and sobbed bitterly:

“Yes, I must save him—save him by giving him his liberty, by parting
from him forever! Oh, it is hard—cruel! For I love him—I love him! But
he must not die—and die he will, if he remains here longer. The warriors
are determined to take his life; they cannot be restrained. He must leave
to-morrow night, at the latest. Oh, Ross—Ross! My love—my love! You will
never know how I worship you—_never_!”

All night long, the village was in a buzz of excitement. Ross Douglas lay
upon his bed, a prey to despairing thoughts and gloomy forebodings. With
wide-open eyes, he peered into the darkness that surrounded him; with
alert ears, he listened to every sound. The hum of many voices came to
him at intervals. Occasionally, the soft breeze that swept through the
door brought a threat or an objurgation. He realized the great mistake he
had made.

“All is over—I am lost!” he muttered chokingly, a black wave of despair
engulfing his soul. “I may as well resign myself to my fate. Ill-luck
has followed me persistently. Joe and Bright Wing are dead, or helpless
captives like myself; Bradford is absent. I’ve not a friend in the
place—except La Violette. And what can _she_ do? Nothing! What _would_
she do, if she could? I don’t know. She wouldn’t give me my liberty, I’m
sure. And I would as lief die as remain longer a prisoner! She loves me?
Yes. But she will not aid me to escape—of course not. She would rather
see me die before her eyes, than resign me to another. What a fool I
was to try to recover my gun! But I was crazy with disappointment. Ah!
Duke, old fellow, you seem to realize the gravity of the situation. Three
times we have contended against these red demons. They’ll not spare us
this time. Well, at least I can die like a man; you can die like a hero.
I wouldn’t care so much—though life is sweet—were it not for Amy and La
Violette. Yes, La Violette! I pity her; I—I——”

Slowly, endlessly, the night dragged itself away. The morning dawned warm
and clear. At sunrise La Violette made her way to the cabin in which the
prisoner was confined. The guard at the door did not oppose her entrance;
but he maintained his position just within the door.

Douglas looked up as the girl’s light footsteps fell upon his ear. He saw
that she was pale and haggard, that her eyelids were swollen with weeping.

“You heard of my ill-fortune and came to me,” he remarked simply.

“Yes,” she replied in a tone scarcely audible. “Do you not want something
to eat?”

“I want nothing.”

“Nothing?” And she eyed him sharply.

“Nothing but my liberty.”

“It is impossible for me to give you that,” she answered hastily, giving
him a look that he could not interpret. “But you must eat something. You
will need all your strength for the ordeal.”

“What do you mean?” he inquired in an unmoved voice.

Unheeding his question, she turned and left the hut. She was gone but a
few minutes. When she returned, she bore a quantity of corn bread and
meat.

“You must eat this—all of it,” she said decidedly. “Here, Duke—here is
your share.”

After she had unbound his hands, Ross sat up and silently devoured the
food to the last crumb.

“I thought you were hungry,” she said as she took the platter from his
hands. “Do you want anything more?”

“I’d like some water.”

She brought it to him.

“That’s all,” he said, as he returned her the cup. “I thank you for your
kindness.”

“And you would like to have your liberty?” she queried in a half-mocking
tone.

“Of course,” he answered gravely.

“To join in a war against my people?”

“Against England,” he corrected.

“My people are allies of the English.”

“Still you can’t blame me for wishing to fight for my country.”

“And you cannot blame me for refusing to liberate you.”

He remained silent. Again she gave him that meaning glance; but he could
not fathom it. At that moment, the sound of voices in angry altercation
came to their ears.

“Secure his hands!” La Violette cried to the guard, as she sprang past
him and planted her slender form in the doorway.

The sight that met her gaze was one calculated to unnerve the bravest
man. Fifty armed warriors had overpowered Long Gun and his faithful few,
and were rushing toward the spot where she stood.

Only too well she knew what it meant. The infuriated mob were bent upon
murdering Ross Douglas.

On they came, brandishing their weapons and yelling like demons. Their
painted faces were contorted with rage; their eyes gleamed with the fire
of their hellish purpose.

The hot blood forsook La Violette’s face, and surged in a sickening flood
to her heart and brain. Her vision grew misty; her limbs trembled. But
she set her white teeth and firmly stood her ground.

The leaders of the mob reached the hut. With angry exclamations, they
came to a sudden halt, as they beheld the daughter of the Prophet barring
the entrance.

“La Violette must stand aside!” shouted a burly warrior. “We want the
young paleface. We mean to kill him—to tear him limb from limb!”

The girl neither spoke nor moved; but she sternly fastened her eyes upon
the speaker—and he recoiled a step.

“Out of the way! Out of the way!” bellowed the mob.

“Never!” she answered in clear, ringing tones.

They surged forward, threatening to crush her under foot. She did not
flinch, but raising her voice to the highest pitch, cried imperiously:

“Hold! I—La Violette—command you!”

They wavered—faltered—paused.

Taking advantage of their temporary indecision, she continued
breathlessly:

“You shall not kill this helpless prisoner! I—the daughter of the
Prophet—command you to disperse. You shall not harm the paleface, unless
you first kill me! Do you dare to kill Tenskwatawa’s daughter—the gift of
the Great Spirit? Make but a move to touch me, and the Great Spirit will
strike you dead in your tracks!”

Her eyes were blazing; her breast heaving. To the superstitious warriors
who faced her, she was the living, breathing embodiment of supernatural
power. Awed into silence, they forgot their purpose and began to draw
away from her dread presence.

“Go—and quickly!” she commanded sternly. “Ere I lose my patience and call
down upon you the curse of the Great Spirit!”

They waited to hear no more; but silently, sullenly shrunk away and
disappeared among the neighboring huts.

“Saved—saved for the present!” La Violette panted, as she staggered into
the cabin and sank in a quivering heap upon the floor.

“La Violette,” Ross called gently.

In answer, she burst into tears and sobbed softly. After a time she
regained control of her feelings, and, arising, went to his side.

“You have saved my life, at the risk of your own,” he said with feeling.

“I have repaid the debt I owed you,” she answered very quietly. “You
will be safe for a time, at least. I must leave you now.”

And ere he could make reply, she had withdrawn from the hut.

Just outside she met Long Gun. The chief’s face wore a crestfallen and
worried expression.

Addressing him in the Shawnee language, she commanded:

“Long Gun will take his men and occupy the cabin. If the mob return to
take the paleface’s life, Long Gun and his warriors will defend him to
the last.”

“Ugh!” replied the Shawnee, with animation unusual to him.

She continued:

“Long Gun will not hesitate to shoot down any that seek to harm the
prisoner—or his dog. La Violette has spoken—Long Gun will obey.”

“Long Gun’s ears are open; he hears and understands,” was the grim reply.

La Violette passed on to the Prophet’s quarters. The latter was preparing
to journey to Fort Wayne, with a hundred warriors, to demand ammunition
of the American commandant of the post.

“Father,” the girl said, as she stood in his presence.

“What does my daughter wish?” he asked kindly.

“You are preparing to leave the village?”

“Yes.”

“To-day?”

“Ugh!”

“You must not go.”

He stared at her in open-mouthed surprise. She hastily explained:

“An attack has just been made upon Fleet Foot’s life. I overawed the mad
warriors; for the present he is safe. But the attempt will be renewed. I
may need your help. You must not leave the village to-day or to-night.”

“Why does my daughter try to save the paleface’s life?” he demanded
angrily.

“Because Fleet Foot saved the life of La Violette,” she answered promptly.

“Ugh!” he ejaculated—and was silent.

“You will do as I desire?” she inquired anxiously.

He nodded sullenly.

“Listen, then,” she went on rapidly. “Fleet Foot must be protected
to-day; to-night he must leave the village.”

“But Scar Face——” Tenskwatawa began, a look of terror creeping over his
repellant features.

“I know what my father would say,” she interrupted. “But I will assume
all responsibility. Fleet Foot shall not remain here to be killed. You
have nothing to fear from Scar Face. I will shield you from his wrath.”

The Prophet hung his head and made no reply; and the girl left the cabin.
As she passed through the doorway and dropped the curtain of skins behind
her, the cowardly wretch muttered shiveringly:

“Scar Face will be very angry. But La Violette will have her way—I am
helpless.”

Then hiding his face in the folds of his blanket, he groaned aloud.

The day passed quietly. Evening came—and the shades of night began to
gather. As soon as it was quite dark, La Violette went to Long Gun and,
drawing him aside, said:

“The enemies of Fleet Foot are gathering in front of the council-lodge.
Soon they will make another attempt to kill him. When they come, he must
not be here. La Violette will take him to her lodge—will hide him where
they dare not enter, where they cannot find him. As soon as Long Gun
hears the mob coming, he and his braves will slip away in the darkness.
Does Long Gun understand?”

Greatly relieved—for he had been apprehensive of the result of the attack
that was sure to come—Long Gun replied:

“La Violette is wise and good. Long Gun will do her bidding.”

“It is well,” she answered simply, and entered the cabin.

Douglas lay upon his couch, dreading what the night might have in
store for him. His guards had given him food and drink, at noon and
early in the evening. Duke sat beside the bed, lovingly licking his
master’s manacled hands and whining softly. Ross first became aware of
La Violette’s presence, when she bent over him, severed his bonds, and
whispered in his ear:

“Come with me—and do not speak or make a noise.”

Without a murmur he arose and meekly accompanied her from the cabin.
Duke silently followed. La Violette’s hut was but a few rods from the
one Douglas had occupied; but she took a circuitous route, to avoid
observation, and approached the building from the rear.

On reaching its interior—which was in absolute darkness—she said in an
agitated undertone:

“Remain here until I return. I will be gone but a few minutes.”

Left alone, Ross threw himself upon the floor, and rubbed and kneaded his
stiffened and swollen limbs. He wondered what La Violette’s intentions
were. While he was still ransacking his brain for an answer, the young
woman returned.

“Fleet Foot,” she called softly, musically, as she stepped within the
room and let fall the curtain of skins.

“Here,” he replied, as he arose to his feet.

Guided by his voice, she found her way to his side, and murmured:

“Here is gun, knife, and ammunition. In the pouch you will find food.”

With the words, she placed the things in his outstretched hands. Now he
understood her intentions. But he said nothing—his heart was too full.

“Have you flint and steel?” she inquired.

“Yes,” he managed to articulate.

“But one thing more—then you must be off. Hold out your right hand.”

He did so; and felt her placing something upon his finger.

“What are you doing?” he asked in a whisper.

“Giving you a ring.”

“A ring?” in surprise.

“Yes; Tenskwatawa’s talisman—the Sign of the Prophet.”

“Why do you do that?” he inquired in wonder and amazement.

“You may be pursued and recaptured—or may fall into the hands of some
roving band of redmen. In either case, the talisman will save your life.
Boldly show it and say that Tenskwatawa gave it to you—that you are under
his protection, that you have his magic power. The warriors—whoever they
may be—will not ask you to prove your assertions. They have been led to
believe that the power lies in the ring. And they heard the Prophet say
at Wildcat Creek, that he would not again give the trinket into the hands
of one who could not use it. It will protect you, Fleet Foot.”

“But how did you obtain it?” he asked in an agitated undertone.

She answered naïvely:

“I went to Tenskwatawa’s lodge, to get the gun and ammunition I have
given you. He was sleeping. I slipped the ring from his finger and came
away.”

“But in so doing haven’t you shorn him of his power?”

“No. There is no virtue in the talisman, except in the Prophet’s
hands. He is cunning. He will tell a miraculous story of its loss—and
straightway procure another. I have robbed him of nothing but the bauble
itself. But you are tarrying too long—you must go at once. Crane Bill,
my aged attendant, may return at any time. She hates all palefaces; she
would raise an alarm. Hark!”

Both listened intently, holding their breaths in their excitement. Fierce
yells came to their ears—yells of fiendish rage and disappointment. Both
knew what the uproar meant; Douglas’s enemies had discovered his escape.

Grasping her companion’s arm with both her trembling hands, La Violette
cried breathlessly:

“Go—go at once! They are searching for you. Soon they will be here. The
cabin will be surrounded and your escape cut off. For my sake—go!”

Slipping his arm around her supple waist, he panted in reply:

“Come with me! This is no place for you. You are not safe here—they’ll
wreak their revenge upon you——”

“No—no!” she answered brokenly. “It is impossible. You could not escape
with me. I am safe here—they will not dare to harm me. Bid me good-by—and
go—go!”

“Come with me, La Violette!” he insisted—tenderest pity, intensest love
in his voice. “Together we will return to the blessings of civilization.
I’ll be your protector—your brother——”

“No!” she interrupted sadly, but firmly—a sob in her throat. “It cannot
be. To-day I have been instrumental in saving you—I may be able to save
others. At least, I can risk my life in trying. I cannot go with you,
Ross. Good-by—good-by forever!”

“Kiss me!” he whispered in her ear.

She lifted her face to his. In the darkness their lips met. Each felt the
tumultuous beating of the other’s heart. For a half minute he strained
her to his breast, ere he released her and softly murmured:

“Good-by, La Violette—and God bless you!”

Then he and his dog were gone—and she was alone. She dropped upon the
bare floor and hid her face. But she did not weep. Her grief over her
loss, her anxiety for his safety, were too great. A blood-curdling whoop
and the patter of moccasined feet, from time to time, came to her ears;
but no one entered the cabin. A prey to suspense, she arose at last and
went out of doors. Douglas’s enemies were continuing their search. She
dimly discerned their dark forms flitting here and there. Aimlessly she
sauntered toward the Prophet’s hut. Just as she reached it, a number of
warriors were entering the door. She followed them; and heard the leader
say to Tenskwatawa, who stood at one end of the room, directly under a
flaring torch stuck into the wall:

“Fleet Foot has escaped. He is in hiding about the village. Does
Tenskwatawa know aught of him?”

The Prophet expanded his chest, and, raising his right hand, said
severely:

“Tenskwatawa is the father of his red children. He does not befriend the
palefaces. Begone!”

At that moment, the speaker chanced to glance at his own hand. He saw
that his ring was gone. An expression of unspeakable surprise overspread
his horrid features. With the whimpering cry of a whipped child, he
dropped upon his knees and began to search for the talisman. Not finding
it, he silently arose to his feet, an expression of absolute imbecility
upon his face. Then appearing to realize the magnitude of the misfortune
that had befallen him, he dropped to the floor in a writhing heap,
moaning and beating his chest.

“Ugh!” ejaculated the leader of the band. “Tenskwatawa has lost his
sign—his power. See! He is weak—he whines like a sick squaw! Ugh!”

And with a parting volley of contemptuous exclamations, the braves
hastily left the room.

La Violette leaned against the wall and calmly looked upon the whining,
moaning wretch at her feet. Now she fully realized what she had done; but
she had no regret. She had done it for the sake of the man she loved!

The Prophet was indeed shorn of his power. From that day forth, his
influence over his people rapidly declined.




CHAPTER XIII.


It was the close of a hot July day. The surface of the placid Scioto
glinted in the red rays of the setting sun. The dark-green forests
surrounding the little village of Franklinton grew darker, as the
tremulous twilight faded into dewy dusk. Blue smoke curled gracefully
from the mud-daubed chimneys of the villagers’ cabins. A tinkling cowbell
broke the stillness—a twinkling star peeped from the dusky vault above.
Swallows skimmed low along the shores of the gently-flowing river. Insect
voices joined in a monotonous threnody. Lights began to gleam from
cottage windows and doors.

Upon the western bank of the stream—a few miles below the village—stood
a solitary pedestrian, leaning against a rough-barked elm and looking
toward the opposite shore. He carried a long rifle; and at his side hung
ammunition-pouch and powder-horn. His buckskin suit gave evidence of hard
usage, being soiled, frayed, and ragged. The soft hat that surmounted
his dark curls was battered and torn. His moccasins were ready to drop
piecemeal from his feet.

Stooping and patting the head of a large bloodhound that sat panting
beside him, the man sighed wearily and began:

“Well, Duke—old fellow, we’re here at last. We’ve had a lonely and
hazardous journey. But we’re here—free, alive, and well.”

The hound yawned and wagged his tail, as though he understood the words.

Ross Douglas continued:

“Yes, my faithful friend, together we have braved the numerous perils of
the trackless forest. But we’re free—free at last! True, you are footsore
and weary; so am I. And both of us are hungry. But our journey’s over.
Soon we’ll eat and sleep—sleep as we haven’t slept in days.”

The dog whined plaintively. Then he stiffly arose and looked beseechingly
into his master’s face.

“You’re telling me it’s time to be moving,” Douglas remarked, a smile
lighting his handsome features. “You’re a knowing animal, Duke.”

Then to himself:

“I must find some way to cross the river—I must see Amy to-night. But I
don’t want anyone to know of my return, until I know how affairs have
gone in my absence. Therefore, I can’t go to the village for a canoe. But
I know where one of the settlers used to keep one hidden in the bushes.”

Shouldering his rifle, he set out along the bank, Duke following him. He
was not long in finding the canoe and launching it.

“Jump in and lie down, Duke,” he commanded.

The intelligent brute obeyed. Ross seized the light paddle and pushed
off. A few rapid and vigorous strokes carried the boat to the opposite
side of the stream. Man and dog leaped ashore. Douglas beached the
dugout, and set off along the path leading to the Larkin homestead—the
path he knew so well.

By this time it was quite dark. The warm air was sweet with woodsy odors.
Fireflies were flitting here and there among the trees. No sound broke
the stillness but his own footfalls. As he hurried forward, his heart
palpitating wildly, he murmured under his breath:

“At last—at last, Amy! Soon I shall press you to my breast, and kiss away
your tears. Perhaps I shall stand before you as one from the grave—but
you will be glad to see me—will understand all instantly. With the
devotion of a lifetime, I’ll repay you for whatever you may have endured
in my absence. And I’ve been true to you, my darling! I could have loved
La Violette, had I not loved you. When I leave you again, I’ll leave
you my wife. Then temptation will not dare to assail me. I’ll brook no
opposition now—no delay. You shall be mine—mine at once. Ah, the old love
wells up in my heart!”

Then, sighing, he shook his head and whispered very softly:

“But poor little La Violette—dear, sweet, little wild violet! How my
heart bleeds for her! But I mustn’t think of her now. No—no! I must have
but one thought in my mind—Amy!”

He had reached the farther margin of the strip of woodland that skirted
the river. The clearing was before him. The stars were shining brightly.
By their faint radiance, he dimly discerned the house standing in the
middle of the cleared space. But no welcoming light streamed from window
or door. All was darkness—silence. His heart almost stood still; a sense
of suffocation came over him. A thousand mad thoughts and fancies ran
riot in his brain. He leaned heavily upon his rifle and shivered—though
the evening air was warm.

The red rim of the moon rose above the tree-tops beyond the clearing.
Then, big and round, it floated upward and shed its gentle light upon the
scene.

But still Ross did not stir. He stood with his eyes riveted upon the
cabin—now clearly outlined in the moonlight. To his sensitive ears, came
the faint, faraway echo of laughter from the village above. It seemed to
mock him, like the eerie voice of a departed spirit. Of a sudden, Duke
tilted his nose aloft and howled mournfully. The sound startled Douglas
and recalled him from his reverie. He glanced apprehensively into the
surrounding shadows, as if expecting to see a ghost. A sense of utter
loneliness such as he had never known took possession of him. The hound
crept to his side and whimpered; and, in the woods beyond, a screech owl
thrice repeated its petulant, mournful cry.

Impatiently shaking himself, Ross muttered angrily:

“Bah! I’m a nervous fool. I’ll know the worst—and at once.”

Resolutely he strode toward the cabin door, a few rods away. On reaching
it, he did not hesitate, but thundered loudly upon it, with his bare
knuckles. The only answer he received was the hollow echo of his raps.
He felt for the latchstring; and, finding it, gave it a vigorous pull.
The door swung inward so suddenly that he recoiled a step, expecting some
person to face him. But no one put in an appearance. The interior was in
absolute darkness. A musty, disagreeable smell—the odor of a room long
closed to air and sunlight—greeted his nostrils. Boldly he stepped over
the sill and stood upon the puncheon floor. It creaked to his tread;
his heavy footfalls rang out with startling distinctness. The house was
empty—deserted!

Like a lost soul pursued by a legion of demons, Ross Douglas fled from
the cabin, leaving the door ajar. With bowed head and drawn features,
he sped into the forest back of the house, and hurried on and on,
taking no heed of his course. The hound wonderingly followed him. Ross
had forgotten his hunger, his fatigue—everything but the fact that Amy
was gone. Wild fancies beset his brain. Mocking voices gibbered in his
ears; evil faces peeped at him from the surrounding gloom. At last, from
sheer exhaustion, he dropped upon the earth and pillowed his aching head
upon his folded arms. Duke crouched at his master’s side and anxiously
observed his every movement.

“Gone—gone!” the young man moaned in agony of spirit. “And whether true
or false I don’t know. Gone—What can it mean? Amy! Amy! Night after
night during my dreary captivity, I dreamed of you. And now you’re not
here. But I’m wronging you, dear girl—of course I am. You’ve been forced
to leave—you wouldn’t have gone otherwise. Then I have lost you forever!
God help me to bear my bitter disappointment!”

Far into the night, he lay moaning—striving to reconcile himself to the
inevitable, to regain control of himself. Worn out at last, he fell into
a deep sleep—the sleep of mental and physical exhaustion.

At daylight he awoke, and stiffly arose to his feet. His face was pale
and haggard; his lips were set and determined. Shouldering his rifle and
calling to his dog, he retraced his steps toward the river. Again he
reached the clearing surrounding the deserted cabin. In the gray light
of the morning, the scene was more barren, more oppressive, than when
softened by the shades of night. He shuddered and involuntarily turned
his head, as he passed the desolate habitation. With quick, firm steps,
he hurried along the path leading down to the shore. A half hour later,
he had recrossed the stream and was approaching the village.

The sun was just rising. He saw the blue smoke ascending heavenward
and heard the prattle of children. Emerging from the forest, he stood
for a moment drinking in the beauties of the homely, animated scene.
Oddly-garbed figures, bearing axes, hoes, and other implements of
husbandry were hurrying toward the woods and fields; buxom matrons and
comely maids were bustling hither and thither. Another day had dawned;
and the industrious hive was astir.

A tall, robust settler approached the border of the woodland, where Ross
was standing. The young man stepped from the shadow of the overhanging
boughs—and he and the villager were face to face. With a glad cry of
recognition, the latter sprang forward, exclaiming:

“Ross Douglas, as I’m alive! Give us y’r hand, my lad!”

The two warmly clasped hands, and Ross replied:

“Yes, Amos Pritchard, it’s I—Ross Douglas. Are you glad to see me?”

“Glad to see you?” yelled the other, dancing around in delight. “What a
question! Of course I’m glad to see you. _Everybody’ll_ be glad to see
you. But where in the world have you been so long—what ’ave you been
doin’ with y’rself? We’d all give you up fer dead. We knowed you went to
fight with Gener’l Harrison; an’ as you didn’t come back an’ we didn’t
hear nothin’ of you, we c’ncluded you was dead. You was at the battle o’
Tippecanoe?”

“Yes,” Douglas answered briefly.

“Well, where’ve you been sence?”

“A prisoner among the Indians.”

Pritchard opened his eyes very wide and ejaculated:

“You don’t say!”

Ross nodded and smiled—a wan, sad smile.

“Ever sence the battle, last November?” the man inquired.

Again Douglas nodded.

“An’ where’s y’r comrades, Joe Farley an’ that young Wyandot?”

“Haven’t they returned?” Ross asked quickly.

“Not a bit of it. We hain’t seen n’r heard nothin’ of any of you, till
this minute.”

“Then I fear they’re dead, or prisoners among the Winnebagoes.”

And Douglas gave his companion a brief account of the battle and
subsequent events. However, he said nothing of his own wonderful
experience while a prisoner, made no mention of Bradford or of La
Violette. When he had finished his short recital, he asked in as careless
a tone as he could assume:

“How have things gone in my absence, Pritchard?”

“Much better’n they have with you,” was the rejoinder, “judgin’ from
y’r looks. You’re ragged and hungry-lookin’—an’ that surly bloodhound
o’ yours looks all fagged out, too. I take it you’ve had a purty
rough-an’-tumble time of it. Campaignin’ ’g’inst Injins ain’t no holiday,
I guess. You’d better go right down to my shack, an’ git somethin’ to
eat; an’ then take a sleep fer a week ’r so. Go on—you know where I live.
The ol’ woman ’ll fill you up on the fat o’ the land. She alluz did have
a soft place in her heart, fer you an’ y’r dog.

“But you haven’t told me the news of the settlement,” Ross objected.

“The news ’ll keep,” Pritchard returned. “Anyhow, ther’ ain’t much to
tell. Some new settlers has come in; an’ some o’ the old ones has left.
Ol’ Sam Larkin was the biggest s’rprise to us.”—Ross pricked up his
ears.—“_He_ sold out an’ left—le’s see. It was in October after you left
in August. Took everybody by s’rprise—that’s a fact. He had one o’ the
best an’ biggest pieces o’ land ’long the valley—as you know—an’ plenty
o’ money; but somehow he wasn’t satisfied. Some folks says his title to
the land wasn’t clear. I don’t know. Anyhow he jest sold off everything
fer what it would bring, an’ skipped out. Some feller from down ’bout the
Ohio bought the land—but he hain’t moved onto it yit. Well, I must be
moseyin’ to work. You go on down to the cabin.”

“Where did he go?” Douglas inquired, moistening his lips with his tongue.

“I don’t know,” Pritchard answered as he changed his axe from one
shoulder to the other. “Some says he went back to his ol’ home in western
Pennsylvany. Nobody ’pears to know. But wherever he went, that sneakin’
Canadian, George Hilliard, went along.”

“And—and his daughter, Amy?”

“Of course. But what’re you so concerned ’bout ’em fer, Ross Douglas? Oh!
I see.”—And the settler smiled knowingly.—“I remember now you was sprucin
up to that little gal o’ ol’ Sam’s. Well, I’m ’feared you’ve lost her,
my boy. Hilliard was keepin’ the trail hot the same time you was, an’ you
leavin’ when you did give him the short cut ’cross the clearin’. I ’spect
he’s married her long ’fore this. The fact is, some folks says the couple
was married on the sly, ’fore they left these parts. Of course, _I_ don’t
know. But I must be gittin’ to work, ’r I won’t earn my dinner. I’ll see
you at noon. You’re goin’ to stay ’round fer a few weeks, anyhow, ain’t
you?”

“I don’t know yet,” Douglas truthfully replied.

The young man walked toward the collection of cabins not far away,
leaving his companion staring after him.

“If I ain’t bad fooled,” Pritchard muttered as he entered the woods,
“that young feller is purty much in love with ol’ Sam Larkin’s gal; an’
her goin’ off the way she did is worryin’ him like all possessed.”

For several days Douglas lingered about the village. He visited the
Wyandot camp up the river; but found it abandoned. His red friends had
left for parts unknown. Undoubtedly some of them had cast in their lots
with Tecumseh, and were aiding in harassing the posts and settlements
upon the extreme frontier.

During his brief stay at Franklinton, Ross made many cautious inquiries
concerning the whereabouts of Amy Larkin and her father; but he learned
nothing more definite than what Pritchard had told him. Many times he had
heard his sweetheart speak of her birthplace in western Pennsylvania;
and now he resolved to visit that section of the country. He discarded
his well-worn suit of buckskin, for garments of homespun cloth; and, with
his rifle upon his shoulder and his bloodhound at his heels, set out upon
his quest.

After an absence of four months, he again returned to the settlement upon
the Scioto, having learned nothing of the persons he sought.

General Harrison was now commander-in-chief of the Western armies. He
had established temporary headquarters at Franklinton, and was busily
engaged in collecting and forwarding supplies toward the lakes. Douglas
was greatly pleased to learn of his beloved commander’s presence in
the village, and immediately repaired to his quarters. The general was
surprised and delighted to see him, and said:

“Ross Douglas, I can’t express how glad I am to meet you again—to see
you alive and well. When you fell into the hands of the Indians at
Tippecanoe, I gave you up for lost. You appear as one from the grave.
Where have you been, how did you escape, and what of your faithful
comrades?”

Briefly Ross told of his capture and escape, carefully avoiding
all mention of La Violette and Bradford. General Harrison listened
attentively to the narrative, uttering frequent exclamations of surprise
and incredulity. When the younger man had concluded, the older remarked:

“And your comrades—Farley and the Wyandot—you don’t know their fate?”

“I do not,” Ross answered sadly. “But they are dead, or prisoners among
the Winnebagoes.”

“Too bad—too bad!” the general murmured feelingly. “They were noble
fellows and devoted to you——”

Then with animation:

“But your dog—the bloodhound that was your constant companion?”

“He’s in the village with me.”

While Douglas was speaking, he unconsciously toyed with the ring upon his
finger. At last Harrison fixed his eyes upon the glittering jewel, and
remarked:

“That’s a beautiful and valuable ring you wear, my young friend. May I
ask you to let me see it?”

Silently Douglas drew it off and placed it in his companion’s
outstretched hand. Scarcely had it dropped into Harrison’s palm, ere he
started and cried:

“Douglas, where did you get this?”

Ross was disconcerted. His face flushed as he stammered:

“A—a friend gave it to me, General.”

“And where did your friend get it?” the commander demanded excitedly.

“I—I——” Ross began; but Harrison interrupted.

“There—you needn’t tell me. However, I know the ring. I can’t be
mistaken. Several years ago I saw it upon the finger of Tenskwatawa,
the Shawnee Prophet, when he came to visit me at Vincennes. At that time
I took note of its beauty and value. He told me it was a gift from an
English officer, who had obtained it in the far East, and hinted to me
that it was possessed of some magic power. That stone”—tapping the gem
with his finger,—“is a diamond of the first water. It’s quite large, as
you see, and worth a considerable sum of money. You are fortunate to
possess so valuable and beautiful an ornament.”

With the words, he returned the ring to Douglas. The latter sat looking
at the jewel for some moments. Then raising his eyes to the commander’s
face, he said earnestly:

“General, I haven’t told you all concerning my captivity among the
Prophet’s warriors. Would you like to hear the story in full?”

“If you don’t mind telling me, Douglas—yes,” was the smiling reply.

For an hour they sat in the commander’s quarters—the younger man calmly
talking, the older gravely listening. At last Douglas finished and arose
to go.

“Wonderful!” Harrison exclaimed as he got upon his feet. “Your story
sounds like a mythical tale of the long ago. And yet if I desired proof
of its truthfulness—which I do not—you have it with you. Keep the ring,
my boy, in remembrance of the perils and adventures through which
you have passed. I trust that in your possession—whatever its magic
power—it may not work the evil to our country, it has done in the hands
of the Prophet. Tenskwatawa—a wizard, a sorcerer, a cowardly cur. Hiram
Bradford—an English agent among the Indians, a spy among the Americans,
your foe—your friend. La Violette—an untutored savage, a refined and
intelligent white woman. What characters for a romance—a drama! And yet
they are actual inhabitants of these Western wilds.”

Then suddenly riveting his keen gaze upon Douglas’s handsome face:

“What is your purpose now—what are you going to do?”

“I came to offer my services to you, General,” was the answer.

The commander meditatively rubbed his chin for some seconds. At last he
said:

“There will be but little active campaigning until spring opens. Then
the war will begin in earnest—and I shall need you. However, there will
be expeditions sent out against the troublesome savages, all through
the winter. By the way, I’m going to send Colonel Campbell against the
villages upon the Mississinewa, this month. Would you care to go as guide
and scout?”

“I should be greatly pleased to go,” Ross answered simply.

But his heart was beating wildly. The thought was in his mind, that he
might again meet La Violette—and, perhaps, persuade her to return with
him to Franklinton.

He heard the commander saying:

“The place is yours, then. The companies of the expedition will assemble
at Greenville. You can join them there. Here’s your commission. Shall I
bid you good-by?”

“Yes,” Ross answered decidedly.

They shook hands and parted.

Douglas accompanied Colonel Campbell’s detachment. He took part in the
several skirmishes of the winter campaign, and saw much hard service.
In the various petty engagements, quite a number of Indians were killed
and captured. From the red prisoners, Ross learned that Tenskwatawa, La
Violette, and Bradford had left the Miami villages, shortly after his
departure, and had gone to join Tecumseh at Malden.

Colonel Campbell destroyed the towns upon the Mississinewa, and in the
latter part of December returned to Greenville.

From this place, Ross Douglas went to Cincinnati. He could not bear the
thought of returning to Franklinton. He was disheartened, moody, and
restless. So far as he knew, Amy Larkin was lost to him forever. Had she
been false to her vows? He did not know; and the maze of uncertainty
maddened him.

He spent the winter at Cincinnati. When spring opened, he and
Duke—wanderers upon the face of the planet—drifted into Kentucky, where
General Green Clay was raising a regiment of militia to re-enforce the
garrison of Fort Meigs, upon the Maumee. Douglas joined the command in
his old capacity of scout and guide, and with it marched toward the seat
of war.

[Illustration]




CHAPTER XIV.


In the latter part of April, 1813, General Harrison, commander-in-chief
of the Western troops, was at Fort Meigs, upon the Maumee.

War between the United States and Great Britain had been declared
in June, 1812. In July, Fort Mackinaw had fallen into the hands of
the English; in August, Hull had basely surrendered at Detroit,
and the Americans had met defeat at the River Raisin. In the early
autumn—September—the Prophet’s braves had laid siege to Forts Wayne and
Harrison, but had been unsuccessful at both places. Thus had closed the
year.

In the early part of 1813, the Western campaign had opened in earnest. In
January, General Winchester had been defeated and captured at Frenchtown.
Immediately following this battle—or massacre, rather—General Harrison
had moved forward to the rapids of the Maumee, and begun the construction
of Fort Meigs. Here he had assembled all the troops at his disposal,
intending to recover the ground lost through Hull’s cowardice and
Winchester’s incapacity. But the weather had continued unfavorable; and
the commander had returned to the interior of the state, with the view
of raising re-enforcements. Hardly had he set to work, however, when
he received word that a large force of the enemy was marching to attack
the garrison upon the Maumee. The general had returned with all possible
expedition, arriving at the fort on the twentieth of April.

Fort Meigs—so named in honor of the illustrious governor of Ohio—was
situated upon the south bank of the Maumee, at the foot of the rapids.
It stood upon high ground, about sixty feet above the surface of the
river; and its walls of earth and heavy timbers inclosed nearly ten
acres. In outline it resembled an irregular “D”—the curved portion of
the letter facing the stream. At each of the angles of the outer wall,
was a strong blockhouse; and traverses of earth were thrown up inside of
the inclosure, to protect the occupants from the shells of an attacking
army. The fort was a depot of stores of all kinds, for the approaching
campaign; and at the time of General Harrison’s return from the interior
was garrisoned by about five hundred men—regulars and volunteers.

After his arrival, on the twentieth of April, the commander kept patrols
out, watching for the enemy. On the twenty-sixth, he was apprised that
the advance guard was approaching. A few hours later, a number of white
men and Indians appeared on the opposite shore, and coolly and critically
inspected the fortification. On the twenty-seventh, a party of savages
crossed to the south side of the stream, and annoyed the garrison with
a desultory rifle-fire. But little damage was done; and the general
and his men feverishly awaited the appearance of the main body of the
enemy—which they knew was not far away.

The morning of the twenty-eighth was clear, and gave promise of a
beautiful day. But the wind sweeping up from the lake was raw and chill.
The soldiers within the fort were astir at an early hour. To their
unbounded surprise, they could discover nothing of their enemies of
the day before. Some of the officers and men were of the opinion that
the Indians, discouraged by their ill-success, had gone to meet their
brethren and allies and inform them the place could not be taken. But
General Harrison did not harbor such belief. On the contrary, he felt
that the withdrawal of the small band of savages portended a systematic
attack by a large force—an attack he was not well able to withstand.
So he sent Captain Hamilton and a squad of men down the river, on a
reconnoitering expedition. Then drawing his cloak around his shoulders,
and restlessly pacing up and down the inclosure, he inwardly condemned
the niggardly and dilatory policy of the government, and prayed that
re-enforcements might arrive in time to save him from an ignominious
surrender.

His face wore an anxious and worried expression; but his thin lips were
firmly set, his keen eyes shone with the fire of an indomitable purpose.
The soldiers—every one of whom loved him and had unbounded confidence
in him—looking upon him, knew that no white flag would float over Fort
Meigs, as long as there was a man left to load and fire a gun. And each
one of them—from the highest officer to the meanest subaltern—resolved to
die like a hero.

Near one of the blockhouses at the eastern extremity of the fort, stood a
white man and an Indian. The former was slightly past middle age, tall,
stooped, and ungainly. The latter was much younger, lithe, strong, and
straight as an arrow. For some time they stood silently watching the
commander, as he paced to and fro. At last the white man blew his long
nose vigorously, wiped the tears from his eyes with the back of his horny
hand, and, screwing his homely features into a comical grimace, said in a
drawling tone:

“Injin, the sight o’ the ol’ Gener’l makes me sad—makes me think o’ him
that’s dead an’ gone.”

“Ugh!” his red companion grunted stolidly. But the copper-colored face
twitched; the bare and brawny chest heaved.

“Yes,” the speaker continued, “the sight o’ General Harrison calls
up things I wish I could fergit—it does, by cracky! Gol-fer-socks! I
can’t fergit ’em—not if I lived to be as old as Methusaler,—’r was it
Nebbycaneezer? I’m a little rusty on Scriptur’, an’ liable to git mixed,
somehow. But, pshaw! The past is gone—an’ gone ferever. The comrade we
both loved is dead. Didn’t we see him shot through the heart? No—come to
think of it—he wasn’t shot through the heart; ’cause he was shot in the
right side—an’ the heart’s on the _left_ side, in _most_ human critters.
But he was dead, anyhow—killed by the danged Winnebagoes!”

Again the speaker paused long enough to blow his nose and wipe his watery
eyes. Then he resumed in the same mournful, sing-song voice:

“Though I seen him dyin’ with my own eyes, Injin, sometimes I find myself
thinkin’ he’s still alive—I do, by Matildy Jane! I’ve dream’d o’ him
nights so much, it ’pears to me he _can’t_ be dead. But, of course, he
_is_. ’Cause why? We left him dyin’. Well, it don’t do no good to grieve.
But ther’s one thing I’d like to know right smart—an’ that’s what become
o’ the dog.”

“Ugh!” ejaculated the Indian, nodding. “Me heap like know where hound.
Much good dog—sight big brave.”

The white man went on:

“An’ dang-it-all-to-dingnation! Here we are—jest got back from eighteen
months o’ traipsin’ from one Winnebago town to another, all over God’s
creation, all over the Northwest—an’ we’re right plump into another
hornets’ nest. Talk ’bout jumpin’ out o’ the fryin’ pan into the fire!
We’ve jumped out o’ ice water into b’ilin’ oil. Here we’ve been drug
’round fer a year an’ a half, beat and starved an’ cuffed every day in
the week—an’ give a double dose on Sundays. My heart’s been in my mouth
so much, I’ve chawed off one end of it an’ spit it out with my tobacker—I
have, by my gran’father’s barn-door britches! An’ now we’ve made our
escape at last—got half-way back from p’rdition to glory—we’re in another
peck o’ trouble.

“As near as I can learn from the talk that’s goin’ on ’mong
the soldiers, Gener’l Proctor an’ Tecumseh’s comin’ to attack
this place—with not less’n three thousan’ white an’ red devils.
Three thousan’ to five hundred! A purty pickle—I swear! W’y,
hang-it-up-an’-take-it-down-an’-cook-it! They’ll eat us up without salt
’r pepper! ’Cause Ol’ Tippecanoe’ll never surrender—he don’t know _how_.
He’s jest like ol’ Mad Anthony—they say he trained under that ol’ war
hoss—an’ he’ll fight as long as he’s got an ounce of lead left, an’ a
flintlock to shoot it in. Look at him now, Bright Wing. He’s ev’ry inch a
soldier, ain’t he?”

“Ugh!” the imperturbable Wyandot assented. “Tippecanoe him heap sight
brave. Him kill many bad Shawnees, Winnebagoes, Pottawatomies. Him fight
till me, you—all dead.”

“Well,” Farley groaned resignedly, “I s’pose we can stand it, if the rest
of ’em can. But the good Lord knows we’ve stood ’bout enough! Dodrot it!
Sometimes I think the Lord has sent all my latter trials an’ tribulations
upon me, fer growlin’ ’bout whackin’ them bulls from Fort Harrison to
the Prophet’s Town—I do, by flapjacks! An’ then ag’in I git to thinkin’
my punishment is jest the natur’l result o’ the heartless way I’ve used
the women folks. W’y, Injin, I used to be a reg’lar heart-breaker. I
didn’t have no mercy on the unfortunates that bowed down an’ worshiped
my beautiful face an’ form. I was a reg’lar Apoller in them days, I
was—purty as a pictur’. But look at me now! Whackin’ bulls an’ sufferin’
Injin torment has jest ’bout ruined me. Where’s my purty hair, eh? An’
look at this nose, an’ these ears, an’ this face! Injin, my beauty’s
suffered a blightin’ frost—it has, by my gran’mother’s petticoat! W’y,
ding-it-all-to-dangnation! A few more hard knocks, an’ I won’t look no
better’n the average man—I won’t, by ginger! An’ to think that an Injin
squaw—the oldest an’ ugliest one in the whole Winnebago tribe—follered
an’ tagged me from Dan to Barsheber! Follered an’ tagged me till I
couldn’t eat n’r sleep—an’ the frogs inside o’ me jest natur’ly got
disgusted an’ quit business. It was awful—awful! Injin, clap y’r eyes
upon me an’ tell me what I’ve done to deserve such a fate.”

And Joe solemnly lifted his well-worn coonskin cap and faced his
companion.

Bright Wing looked upon his loquacious and whimsical friend and smiled,
while his beady eyes twinkled; but he said nothing.

Farley was indeed a comical object. His clothing hung in tatters upon
his angular form; his toes peeped from his cowhide shoes. During his
captivity, the Winnebagoes had essayed the hapless task of making an
Indian of him. They had plucked out his scant hair, leaving his scalp
bare and shiny—excepting a straw-colored tuft at the crown. They had
pierced his nose and ears, and ornamented those necessary appendages
with large shell rings. And, to complete the fantastic whole, had
tattooed the totem of the clan, whose prisoner he was, in blue ink upon
his forehead. He was a sight to excite mirth and commiseration at the
same time.

“Well, what do you think o’ my looks, anyhow?” he asked, when Bright Wing
had finished his silent inspection and was looking toward a distant part
of the inclosure.

“Joe him very much pretty—heap nice sight,” the Wyandot chuckled
gutturally. “Him Winnebago now—big chief.”

“That’s it—that’s it!” Farley moaned lugubriously. “I knowed it—my
beauty’s gone ferever! I’ll never dare to peep in a lookin’-glass
ag’in—the shock ’ld be too much fer my delicate constertution to bear. By
King David’s cross-eyed wives! But my punishment’s too great fer mortal
man to stand! Drivin’ oxen an’ bein’ the human habitation of a colony
o’ frogs wan’t enough; the Winnebagoes had to have a whack at me. An’
they’ve finished the job——”

Then, with sudden animation:

“But what’re you lookin’ at, Injin?”

Bright Wing silently pointed toward the commander’s quarters on the
southern side of the inclosure. General Harrison was just entering the
door of his tent, and, hurrying toward it, were an officer and a number
of soldiers.

“That’s Cap’n Hamilton an’ his squad,” Joe cried excitedly. “They’ve jest
got back from the’r scoutin’ trip down the river. Now we’ll know what’s
comin’. Le’s mosey out that way.”

Captain Hamilton, leaving his men outside, entered the commander’s tent
and stood at attention.

“Well, Captain,” Harrison remarked calmly, “you’re back soon. What’s your
report?”

The inferior officer saluted and replied:

“Three miles down the river we came upon the main body of the enemy,
rapidly advancing in this direction.”

“Who’s in command?”

“General Proctor.”

“And Tecumseh commands the savages?”

“He does, General.”

“Is their force as large as reported?”

“I judge from what I saw that they have a force of fully three thousand
men—British regulars, Canadian militia, and Indians.”

“Are they well supplied with heavy artillery?”

“I think they are, General. At any rate, they have some heavy pieces.”

“Is that all you were able to learn?”

“It is, General.”

“The enemy will be here in a few hours at the most,” Harrison remarked.
“They mean to invest us—to storm us, if necessary. Their force is six
times that of ours. But we must repulse them. To surrender means to lose
all for which we have planned and fought—and to court death at the hands
of the savages. If General Clay and his Kentuckians were only here——”

Then with fiery energy:

“But we must bestir ourselves. Captain, go and give the order that the
gates be tightly closed at once—after a supply of water, sufficient to
last several days, has been brought from the river.”

The captain saluted and withdrew. Turning to an orderly standing near the
door, the commander said briskly:

“Find the field commissary, Captain William Oliver, and send him here.”

A few minutes later Captain Oliver put in an appearance. He was young and
beardless, but strong, active, and courageous.

By this time, a number of officers had gathered at the commander’s
quarters and were holding animated conference with him. All looked up
at the young Captain’s entrance. Harrison broke off in the middle of a
sentence and, advancing, took the newcomer’s hand.

“Captain Oliver,” he said solemnly, “you know the strait in which we’re
placed. If re-enforcements don’t arrive within a few days this place,
with all its stores, will inevitably fall into the hands of the British.
Such an event would be an incalculable disaster. It mustn’t happen.
But we must have help. General Green Clay is on his way hither, with a
regiment of Kentucky militia. I have received word that he’s coming by
way of the Auglaize. At the present time he must be near Fort Winchester.
I’ve decided to send a dispatch to him, apprising him of the condition
of affairs and urging him to hasten to our aid; and I’ve chosen you to
perform the perilous mission. Your brother officers approve my plan—and
my choice of messenger. Are you willing to venture upon the hazardous
undertaking, Captain Oliver?”

The assembled officers craned their necks, and listened breathlessly for
the young commissary’s reply. It was not long in coming. Firm and clear
his voice rang out:

“I’ll go, General—willingly and gladly. I’ll deliver your dispatch into
General Clay’s hands—or die on the way.”

“Thank you, Captain,” Harrison murmured, his voice soft with emotion.

Then quickly:

“How soon can you start?”

“At once, General.”

“Very well—the sooner the better. You should be beyond reach of our
enemies before they invest the fort. Make your preparations and return in
a half hour. I’ll have the dispatch ready for you. By the way, how many
men do you want?”

“One, General—a guide.”

“Hadn’t you better take a score?”

“They’d be of no use to me, General—and you need them here,” was the firm
reply.

“True,” the commander returned reflectively. “Well, come back in half an
hour. I’ll have everything in readiness.”

Captain Oliver bowed and withdrew. Just outside of the tent he
encountered Farley, Bright Wing, and a number of soldiers. Awkwardly
lifting his cap, the whimsical Joe stepped forward and asked:

“Are we goin’ to have a brush with the Britishers an’ redskins, Cap’n?”

“More than a brush, I imagine,” answered the commissary, edging his way
through the crowd.

“An’ what’re we goin’ to do?” Farley inquired.

“Fight,” was the curt response.

Joe was nettled.

“Any fool’d know that,” he muttered; “’specially if he’d been in the
fight o’ Tippecanoe with the ol’ Gener’l——”

Captain Oliver stopped suddenly and, wheeling around, interrupted:

“You were with General Harrison at Tippecanoe, my friend?”

“I was,” Farley answered proudly. “Me an’ Bright Wing, here, was both
there.”

“From your dress and general appearance, I judge you are a woodman—a
hunter.”

“I am—what ther’ is left o’ me, which ain’t very much sence the danged
Winnebagoes sp’iled my beauty.”

“You’ve been a prisoner among the Indians?”

“Yes—both of us, ever sence the battle o’ Tippecanoe. We jest
escaped—jest got in here yisterday.”

“Does the commander know you?”

“He used to—but I don’t s’pose he would now. The danged Winnebagoes——”

Captain Oliver impatiently interrupted:

“I’m going on a journey. Would you and your red friend like to accompany
me?”

“That d’pends,” was the cautious reply. “If it’s toward the Winnebago
country——”

“Please step this way,” said the Captain, plucking Joe’s ragged sleeve.

When they were beyond earshot of the others, the officer explained:

“I’m going on a perilous mission. I want someone to accompany me as
guide—someone acquainted with the woods——”

“Well, where’re you goin’?” Joe persisted.

“I’m going to meet General Clay, who is coming by way of the Auglaize.”

“An’ you want me an’ the Injin to go with you, as guides?”

“That’s it. You’re an American?”

“Did you take me fer a Britisher?”—indignantly.

“And you’re acquainted with the country up and down the valley?”

“I know it as well as I know the road to my own mouth; so does the
Injin—he’s a Wyandot, an’ true as steel. When do you want to start?”

“Immediately. Will you go with me?”

“Yes.”

“And the Indian?”

“Of course.”

“How soon can you be ready?”

“We’re ready now—if we only had guns an’ ammynition. You see, when we
got away from the Winnebagoes we hadn’t nothin’ but the clo’es on our
backs—which ain’t much to speak of.”—And Joe glanced ruefully at his
tattered garments.—“We lived on roots an’ barks, on the road here. Give
us guns an’ ammynition, an’ we’re with you.”

“You shall have what you want,” was the decided reply. “Call your friend
and come with me.”

A half hour later, Captain Oliver and his chosen guides passed out at the
western gate of the fort, and disappeared in the dense woods upon the
southern bank of the river.

An hour after the departure of the brave dispatch-bearer and his two
comrades, the enemy put in an appearance upon the opposite shore of
the stream. General Harrison pushed the work upon the grand traverse.
This was a wall of earth and timbers, running through the center of the
inclosure, the full length of the fortification. It was nine hundred
feet long, twenty feet wide at the base, and twelve feet high; and was
intended to serve as a protection against the shells of the British.
Anticipating the fact that the enemy would erect powerful batteries
on the opposite shore, the American commander ordered that numerous
excavations be made in the south side of the grand traverse, to which his
men could retreat in time of danger from exploding missiles.

All the afternoon, the Indians annoyed the soldiers of the garrison with
a desultory rifle-fire; but as they fired at long range, their shots did
little except to cause the Americans to reply in like manner. Late in the
evening, two or three boat-loads of savages landed upon the south bank of
the river, and, taking up positions among the neighboring trees, poured a
more effective fire upon the fort. The soldiers answered briskly; and the
fusillade was kept up until nightfall.

In the meantime, the Americans had trained two eighteen-pounders upon
their enemies across the river, causing them to retire to cover; and the
British had succeeded in crossing the stream and throwing up earthworks
for the protection of their fieldpieces, a short distance from the
southeastern angle of the fort. The place was completely invested.
Preparations were active, on the one side, to storm the garrison; on the
other, to repel the most vigorous assault.

On the morning of the twenty-ninth, General Harrison issued a general
order, appealing to the patriotism of his men.

All day the rifle-fire was continued by both sides. Several of the
Americans received serious wounds, and a number of the enemy were killed.

On the morning of the thirtieth, the condition of affairs was much the
same. Within the fort, the grand traverse was nearing completion; and the
British were placing their heavy siege guns in position on the opposite
shore.

The Americans were well supplied with food, but they suffered much from
want of water. They were digging a well within the inclosure; but, in
the meantime, they had to procure their supply from the river at night—a
hazardous proceeding.

On the following day, the British had a number of their cannon in
position, and began a bombardment. The Americans returned shot for shot;
and a number of men were killed upon each side.

For the next four days there was little change in the situation. Both
armies were on the alert to take an advantage of the other, but none
offered. General Harrison had removed all his tents and paraphernalia
behind the traverses; and the enemy had nothing to shoot at but the bare
earthen walls. The soldiers within the fort and the savages without kept
up an incessant rifle-fire; and the great guns on both sides thundered.
But the American commander’s supply of shot and shell was running short.

Apparently, the enemy had abandoned all idea of storming the fort and had
settled down to take it by siege.

[Illustration]




CHAPTER XV.


About sixty miles above Fort Meigs, near the junction of the Auglaize and
the Maumee, lay Fort Winchester—formerly Fort Defiance. Within its walls,
General Green Clay and his Kentucky militiamen were encamped—resting
after their long and arduous march, and knowing nothing of the urgent
need of their presence at Fort Meigs.

In the early morning of the thirtieth of April, three men entered the
gateway of the fortification. They were Captain Oliver and his two
guides. The former immediately made inquiries for the commander, and
was directed to the officers’ quarters. Farley and Bright Wing stopped
with a squad of men near the gate, and the loquacious Joe entered into
conversation with them. While the white men were talking, the Wyandot
leaned upon his gun and swept his eyes about the place. Suddenly he gave
a grunt of astonishment and laid his hand upon his comrade’s arm.

“What is it, Injin?” Farley inquired, as he whirled about upon his heel.

“Dog—dog Duke!” muttered Bright Wing in awe-struck tones, his gaze fixed
upon a distant part of the inclosure.

“Duke?” exclaimed Joe. “What do you mean? Where?”

“Dog Duke him over there—now gone,” came the soft guttural reply.

“Say, Injin, you’re gittin’ loony,” Farley asserted solemnly. “Ther’
ain’t no dog over there—n’r hain’t been.”

“Me see dog,” the Wyandot insisted. “Look heap much like Duke.”

“Yes, he saw a dog—’r a bloodhoun’, to be more exact,” affirmed a
raw-boned Kentuckian, pointing toward one of the corner blockhouses. “I
saw it, too. The animal was jest passin’ into the blockhouse. He’s an
unsociable brute, an’ belongs to one o’ the guides.”

“Well, it ain’t the dog we used to know, though it may look some like
him,” Joe asserted positively. “’Cause the redskins has made a meal o’
him, long ’fore this. Come on, Injin. Le’s see if we can’t find somethin’
to fill up on. I’m as empty as a frog pon’ durin’ a dry spell.”

The two comrades left the group at the gate and went to another part of
the inclosure. At one of the mess-fires they were proffered food, which
they gladly accepted. After eating heartily, they leisurely sauntered
about the place, Joe whimsically commenting upon all they observed.

They had finished a tour of the inclosure, and were irresolutely
pondering what to do next, when Farley suddenly threw up his head and
stood rigid as a ramrod, his eyes fixed upon a large bloodhound that
came from behind a tent and trotted toward them.

“Duke ’r his ghost!” he whispered with trembling lips. “Injin, do you see
him, too?”

“Ugh!” Bright Wing managed to ejaculate.

“Then it’s Duke an’ not his ghost,” Joe said in a relieved tone. “’Cause
I’ve alluz heerd it said that two folks don’t see a ghost at the same
time. Injin, he’s comin’ right toward us—it _is_ Duke, by Katy Melissy!
Here, Duke—here, purp!”

The bloodhound was trotting toward them, his nose close to the ground.
Evidently he was trailing them. At the sound of Farley’s voice, he threw
up his muzzle and set his eyes upon the two men. Then with a short,
hoarse yelp of joy, he sprang toward them.

“Dang-it-all-to-dingnation!” shouted Joe. “It’s ol’ Duke—an’ he knows us!
Injin, he had smelt out our tracks an’ was trailin’ us. I know you, ol’
feller—of course, I do! An’ I’m as glad to see you, as you are to see me.
But git down, purp; you’ll spile my nice clo’es, with y’r dirty paws—you
will, by cracky!”

Farley’s voice was tremulous, and the tears were running down his
furrowed cheeks. He was laughing and weeping at the same time.

The hound crouched at the feet of his old companions and whined; he
fawned upon them; he circled about them, barking madly.

“Duke him heap sight glad see me, you—all of us,” Bright Wing muttered
sagely. “Me, you, all of us very much glad see dog Duke. Him no dead—him
here. Maybe master no dead—_him_ here.”

“Shut up, Injin—shut up!” Farley cried sternly. “Don’t go to raisin’ no
false hopes like that, in a feller’s gizzard. Ross Douglas is dead—me
an’ you saw him dyin’. The redskins—led by that dang Bradford—found him
an’ the dog together. No doubt they scalped an’ stripped the master an’
drug away the dog. But somebody got the houn’ away from the thievin’,
murderin’ red devils—an’ here he is. I can read it all like readin’ a
book. A heap better, in fact, fer I ain’t much on book learnin’. But
ther’s one thing we want to do—find this scout that claims to own the
dog, an’ make him tell where he got him.”

“Ugh!” And Bright Wing nodded assent.

“Come on, then,” Joe began excitedly, but stopped and stared stupidly
around.

“Wher’s the purp?” he muttered.

“Duke him clean gone,” muttered the Wyandot. “Him gone that way”—pointing
with his rifle. “Gone hunt new master.”

“Well, we’ll foller him,” Farley said decidedly. “An’ I’ll mighty soon
tell this new master he hain’t got no right to the houn’, an’ that we’re
goin’ to take the brute with us. Eh, Injin?”

“Ugh! All right—me, too.”

And again Bright Wing nodded vigorously.

“An’ if he gives me any of his sass,” Farley went on savagely, “I’ll whip
the scoundrel within an inch of his worthless life—I will, by Lucindy!
Nobody but you an’ me has any right to Duke now. An’ we’ll have him ’r
know the reason why. Gol-fer-socks! How I wish Ross Douglas was alive
an’ here. I’d be willin’ to let the danged Winnebagoes punch my nose
an’ pierce my ears an’ pull out my hair an’ whiskers, to the’r heart’s
content. Yes, I’d be willin’ to let ’em destroy the last remnants o’ my
beauty, an pull out my lairipin’ tongue by the roots—I would, ’r my name
ain’t Joseph Peregoy Farley!”

The two comrades were walking in the direction whence the bloodhound had
gone. Just as they reached the spot where the Wyandot had seen the dog
disappear among a cluster of tents, a militiaman crossed their path.

“Say, friend,” Farley said hurriedly, “do you happen to know the man that
owns the big bloodhoun’ that’s runnin’ ’round the camp?”

“Yes,” the soldier answered promptly.

“Well, we’re huntin’ him. What kind of a looking critter is he?”

“He’s one o’ the scouts—a youngish-like man, big an’ stout; a kind of a
surly feller, like his dog—don’t have much to say to nobody. But he knows
his business—an’ ’tends to it. Anything more you’d like to know?”

“I’d like to know where to find him,” Joe replied coolly, unheeding the
sarcasm of the other’s tone and words.

“You’ll find him right in that big tent. He’s in there holdin’ a conflab
with the Gener’l an’ his staff. You act as if you had important business
with him.”

“I have,” answered Joe, shutting his teeth with a snap. “What’s his name?”

“I—don’t—know——” the soldier began slowly. “Yes, I do. I heard our
Captain call him by name the other day. Le’s see. It was somethin’ like
Ruggles ’r Duggles. No, that wasn’t it. I guess I can’t think of it.”

Bright Wing’s black eyes opened very wide, and he uttered a surprised
“Ugh!” Farley’s cheek paled under its coat of tan. He tried to speak; but
the words would not come. At last he managed to stammer:

“It—It wasn’t—Douglas, was it?”

“That’s it—Douglas,” exclaimed the militiaman, slapping his thigh.
“Douglas—yes, that’s the name.”

“Ross Douglas?”

Joe’s face was ashen as he put the question.

“Now you’ve hit it!” the man shouted triumphantly. “That’s the very name
I heard the Captain call him—Ross Douglas.”

Farley and Bright Wing stared at each other, in speechless amazement.
Their chests were heaving; their lips, apart. The militiaman looked from
one to the other in silent wonder. The Wyandot regained the power of
speech and grunted:

“Duke him not dead—him here. Master not dead, too—him here. Ross
here—Fleet Foot—ugh!”

“Injin, you’re a ’tarnal fool!” Farley cried angrily, his face suddenly
flushing—then paling. “Fer God’s sake, don’t make no more remarks like
that! You know—an’ I know—that Ross Douglas’s dead. You’re a fool!”

“_Joe_ big fool!” Bright Wing returned sullenly.

“No, I ain’t!” Farley vociferated wildly. “I can see the length of my
nose—an’ you can’t. Don’t you understand, Injin. W’y the dang skunk
that’s got Ross Douglas’s houn’ has got Ross Douglas’s name—stol’d both
of ’em, of course. Jest wait till he steps out o’ that tent, an’ I’ll
give him the infernalest lambastin’ a man ever got in his life—I will,
by—by——”

But Joe, in his excitement, could think of no suitable object by which to
swear, so ended with a gasping sputter.

“You seem to be terribly worked-up ’bout somethin’, stranger,” the
soldier remarked coolly. “An’ you threaten to trounce the guide that
calls hisself Ross Douglas. Well, maybe you’re like a singed cat—better’n
you look—but if I was you I’d hire the job out. I seen the feller you
talk o’ whippin’ lick two men bigger’n you—an’ not half try—jest ’cause
they spit tobacker juice in his dog’s eye.”

“It don’t make no differ’nce who he’s licked, n’r who he hain’t,” Joe
answered obstinately. “A man that’s mean enough to palm hisself off fer
Ross Douglas—who’s dead an’ gone—has got to take a trouncin’ from me.
Ross Douglas was my best friend; an’ I won’t have his name stol’d an’
disgraced by no two-legged critter that ever tramped on new ground—I
won’t, by Queen Elizabeth! It ’pears the rascal thinks a sight o’ the
dog—bein’ ready to fight fer him; but my mind’s made up—the cuss has got
to be licked.”

By this time a knot of soldiers had gathered at the spot. Now they
nudged one another and exchanged facetious winks and remarks. They
were expecting to see no end of fun, when the guide should put in an
appearance.

Farley muttered impatiently:

“I wish the critter’d come—right while I’m in a good notion. When he
does, one o’ you fellers p’int him out to me.”

A number of the assembled militiamen offered to perform the service.
Suddenly one of them remarked in a stage whisper:

“The council’s broke up. Here comes the officers now.”

“P’int him out to me!” Farley hissed between his set teeth.

And giving his gun into Bright Wing’s hands, he rolled up his ragged
sleeves, revealing his knotted and sinewy arms.

The officers emerged from General Clay’s tent. Captain Oliver was among
them. He caught sight of Farley and, noting the woodman’s attitude and
expression, walked up to him, saying:

“You appear excited, my friend. What’s the matter?”

The assembled militiamen grinned broadly; and the officers paused
momentarily. But Joe kept his pale, watery eyes fixed upon the opening
in the canvas wall and did not reply to the question. The Captain turned
to Bright Wing with:

“What ails your comrade?”

“Ugh!” was the guttural response. “Joe him heap mad man. Him want fight
much bad.”

At that moment a tall, broad-shouldered young man appeared in the
doorway. At his side trotted a magnificent bloodhound.

“There he is—go fer him!” a mischievous militiaman whispered in Farley’s
ear.

Joe clapped his eyes upon the figure emerging from the tent, and, with a
hoarse, inarticulate cry, staggered back a few steps and covered his face
with his hands.

Officers and men were astounded, and could only stand and stare. Bright
Wing gave a grunt of surprise and satisfaction, and became a bronze
statue. The hound ran forward and fawned at the feet of the two woodmen.
Then the young man in the doorway shouted joyously:

“Joe Farley and Bright Wing!”

Joe dropped his hands to his side, and for a brief moment stood with
mouth agape. Then with the cry—“It’s Ross Douglas hisself, alive an’
a-livin’”—he sprang forward and threw his long, bony arms around his
friend’s neck.

Bright Wing grinned broadly and muttered:

“Dog Duke alive and here; Fleet Foot alive and here. Joe heap sight big
fool. Ugh!”

Duke capered about in mad delight, baying and whining by turns. Ross and
Joe held each other at arm’s length and looked long and earnestly into
each other’s eyes. Tears were raining down their cheeks, and their lips
were trembling.

An oppressive silence rested upon the little knot of soldiers who were
watching the drama enacting before them. Of a sudden a militiaman broke
the spell by shouting:

“Well, if that don’t beat all the ways to lick a man, I’m a numbskull!”

With shouts of laughter, the crowd gradually dispersed. Douglas tore
himself from Farley’s grasp and, flying to Bright Wing, warmly embraced
him. In return the Wyandot gave his friend a bear-like hug. Joe stood
blubbering and wiping his weak eyes. For once in his life the power of
speech had deserted him. Drawing the two together, Douglas said with deep
emotion:

“God knows how glad I am to meet you again—to find you alive and well!
I’ve mourned you as dead.”

Farley suddenly found his voice and replied:

“An’ maybe we ain’t glad to see you, Ross! We not only thought you was
dead—we _knowed_ you was. We seen you dyin’—we left you fer dead. An’
dang-it-all-to-dingnation! Hang-it-up-an’-take-it-down-an’-cook-it!
I can’t hardly believe my senses. Where’ve you been—how did you come
to life? Tell me all about it right now—don’t wait a minute. By King
Solerman’s six hundred wives! I never was as happy in my born days!”

“Come, my friends,” Ross said softly, sadly, “let’s find a quiet place,
and sit down and talk.”

He led them to a distant corner of the fortification. There, seated
upon a log, they entered into explanations. Douglas told the two of his
miraculous escape from death in the woods, of his multifarious adventures
and experiences among the Indians at the village upon the Mississinewa,
and of the bitter disappointment he had met on his return to Franklinton.
Last of all, he showed them the Prophet’s ring. Farley gingerly examined
the talisman, but said nothing. Bright Wing would not touch the uncanny
thing, but shudderingly remarked:

“Tenskwatawa big medicine man—bad Shawnee. Ring very much strong—make
redmen sleep. Ugh!”

And he drew away from it.

When Douglas had finished, Farley began his narrative. In conclusion he
said:

“Yes, Ross Douglas, me an’ the Injin’s been pris’ners ’mong the
Winnebagoes, ever sence we left you—up to a few days ago. A dozen times
they was goin’ to kill us, but somethin’ alluz happened jest in the nick
o’ time to save us. But look at me! Where’s the beauty that once was
mine? Gone—sacrificed by the dang redskins! It’s a sin an’ a shame—it is,
by my gran’mother’s shoestrings! An’ we’d ’ave been in the clutches o’
the red devils yit, but the most of ’em took it into the’r heads to jine
Tecumseh on his rampage ’g’inst Fort Meigs. That give us a chance to git
away. But holy incense! Talk ’bout sufferin’! Hain’t I ’xperienced it?
Yit you’ve had a right smart taste y’rself, Ross. Yes, things has come
out jest as I told you they would. I said if you left ol’ Sam Larkin’s
gal an’ went off to war, she’d marry that scalawag of a Hilliard. An’
she’s done it. But—gol-fer-socks! That’s the way o’ the whole feminine
gender. Don’t I know ’em—say? Still I don’t fancy you’re so much
disap’inted over the turn things has took, Ross. Eh?”

And Farley smiled quizzically.

“What do you mean, Joe?” Douglas asked quickly.

“Oh! you know well enough what I mean,” the other chuckled. “I think if
you could find the little red-haired gal that set you free, you wouldn’t
hunt overmuch fer Amy Larkin. That’s my ’pinion, at least.”

“You’re wrong, my old friend,” Douglas hastened to say. “I have been
true to Amy Larkin; I trust and believe she has been true to me. I shall
continue my search for her—and never rest till I find her; although I
have no knowledge of her whereabouts. But I must leave you now, to assist
in the preparations for departure.”

“Go ahead!—don’t let us keep you,” Farley assented. “Ol’ Tippecanoe’s in
a bad box down there at Fort Meigs, an’ the sooner we all git there, the
better. How soon do you think the army’ll be ready to move?”

“By to-morrow morning, at the latest. I’ll see you again this evening.
Then we can talk to our heart’s content.”

Douglas hurried from the spot, and Farley and Bright Wing, arising, again
sauntered aimlessly about the place, followed by the bloodhound.

In the meantime, preparations for the hurried trip down the river were
rapidly going on. Officers were stalking hither and thither, giving
sharp commands. Hundreds of men were busily engaged in loading the camp
equipage, arms, ammunition, and provisions upon flat, open boats that lay
moored at the water’s edge.

All day the work proceeded without intermission. When one set of men
became weary, others took their places. By sunset the boats were
loaded—everything on board but the men themselves. That night they slept
in their dismantled camp, upon the bare ground. At daylight they manned
their clumsy vessels and commenced their venturesome voyage down the
Maumee.

General Clay had twelve hundred men in his command, and his fleet
consisted of eighteen flats of various size. For four days the primitive
flotilla moved slowly onward between walls of unbroken forest. The only
motive power was the sluggish current, and poles and sweeps in the hands
of the sturdy Kentuckians.

The weather was warm and sunshiny. Mating birds twittered and chirped
in the budding boughs of the trees along the shore, and reviewed their
nesting-places of the year before. The clear water lapped musically
against the sides of the moving craft; and the militiamen, lolling in the
genial sunshine, smoked their pipes and chatted cheerily, unaware of the
black fate that awaited them.

[Illustration]




CHAPTER XVI.


Late on the night of the fourth of May, General Clay and his relief
expedition arrived at the head of the rapids, a few miles above Fort
Meigs. Captain Oliver and a squad of men—among whom were Farley and
Bright Wing—slipped ashore and started afoot for the fort. Then—the pilot
flatly refusing to proceed farther in the darkness—the commander was
compelled to tie up his boats and wait for daylight.

Captain Oliver and his men succeeded in eluding the vigilant Indians, and
entered the fortification at two o’clock in the morning. The youthful
commissary immediately repaired to General Harrison’s quarters, and
apprised him of the near approach of the re-enforcements.

An hour later, after a hasty consultation with his officers, the
commander sent Captain Hamilton and a subaltern up the river, to meet
General Clay. They bore orders to the effect that Clay was to land eight
hundred men upon the left bank of the stream, to carry the British
batteries and spike the cannon; also, that the residue of the militia
were to disembark upon the south shore and fight their way to the fort.
It was the design of Harrison to make sorties against the enemy upon
the same side of the river—whenever the Kentuckians should attack the
English artillerists upon the north bank.

In the gray of the early morning, General Clay cut loose his boats and
drifted into the rapids. Scarcely were the unwieldy vessels under way,
when a hail came from the southern shore; and Captain Hamilton and his
companion appeared at the water’s edge, frantically waving their arms.
They were taken aboard the craft upon which was the commander of the
expedition; and there the Captain delivered his message.

Word was rapidly passed from one boat to another. Soon all was animation
and excitement. The soldiers—who had had nothing to eat since the evening
before, and who still lay upon the decks, wrapped in their mist-dampened
blankets—hastily threw off their coverings, sprang to their feet, and
prepared for battle. In low tones they conversed and left messages with
one another for the dear ones at home. But there was no panic—no sign of
cowardice. Fixed purpose, not fear, was in each rugged face.

Slowly the flats drifted into the middle of the rapids. Soon they gained
in impetus and floated more and more rapidly. The water chuckled and
gurgled at the bows, and danced in creamy wakes behind. Except for a
crisp command, now and then, all was silence on board—the silence of
determined men ready to battle to the death.

Colonel Dudley was to lead the detachment against the English batteries
upon the northern shore. His boat was in advance of the others. Suddenly
a number of savages appeared upon the left bank, and, with hoots and
yells, discharged their pieces at the advancing flotilla. One officer was
wounded slightly. Then the militiamen returned the fire and the Indians
fled to shelter.

Silence again reigned; and the flotilla drifted onward.

In a few minutes, it had reached the foot of the rapids. Colonel Dudley,
detaching twelve boats and eight hundred men, steered for the northern
shore, intending to land about a mile above the British batteries.
General Clay, with the six remaining boats and about four hundred men,
made an effort to disembark upon the southern bank, a short distance
above the beleaguered fort. But wind and current were against him. Only
fifty of the militiamen had got ashore, when the vessels were swept
from their moorings. This little squad of Kentuckians valiantly fought
their way through the horde of whooping savages that hemmed them in, and
reached the fort without the loss of a man.

The remaining three hundred and fifty—under command of Colonel
Boswell—after repeated trials and failures, finally effected a
landing upon the right bank, at a point near the western end of the
fortification. General Harrison sent a sortie to their aid; and the
combined force repulsed the Indians and Canadian militia, and marched in
triumph to the fort.

A short time afterward the commander sent another sortie against the
batteries southeast of the garrison. A stubborn engagement took place.
The sturdy Americans, though greatly outnumbered, drove the British from
their position, spiked several of their cannon, and, taking a number of
prisoners, made a safe retreat.

Fighting had commenced on all sides of the beleaguered fortification.
A ring of flame had encircled the place; the Stars and Stripes had
received a fresh baptism of blood. Now the smoke of battle lifted; and
the brave men within the walls turned their attention to their brethren
on the opposite side of the river. General Harrison, glass in hand, was
anxiously scanning the distant shore. Suddenly, he dropped his hand to
his side and groaned:

“My God! They are lost—lost! They’ve captured the batteries, but are
allowing themselves to be lured into an ambuscade. Their impetuosity will
be their undoing!”

Let us follow Colonel Dudley. Without difficulty, he landed upon the
northern bank of the river, a mile above the British batteries. Gallantly
his men charged the English artillerists and drove them from their guns.
Had they been content with spiking the cannon and returning to their
boats, all would have been well. But the Indians in the adjacent woods
were pouring a galling fire into the American ranks.

This the dare-devil Kentuckians could not stand. With lusty cheers, they
charged the savages and drove them pell-mell into the depths of the
forest. Colonel Dudley feared an ambuscade, and sought to restrain the
ardor of his troops, but in vain. The reckless militiamen continued the
chase, pushing farther and farther into the tangled woodland.

Presently the wily redmen rallied and essayed to outflank their pursuers.
A pitched battle took place. The rattle of firearms became a deafening
roar; the dense smoke obscured friend and foe. Colonel Dudley ordered
a charge along the whole line. It availed nothing; the Indians could
not be dislodged. Next came the order to retreat to the boats. This the
Kentuckians were ready to do. They had suffered severely—they realized
their mistake. Foot by foot, they began a retreat toward the shore,
fighting every step of the way.

In the meanwhile, the English artillerymen fled to old Fort Miami,
a short distance down the river—where General Proctor had his
headquarters—and reported the loss of the batteries. The British
commander, thinking a general attack upon his encampment was imminent,
immediately recalled a large part of his troops from the south side of
the stream, and dispatched them to the scene of conflict. They arrived in
time to fall upon the American rear, completely cut off their retreat,
and kill or capture almost the entire force. Only one hundred and fifty
of the gallant but rash eight hundred regained their boats and reached
Fort Meigs.

At the beginning of this engagement, Tecumseh, with a part of his savage
band, was in the immediate vicinity of the American fortification.
On receiving word from Proctor, the great chief swam the river and,
mounting a horse, galloped to the scene of conflict. Well he knew what
would happen were his warriors successful in the fight. But he arrived
too late. The battle was ended; the butchery had begun.

With the wailing cry—“What will become of my red brothers—what will
become of my red brothers!” he wheeled his steed and dashed along the
path leading from the battle-ground to the British encampment. The way
was strewn with the mutilated corpses of murdered Americans. At the sight
he clinched his white teeth—and spurred on. Reaching the gateway of the
encampment, he galloped through and leaped to the ground.

The butchery was still going on. General Proctor was allowing the Indians
to select their victims and kill them as they saw fit. The savages were
satiating their thirst for blood, to the fullest extent.

“Hold!” Tecumseh thundered, drawing his tomahawk and facing his half-mad
followers. “The brave who kills another defenseless prisoner dies by my
hand!”

And drawing himself defiantly erect, he fixed his piercing gaze upon the
assembled redmen.

Cowed by the commanding presence of the chief they loved and feared,
the Indians relinquished their victims and sullenly returned their
blood-stained weapons to their belts. But one stubborn Winnebago,
unheeding the command, sprang upon a prisoner standing near him. The next
instant Tecumseh’s hatchet descended—and the red fiend was a corpse.

Grunts of approval greeted the summary act.

“Listen, warriors!” the great Shawnee shouted. “I said no more helpless
captives should die. They shall _not_. I told you I would kill any
who disobeyed my commands. I have kept my word. Had I been here this
slaughter never would have occurred. For shame! Are you warriors or
wolves? Dare to disobey me—and _die_!”

He turned sadly away. Seeing General Proctor standing near, he boldly
strode up to the Englishman and demanded:

“Why have you permitted this massacre—you, a paleface?”

“Sir,” replied the general haughtily, “your Indians cannot be
commanded—controlled. They refused to obey my orders.”

“Begone!” the great chief sneered. “You are unfit to command! You are a
squaw; go and put on petticoats!”

General Proctor’s face flushed hotly, but he did not utter the sharp
retort that trembled upon his tongue. And it was well for him that he did
not.

Tecumseh folded his arms and, stalking up and down among his warriors,
kept them from further acts of violence.

The garrison of Fort Meigs, realizing the fate that threatened their
brethren upon the opposite side of the river, went wild with excitement
and anxiety. The commander and his officers repeatedly signalled the
venturesome militiamen to return to their boats and cross over to the
fort. Privates mounted the parapets and traverses—unmindful of Indian
bullets—and shouted themselves hoarse in futile endeavor to attract the
attention of the impetuous Kentuckians.

As has been shown, all this was vain. Then the soldiers within the walls
demanded that they be led to the rescue of their friends. This General
Harrison wisely refused to permit. But he asked for volunteers to cross
the stream and recall Dudley and his men from the pursuit of the savages.
Lieutenant Campbell offered his services. But when he reached the British
batteries on the other side, Colonel Dudley and his men had disappeared
in the thick woods. The Lieutenant immediately recrossed to the fort and
reported the fact to his commander.

General Harrison was almost beside himself with rage and grief. Striding
up and down in front of his tent, he wrung his hands and groaned:

“When _will_ my countrymen learn to obey commands! Foolhardiness is as
bad as cowardice—and leads to as grave results. Colonel Dudley and his
command will be cut to pieces; every man will be killed or captured. And
I dare not send troops to his aid. My hands are tied!”

A light breeze, sweeping in from the lake, rippled the surface of the
river and brought to the ears of those within the garrison, the rattling
crash of firearms in the distance and the cheers and whoops of the
combatants. The smoke of the conflict rose above the tree-tops and
drifted lazily toward the fort. With the smell of burning powder in their
nostrils, the soldiers were hard to restrain. They ran from one part
of the inclosure to another, brandishing their arms, and grumbling and
cursing angrily.

“Ding-it-all-to-dingnation!” Joe Farley bellowed, gripping the stock of
his rifle and panting hard with excitement. “Injin, we’d ort to be over
there—we had, by Jerushy! Dang the hard-headed Kaintuckians, anyhow! The
idee of ’em pokin’ the’r noses into a hornets’ nest, like that! They
hain’t got a bit o’ gumption. But somebody’s got to go to the’r help, ’r
ther’ won’t be a man of ’em left to tell the story. An’ what’s worryin’
me—Ross Douglas is among ’em. That youngster don’t more ’n git out o’ one
diffikilty, till he’s plump into another one. He’ll be in the thick o’
the rumpus, too, you can jest _bet_. An’ he’ll git his everlastin’ this
time—’r I miss my guess. Dodrot the luck, anyhow! What’re we goin’ to do?
Jest listen to that, now! They’re havin’ it hot an’ heavy—an’ no mistake.
We’ve had fightin’ all ’round us an’ all over us this mornin’. Me an’
you’s been in two purty little brushes ourselves. But, dang it, this is
worse an’ more of it! Say—I can’t stand it no longer! Ross is over there
in danger. I’m goin’ to him, if I have to swim the river to git there.
What do you say, Injin?”

“Ugh! Me go, too,” the Wyandot replied calmly.

“Come on, then!” Joe cried recklessly. “It don’t make no differ’nce who
says we can’t go—Gener’l Harrison ’r anybody else—we’ll go any——”

He ended abruptly and fixed his gaze upon the opposite shore. The Wyandot
followed his example. A body of men had emerged from the woods, and were
running toward the boats on the shore. Others quickly followed them—and
still others. From the fort, it could be seen that many of them were
without hats or guns. Pell-mell they rushed to the boats, and hastily
pushed off.

“A rout and a slaughter!” General Harrison moaned as he entered his tent.

“Here comes a part of ’em, anyhow,” Farley muttered grimly; “but it
’pears to be a mighty _small_ part of ’em. Gol-fer-socks! I only hope
Douglas is amongst ’em. If he ain’t, he’s knocked under fer sure _this_
time. Well, it seems ther’ ain’t nothin’ to do but wait, an’ watch, an’
pray—it does, by ginger!”

And, folding his arms, the lank and sorrowful-looking woodman sullenly
watched the fugitives frantically poling their craft across the river.

Now all was bustle and confusion within the garrison. One of the gates
was thrown open; and soldiers hurried down to the shore, to receive and
protect the terrorized fugitives. Soon all were safe within the walls;
but still the hubbub continued. Hundreds crowded around the survivors,
to hear the story of their dreadful experience. General Harrison called
one of the surviving officers into his tent, and there learned the
particulars of the ambuscade and awful slaughter.

Colonel Dudley had been tomahawked; many of the officers were dead. And
of the gallant eight hundred less than one-fourth had escaped. It was not
war; it was butchery—annihilation!

Joe Farley and Bright Wing moved among the survivors, and eagerly scanned
each face. But the man they sought was not there. Suddenly the Wyandot
uttered a grunt of surprise and exclaimed:

“Dog Duke!”

“Where?” Farley demanded sharply.

Ere the redman could make reply, the hound saw them and bounded toward
them. Dropping upon the ground at their feet, he tragically rolled his
blood-rimmed eyes and whined beseechingly. His coat was soiled and
roughened, and his muzzle was smeared with blood.

“He’s been in the scrimmage, as sure’s you live!” was Joe’s muttered
comment. “You can see that, Injin. Look at his nose—all stained with
blood. He’s give some ’tarnal Shawnee ’r other red devil his final
sickness—he has, by Caroline! But if he’s here, his master _must_ be
here. I never knowed ’em to be far apart, if they could help it. Le’s
look ag’in.”

They renewed their search, the dog following them, panting and whining.
But they did not find their friend. Joe made numerous inquiries. All the
answer he received from anyone was a sad shake of the head. Discouraged
at last, he murmured sadly:

“’Tain’t no use, Injin. Ross Douglas is among the missin’. An’ in this
case, that means he’s dead; ’cause the whole thing’s been a reg’lar
butcher’s job. I wish the dang Winnebagoes had killed me when they had
the notion—I do, by Kizzier! I’m sorry I ever lived to see this day. Jest
found him to lose him ag’in—an’ ferever. We made an awful mistake, Injin;
we ort to ’ave stayed with him, ’stid o’ comin’ back here with Cap’n
Oliver.”

Bright Wing nodded sadly.

“Duke, you’re a pow’rful smart animal, in more ways ’n one. I wish to
glory I could make you understand what I want to know. Wher’s y’r master,
purp? Wher’s Ross Douglas?”

The hound lifted his nose and howled dolefully.

“Jest as I thought—jest as I ’xpected!” Farley said chokingly. “He’s
dead. That’s what you mean, ain’t it, purp?”

Duke, as if in reply to the question, started toward the gate he had
entered, casting backward glances over his shoulder as he went.

“Le’s foller him an’ see what he wants,” Joe whispered. “The poor brute’s
’bout as near crazy as we are.”

On reaching the gate, the dog scratched upon it, telling as well as he
could that he desired them to follow him without the walls.

“Poor critter!” Farley said feelingly. “You want us to go with you an’
hunt y’r master, don’t you, purp?”

Duke bayed loudly, and scratched the earth in a frenzy of delight at
being understood.

“Ugh! Duke him want find master,” Bright Wing observed sagely.

Again the dumb brute manifested his joy.

“’Tain’t no use, purp!” Joe sobbed softly, stooping and patting the dog’s
head. “If y’r master’s over in them woods, he’s dead—’r a pris’ner, which
is a dang sight worse. If he’s dead, we can’t do him no good; an’ if he’s
a pris’ner, we hain’t no chance o’ rescuin’ him this time. The redskins
is buzzin’ ’round over there thicker’n flies ’round a dead carcass.
’Tain’t no use, purp! We’ll keep you—me an’ the Injin will—an’ treat you
well, fer y’r own sake an’ y’r master’s. But he’s gone—an’ we can’t bring
him back. Dodrot war, anyhow! It’s an awful—awful thing!”

The homely face underwent a spasm, and the pale eyes were wet.

Regaining control of himself, he continued musingly:

“Yit I may be wrong; I was wrong once before, when I saw him dyin’ with
my own eyes. He was jest wounded that time—an’ that may be the trouble
now. He may be layin’ over there in the woods, lollin’ his parched tongue
an’ moanin’ fer a drink o’ water. Dogs knows a heap; an’ this purp is
tryin’ hard to tell us somethin’. Dang-it-all-to-dingnation! Why _can’t_
a dog talk?”

Then to the Wyandot:

“Injin, I say we’d better take the dog an’ go over there an’ look fer
Ross Douglas.”

“Ugh!” assented Bright Wing, explosively.

At the same time he shouldered his gun, thus intimating that he was ready
to start.

“Well,” Farley continued, “we’ll have to git a permit from somebody,
I s’pose; that’s ’cordin’ to army rules. If we don’t, they may take a
notion to shoot us fer deserters, ’r fer disobeyin’ orders ’r somethin’.
I don’t know much ’bout such things—an’ I don’t want to. Howsomever,
we’ll jest go to Ol’ Tippecanoe, like we done before, an’ git his
p’rmission. Come on, le’s not waste a minute. It’s noon now.”

A few quick steps brought them to the entrance of the commander’s tent.
The place was swarming with officers. Around the door was a noisy throng
of excited subalterns and privates. Joe and Bright Wing elbowed their way
through the mass and gained the doorway, Duke closely following them.

Just within, were two orderlies on guard. Without so much as a nod,
Farley crowded between them.

“Stop! You can’t come in here,” one of the orderlies cried sternly,
seizing the woodman by the arm.

“But I _am_ in,” Farley replied, a broad grin puckering his cheeks.

“Go out instantly!” blustered the orderly, as he whirled the intruder
around and shoved him toward the door.

Farley’s ire rose rapidly—reached fever heat in an instant.

“Take y’r hands off o’ me, an’ git out o’ my road, ’r I’ll break ev’ry
bone in y’r slim, little body!” he growled savagely.

The other orderly came to his comrade’s assistance. The two threw
themselves upon the angular giant and sought to eject him from the place.
Bright Wing’s hand flew to the heavy hatchet in his belt—a weapon he had
picked up since his arrival at the fort. Duke crouched for a spring and
growled sullenly. But Farley needed no help. His heavy fist shot out; and
one of the soldiers dropped to the ground. Quickly turning upon the other
and catching him by the collar, Joe threw him half-way across the tent.
Then the enraged woodman bellowed hoarsely:

“Take that, you cowardly, little whippersnappers! Jump onto a feller, two
at a time, will you? I’ll learn you better manners—I will, by the Queen
o’ Sheby! Come on ag’in, if you want to—I can trounce a _dozen_ like you!
I come in here to see Ol’ Tippecanoe; an’ I’m a-goin’ to see him, ’r die
a-tryin’. If you two whinin’ babies gits in my road ag’in, I’ll pin back
y’r ears an’ swaller you—I will, by Mary Magdalene!”

“What’s the matter there?” rang out in clear, even tones.

And General Harrison, rising to his feet, looked toward the scene of
disturbance.

“These men have forced their way in here, and we are trying to put them
out,” explained one of the orderlies, who stood brushing his soiled
uniform and feelingly rubbing his bruised face.

“Who are they?” the commander impatiently inquired.

“I don’t know, General——”

Farley strode forward and interrupted:

“Gener’l Harrison, you ort to know us, whether you do ’r not. Me an’ the
Injin was with you at Tippecanoe—the dog was, too, fer that matter.”

“Ah! You were with me at Tippecanoe?”

“Yes, Gener’l, we was there—an’ right in the hottest o’ the scrimmage.”

“Your names?”

“Joseph Peregoy Farley an’ Bright Wing, the Wyandot. I whacked bulls fer
you, clean from Fort Harrison to the Prophet’s Town; an’ the Injin an’
the houn’ scouted with Ross Douglas. Ding-it-all-to——”

Joe’s voice was drowned by an explosive roar of laughter from the
assembled officers. Even the dignified commander smiled; and the two
orderlies grinned in a sickly manner. When quiet was restored, Harrison
said quickly:

“Your names sound familiar. Who was it with whom your red comrade
scouted?”

“Ross Douglas.”

“Ah!”—With animation.—“I remember you well now. You are the two men who
went to his rescue, after he was captured by the Prophet’s band.”

“We are, Gener’l; an’ we’ve come to ask y’r p’rmission to go to his help
ag’in.”

“Explain.”

Farley did so—in his loquacious, rambling way. Deep silence reigned in
the tent, as the simple-minded fellow told his moving tale and begged to
be allowed to go to the aid of his friend. When he had finished, tears
were in many eyes.

“To whose command do you belong?” Harrison inquired in tremulous tones.

“We don’t belong to nobody’s command,” was the prompt reply. “We jest
got away from the dang Winnebagoes—after bein’ pris’ners a year an’ a
half—an’ come here. We hain’t ’nlisted yit. All the duty we’ve done was
to go with Cap’n Oliver, to meet Gener’l Clay.”

“You were Captain Oliver’s guides?”

“We were, Gener’l.”

“You’re brave and true men,” the commander said kindly. “You’ve not
hesitated to risk your liberty and your lives in the service of your
country—not once, but many times. I appreciate your patriotism and your
devotion to your friend. I’m very sorry to know he was in that—that
dreadful fight across the river. But I can’t grant you permission to
throw away your lives to no purpose. If your friend be dead, you can be
of no service to him; if he be wounded or a prisoner, he has been removed
to the British encampment, ere this. You can’t aid him. If he be alive,
he will be exchanged in due time. Now I must bid you good-morning—I’m
very busy. But, believe me, I sympathize with you more than you know.
I remember your friend, and grieve to know that such misfortune has
befallen him. Good morning.”

Farley and Bright Wing shook hands with the commander and quietly
withdrew, followed by the pitying glances of the officers.

On reaching the open air, Joe heaved a deep sigh and remarked:

“Well, that settles it, Injin; we can’t go. An’ I wouldn’t wonder Ol’
Tippecanoe’s right, after all. We’d only lose our scalps by goin’—an’ do
no good. The Gener’l used us mighty kind, anyhow.”

“Ugh!” rumbled up from the Wyandot’s deep chest. “Tippecanoe him all much
good heart—no bad.”

“Well,” Farley sighed in return, “as I said before, all we can do is to
wait an’ watch, an’ hope an’ pray. Le’s go an’ hunt somethin’ to eat. I’m
pow’rful hungry; an’ the purp must be ’bout starved. This life’s a kind
o’ tangled snarl anyhow—it is, ’r my name ain’t Joe Farley!”

On all sides the battle was ended. The heavy guns had ceased to belch
flame; the querulous voices of the rifles were silent. The powder smoke
had lifted and disappeared; the groans of the wounded and dying no longer
fell upon the ear. The sun shone brightly; and the birds in the adjacent
forest sang gleefully.

Shortly after noon, a small boat was seen crossing the river. In the
stern sat a British officer bearing a flag of truce. One of General
Harrison’s aides met him at the landing, and inquired:

“Who are you, and why do you come?”

“I’m Major Chambers of his Majesty’s service,” was the reply; “and I’m
sent by General Proctor, to demand the surrender of this fort.”

“You’ll have your labor for your pains,” answered the aide. “However,
I’ll blindfold you and conduct you to General Harrison.”

Ushered into the American commander’s presence, Major Chambers said:

“General Proctor has directed me to demand the surrender of this post. He
wishes to spare the effusion of blood.”

General Harrison smiled blandly, as he replied:

“The demand under present circumstances is most extraordinary. As General
Proctor didn’t send me a summons to surrender, on his first arrival, I
had supposed that he believed me determined to do my duty. His present
message indicates an opinion of me that I’m at a loss to account for.”

Major Chambers’ face flushed as he hastened to say:

“General Proctor could never think of saying anything to wound your
feelings, sir. The character of General Harrison, as an officer, is well
known. General Proctor’s force is very respectable, and there is with him
a larger body of Indians than has ever before been embodied.”

General Harrison drew himself stiffly erect. His keen eyes flashed as he
answered:

“I believe I have a very correct idea of General Proctor’s force; and it
is not such as to create the least apprehension for the result of the
contest, whatever shape he may be pleased hereafter to give to it. Assure
the General, however, that he will never have this post surrendered to
him, upon any terms. Should it fall into his hands, it will be in a
manner calculated to do him more honor, and give him larger claims upon
the gratitude of his government, than any capitulation could possibly do.”

Major Chambers did not push the matter further, but, after an arrangement
for an exchange of prisoners had been made, bowed and withdrew.

The afternoon passed quietly; hostilities were not renewed. No further
communication was held between the opposing forces; and at nightfall
Bright Wing and Farley had heard nothing of their absent friend.

[Illustration]




CHAPTER XVII.


When Colonel Dudley disembarked his men upon the northern bank of the
Maumee, Ross Douglas was among them. It was he who led the way toward the
British batteries—his faithful four-footed friend at his side.

When the charge was ordered, he was among the officers who headed the
attacking columns, and his gun was among the first discharged. With a
cheer, he clubbed his empty rifle and helped to put the English gunners
to rout. It was an easy victory; the startled and terrorized artillerymen
did not wait to fire a gun, but precipitately retreated toward their
encampment down the river.

As soon as he saw the British in full flight and the Americans possessed
of the batteries, Ross called Duke to him and seated himself upon a
gun-carriage. He felt that the fight was over; and he was ready—as soon
as the cannon should be spiked—to return to the boats and cross over to
the fort.

At that moment, victory was with Colonel Dudley and his men. But—as
has been explained—the savages concealed in the woods commenced to
pour a withering fusillade into the ranks of the militia occupying the
open ground surrounding the batteries. Dudley should have effected
the purpose for which he had come and immediately re-embarked; but he
hesitated—and was lost. The impulsive Kentuckians grew restless under
the hot fire, and, without waiting for orders, began an impetuous
and disorderly advance upon their hidden foes. Their officers sought
to restrain them, but in vain. They had tasted victory, and were
intoxicated. With cheers of exultation and yells of defiance, they broke
the leash of discipline and madly charged the enemy.

Knowing well what the inevitable outcome of the rash attack would be,
Douglas leaped to his feet, hastened to Colonel Dudley’s side, and
shouted vehemently:

“For heaven’s sake, call a retreat, Colonel! Your men will fall into an
ambush and be cut to pieces. It’s an old trick—as old as Indian warfare.
Act—act at once!”

Ross’s face was flushed; his eyes were shining. The commanding officer
smiled pityingly, as he said:

“You’re exciting yourself over nothing, young man. It is a mere skirmish
with the savages; there will be no general engagement. As soon as my men
have driven the enemy into the depths of the forest, they will return of
their own accord.”

Douglas turned pale with suppressed fury.

“I tell you it’s an ambush, Colonel Dudley!” he exclaimed. “Recall your
men, if you would not see them annihilated!”

Dudley returned coldly:

“My youthful guide, I don’t need your advice. _I_ am in command——”

He broke off suddenly and, fixing his eyes upon the edge of the forest
where the militiamen were fast disappearing, he muttered:

“They are making a concerted charge. I fear myself they may venture too
far and be drawn into a trap. I’ll order a retreat immediately.”

He hurried away to put his tardy resolve into execution. But it was too
late; the mischief was done. Elated with the success of their first
encounter, the Kentuckians refused to obey the command to retire to the
boats. Colonel Dudley stormed and fumed; inferior officers threatened
and swore. It availed nothing. The regiment had lost all discipline—had
become an enraged mob. Like a mad steed, it took the bit and dashed
forward to destruction.

Douglas hurried from one place to another, warning the men of the
ambuscade into which they were pushing, and beseeching them to return to
the boats while there was yet time. His words fell upon deaf ears. Seeing
at last that his countrymen had lost all reason—were drunk on the wine
of success—he forced his way to the front, and fought like a demon. Duke
kept at his master’s side. Man and dog were in the thick of the fray.
The hound’s hoarse growl of rage sent terror to the heart of more than
one dusky brave, and his gleaming fangs cut short more than one exultant
war-whoop. Ross loaded and fired his gun with a speed and accuracy born
of years of practice. The smoke of battle was in his nostrils; the lust
of slaughter was in his brain. The savages slowly retreated until they
reached a place suited to their tactics. There they promptly rallied
and sought to outflank the Americans. The battle raged furiously on all
sides. British re-enforcements arrived upon the scene. Retreat became an
impossibility.

Douglas became separated from his comrades—but he fought on. His
ammunition exhausted, he clubbed his rifle and dealt blow after blow at
the heads of his red assailants. He felt his strength gradually failing,
but he set his teeth and grimly resolved to die fighting. His faithful
dog was no longer at his side; he was alone with his enemies. And death
was leering at him—face to face.

“Fleet Foot! Fleet Foot! Kill him! Kill him!”

The words reached the young man’s ears. Instantly he understood why he
had been singled out from his companions, why so many red fiends beset
him. Among his foes, were the warriors who had tried to take his life
at the Miami village upon the Mississinewa. The knowledge maddened
him—renewed his energies. He resolved they should not have the pleasure
of taking him captive—of torturing him. Dropping his gun, he drew his
knife, meaning to resist as long as breath and blood were his. But at
that moment the tide of battle surged toward him—around him; and his
assailants were swept aside.

He drew a deep breath and looked around. The American columns were
broken—scattered. The attacking army had become a fleeing rabble, in
which each man was seeking his own safety. Realizing that the battle was
lost, that there was no hope of rallying the flying militiamen, Ross
groaned aloud:

“My God! What a defeat—what a disgrace!”

Then he picked up his rifle and set out after the fugitives. Scarcely had
he taken ten steps, however, when clamorous yells assailed his ears and
he saw that his escape toward the river was cut off by his old enemies.
Quickly he whirled about and ran at full speed in the opposite direction,
not heeding nor caring whither his course would take him. For a time he
heard the heavy breathing and panted ejaculations of his pursuers. But
gradually those sounds died out. Then all was silence—he was alone in the
deep woods.

He dropped upon the ground and gasped for breath. His brain swam; his
throat was on fire. Red and green lights flashed before his eyes; and
rills of sweat trickled down his powder-stained face. He had received a
knife thrust in the right arm and a tomahawk cut in the left shoulder.
These superficial wounds had bled freely and saturated his hunting-shirt.
He was completely exhausted.

For several minutes, he lay breathing hard and listening for the
footfalls of his pursuers. But the stillness was broken only by his own
labored respiration and the querulous twitter of birds among the boughs
above him. He began to recover his wind. His limbs ceased to tremble; he
felt his strength returning. But his thirst was tormenting; he must have
water. With some difficulty he got upon his feet and looked about him.
The dense, leafless wood stretched away on all sides as far as he could
see. Near him was a pool of dark-colored water—stained with the ooze of
the forest. It was warm and mawkish; but he drank of it with avidity.

“There!” he panted, “I feel much better. Now I must find a hiding-place;
the woods is swarming with my foes. When night comes I’ll make my way to
the shore, swim the river, and attempt to gain the fort. What an awful
day’s work this has been—hundreds dead, hundreds captured!”

Then, after a pause:

“But I must get my bearings. Let me see. Where’s the sun? I’m far back of
the battle-ground, and farther down the river. Fort Miami lies between me
and Fort Meigs. I’ll bear to the right of it, and strike the stream at a
point between the scene of to-day’s battle and the British encampment.
But I must hide until nightfall—it wouldn’t be safe to make the attempt
sooner. Well, I’m more fortunate than most of my rash comrades; I’m yet
alive and free. My wounds pain me some, but they’re not of a serious
character. If I had something to eat, I should be all right. I wonder
what has become of Duke. Faithful old fellow! No doubt he has been
killed; else he would be at my side. No,——”—Reflectively,—“he may have
escaped and made his way to Fort Meigs, with the few survivors. With the
smell of blood in his nostrils, he wouldn’t be able to follow my trail.
Well, I’ll hide myself and rest until dark. Then for Fort Meigs and
safety!”

Concealing his trail as well as he could, he pushed farther into the
woods, leaving the river behind him. At last he lay down by a log and,
hugging his empty rifle to his breast, fell asleep. When he awoke, the
sun was setting and the forest was aflame with rosy light. Arising, he
stretched his stiffened limbs and carefully examined his wounds.

“Mere scratches,” he muttered. “But I’m weak from fasting and loss
of blood. Then, too, I have no arms but an empty gun and a knife. I
shouldn’t like to encounter a score of savages just now.”—And he smiled
grimly.—“But it’ll soon be dark. I’ll move toward the river.”

Shouldering his rifle, he set out, walking briskly in spite of pain and
weakness. The sun went down; the rosy light began to pale and fade. At
last he stopped suddenly.

“I’m nearing the river. Perhaps I’d better wait until it’s darker. But
then I’m afraid I should run into danger without seeing it. What’s best?
Ah!”

He uttered the exclamation with vexation and disappointment, and sprang
behind a tree. In the dusky twilight he perceived a cloaked figure
moving toward him. Loosening the knife in his belt, he softly placed
his gun against the tree trunk and peeped from his place of concealment.
The obscure figure was coming on, slowly, hesitatingly. Its cautious
footfalls fell upon his ear. He drew his knife and panted with suppressed
excitement. Nearer and nearer to his hiding-place, the figure drew, its
head bent low over a bundle it carried in its arms.

Douglas breathed hard and, gripping his knife firmly, held it ready for
instant use. Then he made the discovery that the approaching personage
was a woman—an Indian squaw, probably. For a moment he debated what he
should do. Could he kill a defenseless female, even to assure his own
safety? His soul sickened at the thought. Quickly he determined on a more
humane course of action. He would confront the squaw. Should she seek to
give an alarm, he would seize and overpower her. Then he would choke her
into silence and carry her from the spot.

Acting upon this resolve, he boldly stepped from his place of concealment
and coughed to attract the woman’s attention. Flinging up her head, she
uttered a half-suppressed scream and turned to flee. Ross sprang forward
and threw his arms around her. She struggled to escape, but did not cry
out.

The cloak fell from her shoulders. In the dim twilight he saw that she
was a white woman, and that she held a small child in her arms. Instantly
releasing her, he stammered:

“My good woman, I beg a thousand pardons. In the gloom I mistook you for
a squaw, and, fearing that you might raise an alarm——”

He broke off and recoiled a step, a sharp exclamation upon his lips. The
woman had lifted a wan face to his; and by the tremulous light of the
dying twilight, he had recognized her.

“Amy!” he gasped.

“Ross!” she whispered hoarsely, leaning against a tree for support and
closely hugging the child to her breast.

A short time they stood there without uttering another word, each staring
wildly at the other’s shadowy form and features—each hearing the other’s
labored breathing. Ross was the first to regain the power of speech.

“What are you doing here?” he asked in a strange, altered voice.

“Trying to escape from a bondage worse than death!” she replied in hard,
bitter tones in which there was no hint of tears.

“You—you’ve been a prisoner among the Indians?” he inquired in kinder
accents.

“Yes; but that isn’t what I mean,” she answered in a hopeless voice.

Again both were silent. The baby in her arms commenced to fret. She
soothed and patted it to sleep—softly, sadly crooning to it. By this
time, the lingering twilight had faded out; it was quite dark in the
forest. Advancing to her side, Douglas laid his hand upon her arm and
began:

“Amy Larkin——”

“Amy Hilliard!” she interrupted shrilly.

He drew back as though a venomous insect had stung him. Her voice grated
harshly upon his nerves. To his overwrought imagination, she seemed a
lost soul mocking at its own misery. Taking her by the arm, he remarked
quietly:

“You’re tired. There’s no use in your standing. Seat yourself upon this
log.”

Silently she obeyed, trembling in every limb. Picking up her cloak,
he placed it around her shoulders. His act of kindness softened her
feelings; and her voice was tremulous as she said simply:

“Thank you!”

He stood looking down upon her, conflicting thoughts and emotions rioting
in his brain. At last he murmured huskily:

“And you are Amy Larkin no longer—you are Amy Hilliard.”

“Yes, I’m Amy Hilliard.”—Her voice again hard and bitter.—“I must bear
the hated name to my grave.”

“You are George Hilliard’s wife.”

“I am.”

Her words were scarcely audible.

“And the child?”

“Is mine.”

“And his?”

“Yes. I—am—his—wife; this—is—our—child!”

Each word fell separately, like a ringing brazen coin. Then she screamed
excitedly:

“But my innocent child shall never blush for its father—it shall never
know him! I hate him—I loathe him! The brute—the coward—the murderer! Oh!
that I had never seen him——”

“Sh!” he cautioned. “You’re talking too loud. Remember we are surrounded
by sharp-eared, lynx-eyed enemies. Where were you going—what were you
trying to do, when I met you?”

“Trying to escape,” she panted in a strident whisper.

“Softly!” he again cautioned. “From whom were you trying to escape?”

“From my captors, the Indians at Fort Miami—and from George Hilliard.”

“I can’t understand,” he replied wonderingly. “Is your—your husband among
the British, at their encampment just below here?”

“Yes.”

“Then you and the child must return to him,” Ross answered firmly,
decidedly.

“Never!” she hissed through her set teeth. “We’ll find a grave in the
river first. I hate him, I tell you—I despise and loathe him!”—Then
pleadingly: “Oh, Ross Douglas! If one spark of the old love for me yet
burns in your bosom, save me—save me!”

“But what can I do?” he asked in perplexity. “You are _his_ wife—the
child is his——”

“Save me!” she interrupted. “I’m trying to reach the fort across
the river. You belong there—I know you do. Take me and my baby with
you—_please_ do!”

“But I cannot, Amy,” he replied chokingly. “You are another man’s wife; I
must not steal you away from him. Then, the fort is closely invested; I
don’t know that I shall be able to reach it myself—alone and unhampered.
My gun is empty—I am practically unarmed. I’m weak from loss of blood,
fasting, and excessive exertion. No, I can’t take you with me; the risk
is too great. You must return to Fort Miami——”

“That I will never do!” she answered determinedly. “If you leave me here,
I’ll drown myself and my babe in the river. Better a thousand miserable
deaths than again to fall into that man’s power!”

Douglas strode up and down in front of her.

“What am I to do?” he asked himself. “How perverse is fate! I have found
her at last—but lost her forever. Poor girl! She is innocent; she was
forced into the hateful marriage, no doubt. But I cannot love another’s
wife. If I abandon her, she will destroy herself and her child. She means
what she says. If I take them with me, I shall risk their lives and my
own. And Fort Meigs is no place for her. It may fall into the hands of
the British. In that case, the savages will massacre every person within
the walls. I must do one of two things—take her with me or——”

Stopping suddenly, he faced his companion and said in earnest tones:

“I’ve decided to take you and your child with me—to attempt to conduct
you to Fort Meigs, in safety. I must leave you for a short time, however,
to try to find some way of crossing the river. Remain here quietly until
I return for you. I’ll be gone but a few minutes.”

“Ross,” she faltered, “you—you will not desert me——”

“Amy,” he cried in a sharp whisper, “did I ever desert you—ever deceive
you?”

Bursting into tears, she buried her face in the folds of the shawl that
enveloped her child, and moaned brokenly:

“No—no! You were always true—always——”

He left her softly sobbing, and made his way toward the river. Every few
yards he stopped, peered into the surrounding darkness, and listened
intently. But he saw or heard nothing of an alarming nature. Presently
he emerged from the gloomy woods and stood upon the sloping bank of the
stream. Above him, the black vault was studded with stars; beneath him,
the dark water was softly lapping upon the sandy beach. Down the stream,
he discovered the flaring fires of the British encampment; and up the
river—and on the opposite side—the twinkling lights of Fort Meigs. The
confused, indistinct murmur of voices in the distance was borne upon the
evening breeze. Then a dog’s deep, mournful bay fell upon the listener’s
ear.

“Duke!” he muttered. “He has escaped the general carnage—he’s at the
fort. Farley and Bright Wing will care for him, if I lose my life.”

Cautiously he began a search along the shore, for some means of crossing
the stream. The soft dip of a paddle came to his ear. Silently retreating
to some overhanging bushes, he waited, watched, and listened. The sound
of the paddle became more and more distinct. Out of the shadows, emerged
a small craft containing a single occupant. It rapidly approached the
place where Douglas stood. The young man drew his knife and, gently
parting the bushes, peered forth. The canoeman was a stalwart Indian.
The next moment, the light vessel grated upon the sands and the unwary
paddler sprang ashore. Hardly had his feet touched the earth, ere he sank
in his tracks, a corpse, with Douglas’s keen knife buried in his heart.

“It’s little short of murder,” muttered the young scout; “but there was
no alternative. One of us had to die.”

Quickly stooping, he rolled the body of his fallen foe into the river.
Drawing the canoe ashore and secreting it among the bushes, he rapidly
retraced his steps to Amy Hilliard and her child. He found her still
seated upon the log, her face buried in the folds of the baby’s shawl.
Touching her upon the shoulder, he said simply:

“I’ve found a boat. Come.”

Without a word, she arose. Picking up his empty gun, he led the way
toward the river. She kept close at his heels, panting with fear and
excitement. Like two silent specters, they threaded the intricate maze of
the forest. On reaching the edge of the wood, he remarked in a cautious
whisper:

“Now comes the most dangerous part of our journey. Whatever happens, you
must preserve perfect silence. Step carefully—a breaking twig may bring a
dozen warriors upon us. Keep close to me—and be ready to obey my orders.
If you see me drop to the ground, do likewise.”

She touched his arm, in token that she understood and would obey, but
said nothing. Down the bank, and through the tangled bushes along the
shore, they slowly made their way. Skillfully dragging the canoe from its
hiding-place and launching it, he breathed in her ear:

“Let me hold the child while you get in.”

“But it may cry,” she whispered in reply.

“True,” he answered. “Here—let me assist you. Seat yourself in the
bottom. That’s right.”—Then placing his rifle in the bow of the
craft.—“Now lay the baby in your lap, and take this paddle.”

“What do you mean?” she asked, alarm in her whispered tone.

“The vessel is too light to carry all of us,” he answered quietly, but
firmly. “You must paddle to the opposite shore. I’ll turn you around and
start you. Don’t lose your head—and you’ll land safely.”

“But you?” she inquired, almost inaudibly.

“I’ll swim after you. Off you go.”

Watching her until she disappeared in the darkness, he stealthily dropped
into the water and struck out in the wake of the frail boat. A few
minutes later he stood upon the other shore. His garments were dripping
and his teeth were chattering from the chill of the water. He looked
about him but saw nothing of the canoe or its occupants.

“Amy,” he called softly.

But he received no reply.

“Amy,” he repeated, a little louder than before.

Still no answer.

“What can have become of her?” he muttered in deep vexation and alarm.
“She should have landed near this point. Is it possible that the canoe
has capsized, or that other harm has befallen her? Ah! she may have lost
her paddle—she may be drifting with the current.”

He ran down the stream, peering into the gloom that overhung the water as
he went. But he saw nothing of her or of the boat. Many times he called
her name, as loudly as he dared. No answering voice came to him. At last
he turned and swiftly retraced his steps. He had just reached the point
where he had come ashore, when he discovered a dark object drifting a few
yards from the beach. It was an empty canoe. In it was his own gun, but
no sign of the woman or child.

“Lost—lost!” he groaned, wringing his hands. “Poor Amy!”—And the tears
trickled down his cheeks.—“She’s drowned—she and her baby are sleeping at
the bottom of the treacherous river.—No! There is no water in the canoe,
and my gun is where I placed it. The frail craft did _not_ capsize. Some
harm must have befallen her, just as she reached land—ere she could
secure the vessel.”

Snatching up his gun, he set off at full speed. He had gone but a short
distance, when he stopped and sharply caught his breath. A cloaked figure
was hurrying toward him. It was the woman he sought.

“Amy, it’s you—thank God!” he ejaculated fervently, as she reached his
side. “I’ve been searching for you. I discovered the drifting canoe and,
for a moment, thought you were drowned. Where have you been?”

She was greatly excited. Abject terror was in her voice, as she whispered
in reply:

“I have been hiding. I heard you calling me, but didn’t dare to answer.
Just as I stepped from the canoe, a number of Indians and a white man
came down the bank toward me. I quickly cast the boat adrift and hid
myself among some brush. There I lay quaking with fear, for—oh, God!
the white man was George Hilliard. They stood near me and talked of my
escape. They were searching for me. I could hear his hateful voice—could
hear every word he said. I almost smothered my baby; I was so afraid it
would cry and betray my presence. At last they left and went farther up
the stream. Then I heard you calling me, but was afraid to answer. Oh,
Ross—Ross! _Do_ save me from that man! If you find you cannot, kill me
and my baby—in God’s name, _do_!”

“There—there!” he said soothingly. “I’ll save you—I’ll get you to the
fort. Let me support you. You can hardly stand. Come.”

They scrambled up the bank and made a narrow detour to the left, to avoid
the party she had seen. A half hour later, Douglas had skillfully piloted
his companion through the savages encircling the fort, and was thundering
at one of the gates for admission.

[Illustration]




CHAPTER XVIII.


On gaining entrance to the fort, Ross placed Amy and her child in care
of some refugees, who occupied a large tent at the eastern end of the
inclosure, immediately behind the grand traverse, and went to hunt his
comrades. He found them at a camp-fire, around which a number of lolling
soldiers were talking and smoking.

Duke was the first to note the presence of his master; and, with a yelp
of joy, sprang to meet him. Bright Wing uttered a guttural exclamation,
which was smothered by Farley’s lusty shout:

“Ross Douglas—’r my name ain’t Joe Farley! Alive an’ a-livin’—but
wetter’n a drownded mus’rat an’ lookin’ paler ’n a piller-case!
Youngster, you’ve been in the dangedest scrimmage that ever was—anybody
can see that. How in the name o’ all the purty women in the universe, did
you ever git out o’ that yaller-jackets’ nest, an’ make y’r way here? Set
down an’ tell us all ’bout it.”

Douglas dropped upon the ground and, affectionately patting Duke’s head,
replied wearily:

“I’m thoroughly exhausted, Joe. Get me something to eat.”

“That’s it!” cried one of the soldiers. “Git y’r comrade somethin’ to
eat, Limber Tongue. He’s ’bout played out.”

“Dang-it-all-to-dingnation!” grumbled Joe. “I never did have no sense!
The idee o’ askin’ a man, who hain’t had a bite to eat sence last night
at this time, to set down an’ spin yarns. I’ve a notion to pull my
larripin’ tongue out by the roots—I have, by Molly! An’ you’ve got some
scratches, too, Ross Douglas; an’ wher’ you ain’t pale, you’re blacker’n
a nigger with powder smoke, an’ redder’n an Injin with blood. Set there
an’ rest an’ dry y’r duds. I’ll have you somethin’ in a jiffy, that’ll
make you feel better—I will, by ginger!”

Still muttering to himself, of his own shortcomings, Farley left the
group around the fire. When he returned a few minutes later, he cried
exultingly:

“A long an’ limber tongue may be a nuisance most o’ the time, but once in
a while it comes mighty handy. Jest now mine helped me to p’rsuade Ol’
Tippecanoe to divide his supper with you, Ross Douglas——”

“What!” Douglas interrupted sternly. “Surely, Joe, you didn’t go to the
commander and ask him for food for me.”

“Surely I did,” Farley replied coolly.

The soldiers burst into roars of laughter. Ross’s face flushed angrily.
But Farley continued naïvely:

“You see, it was jest like this. You had to have somethin’ to eat—an’ you
needed it quick. Well, our suppers was over—no chance fer you there. I
could ’ave gone to the commissary an’ got some _raw_ grub, but it would
’ave took time to cook it. In the meantime you was starvin’. So thinks I,
‘I’ll jest go to Ol’ Tippecanoe—I’m purty well acquainted with him by
this time, an’ he’s probably at supper—an’ ask him to divide his supper
with Ross Douglas.’ So that’s what I done. An’ here’s y’r grub—steamin’
hot an’ calkerlated to make you feel like a fightin’ cock.”

And with the words, Farley triumphantly spread the food upon the ground
before his exhausted friend.

“There’s hot coffee,” he said, “an’ hot pone, an’ hot meat. They’ll warm
up y’r in’ards an’ limber up y’r tongue. Fall to now—’fore the things
gits cold.”

Douglas required no urging. He was trembling with hunger and fatigue; he
felt as though he should faint, if he fasted much longer. With evident
satisfaction, Farley and Bright Wing silently watched him as he ate. Duke
rested his nose upon his master’s knee and, heaving a sigh of content,
drowsily closed his great eyes. The soldiers knocked the ashes from their
pipes and, one by one, curled up in their blankets and fell asleep. When
Ross had finished, he stretched his feet to the fire and, turning to
Farley, asked smilingly:

“What did General Harrison say when you made a demand upon him, for a
share of his supper for me?”

“Said it ’forded him great pleasure to do so—a pleasure ’xceeded only by
the pleasure he felt in knowin’ you was still alive an’ _able_ to eat.
Then he told me to say to you to call at his quarters, in the mornin’;
that he wanted to meet you ag’in, an’ that ther’ was a subject demandin’
your attention—’r words to that effect.”

A pleased expression rested upon Douglas’s powder-stained face, as he
said:

“And I shall be delighted to meet my old commander again. He’s one of
nature’s gentlemen.”

Then he dreamily stared into the red embers, and was silent.

“Look here!” Joe cried in a testy tone. “Don’t be goin’ back into the
past an’ dreamin’ ’bout things that can never be, Ross Douglas. Me an’
Bright Wing wants to hear ’bout how you sarcumvented the redskins an’ got
here to the fort. Don’t we, Injin?”

The Wyandot lifted his head from between his knees and answered:

“Ugh! Want know ’bout fight—heap much, all, everything.”

Douglas smiled wearily and began his narrative. As he proceeded with
his graphic description of the battle and the incidents and adventures
following it, his interested comrades drew closer to him and listened
with eager attention, to every word that fell from his lips. The
camp-fires died down; the garrison was wrapped in silence and darkness.
Nothing broke the stillness but Douglas’s whispered tones, the heavy
breathing of the sleeping soldiers, and the muffled footfalls of the
sentries pacing their beats about the walls. At last Ross closed his
recital, and yawningly remarked:

“I’ve told you all. Now let’s lie down to rest; my eyes are so heavy that
I can hardly keep them open.”

“An’ no wonder,” Farley murmured. “Ross, you’ve been through a heap
to-day—a dang sight! But jest let me ask you one question. Now you’ve
found ol’ Sam Larkin’s gal—an’ she’s a wife an’ a mother—what’re you
goin’ to do?”

“Save her from the brute who has ruined her life,” Douglas replied
fiercely.

“That’s all right,” Joe persisted. “But how’re you goin’ to do it?”

“I don’t know yet,” Douglas answered. “I’ve not learned what she desires.”

“Well, you can’t marry her, of course.”

“What nonsense you’re talking, Joe!” Ross cried sharply. “She’s the wife
of another. Let’s drop the subject.”

“Ugh! No Fleet Foot’s squaw—fat paleface’s squaw,” grunted Bright Wing
sagely.

“An’ Fleet Foot takes it mighty cool, too,” Farley muttered to himself.
“’Pears to me he’s thinkin’ a heap more ’bout the little red-headed
gal he _hain’t_ found, than he is ’bout this gal he _has_ found. But I
don’t blame him. Amy Larkin’s played him false—she wan’t forced into no
marriage. You can’t fool me on women folks. Hain’t I had the ’xperience,
I’d like to know? Oh, gosh, yes!”

The three rolled over upon the ground, and two of them were soon snoring
loudly. But Ross did not fall asleep so readily. For an hour or more,
he lay with closed lids thinking—thinking. At last, however, outraged
nature asserted itself.

Early the next morning, the young scout managed to procure enough water
to remove the stains of battle from his person. After he had washed
himself, dressed his slight wounds, and eaten his breakfast, he went to
call upon General Harrison.

The commander’s seamed visage was alight with genuine pleasure, as
he took Ross by the hand and led him to a seat. Closely scanning his
caller’s face, the old warrior remarked:

“Douglas, I’m delighted to see you—to again grasp your hand. I didn’t
know you were with General Clay’s command; that you were in yesterday’s
terrible battle”—the commander’s careworn features twitched—“until your
two old comrades came to me and asked permission to go to your aid.”

“Did they do that?” Ross quickly inquired.

“Yes, indeed. Didn’t they tell you?”

Douglas shook his head; tears were in his eyes.

“They’re loyal fellows,” Harrison continued feelingly; “they would give
their lives for you, at any time.”

“I know,” Douglas answered chokingly. “I’ve four good friends, at least,
General Harrison—yourself, my two old comrades, and my dog. I’ve had a
varied experience in the last eighteen months. I’ve endured much——”

“And all for your country’s sake,” the general interrupted. “You have
suffered mentally and physically.”

Douglas remained silent and Harrison continued:

“And the worst is not come. But we’ll go on to the glorious end.”

“Yes,” was the firm reply.

“Yes,” the commander went on, “all of us have made sacrifices for
home and country. But opposition will not appal us; defeat will not
discourage us. We are _Americans_. This exacting service, with its
suspense—its disappointments, is calculated to discourage and unnerve.
But, pshaw!”—with a light laugh—“of what am I talking? We’re American
patriots—we can stand _anything_.”

Then with animation:

“But I didn’t bring you here to talk of such things. During yesterday’s
sorties we took a number of prisoners—British regulars, Canadian
militiamen, and Indians. At present they’re confined in the blockhouses;
and among those in the blockhouse at the southeastern angle of the
fortification, is an old acquaintance of yours.”

“An acquaintance of mine?” Douglas remarked wonderingly.

“Yes—a man both of us have good reason to remember.”

“Ah! Who is it, General?”

“Hiram Bradford.”

Like one electrified, Douglas sprang erect—his lips apart, his cheeks
flushed.

“Hiram Bradford!” he ejaculated.

General Harrison nodded.

“And you have seen him, General?”

“I have.”

“Did he send for you?”

“No; I knew nothing of his capture, till I went among the prisoners,
yesterday evening. I recognized him instantly, although he has changed
much since the Tippecanoe campaign. Evidently he is not in good health.
He’s emaciated, and his hair is white as snow. But he’s the same cool,
self-reliant villain.”

Harrison uttered this last sentence, in a tone of intense and bitter
hatred. Ross Douglas winced. Instantly he realized what Bradford’s fate
was likely to be. But hiding his feelings as well as he could, the young
man inquired:

“Did you talk with him, General Harrison?”

“A little. I called him by name. He didn’t attempt to conceal his
identity. He asked about you; and when I informed him you were with
Colonel Dudley, in the battle across the river, and hadn’t returned to
the fort with the survivors, he groaned aloud. When he had recovered his
equanimity, he exacted from me a promise that, should you return, I would
send you to him. For some reason, Douglas, that scoundrel is interested
in your welfare—for some reason he likes you very much. His actions
toward you in the past, his agitation about your welfare yesterday, prove
it.”

For a moment Ross stood with downcast eyes and said nothing. Then
suddenly looking up, he inquired with a show of emotion:

“He didn’t ask for mercy at your hands, General?”

The general slowly shook his head, all the while keenly eyeing his
companion.

“Nor inquired as to his fate?”

“Not a word.”

“But he asked that I be sent to him, upon my return?”

General Harrison again nodded, and remarked:

“Here’s a pass that will admit you to his presence. When you have talked
with him, return to me.”

Douglas silently took the bit of paper extended to him, and turned to
leave the tent. At the door he paused and, looking back, said:

“General Harrison.”

“Well?”

“Will Hiram Bradford be exchanged?”

“He—will—not!”—slowly and distinctly.

“And his fate?”

“An ignominious death—probably! It all depends upon what a court-martial
may do.”

And General Harrison’s thin lips were firmly drawn; his brows, lowering.

Douglas again bowed, and quickly withdrew. On reaching the open air, he
took a deep breath and, lifting his eyes to the clouded heavens, moved
his lips as though in prayer. Then, at a brisk pace, he set out toward
the blockhouse where Bradford was confined. As he passed along, he
observed a number of children playing in front of a large tent.

“I must call upon Amy, first,” he thought; “she may be needing something.”

Gently pushing aside the children who crowded the doorway, he entered
the tent. Several families were quartered within. Bedding and cooking
utensils were scattered about promiscuously. Near the entrance sat a
plethoric matron industriously knitting. She looked up at Douglas’s
unannounced entrance and, chuckling asthmatically, remarked by way of
greeting:

“Come in.—But I don’t see how you got through the swarm o’ young’uns. As
the Britishers has quit the’r shootin’, we thought it ’ld be no harm to
let the little things go out an’ play. They was pinin’ fer fresh air, you
know. Say!—how long do you think it’ll be ’fore we can go back to our
cabins?”

“I have no idea,” Ross replied, pausing momentarily.

“You hain’t?”—in evident surprise.—“Hain’t you got somethin’ to do with
managin’ the war?”

Douglas shook his head.

“Well—well!” she continued. “I knowed you wasn’t an officer, ’xactly, fer
you don’t wear no uniform; but I thought you surely was a soldier o’ some
kind—such a trim young feller as _you_ be. Then you hain’t got nothin’ to
do with runnin’ the war?”

Ross smilingly disclaimed the honor.

“Oh!” the woman exclaimed suddenly, laughing until her fat sides shook
and she threatened to suffocate. “I know you _now_. You’re the feller
that fetched the poor young woman here, last night. You’ve got y’r face
washed—an’ I didn’t know you. They say you was in the fight ’cross
the river. Had a hard time of it, didn’t you? The young woman? She’s
over there on that pile o’ beddin’. She ain’t feelin’ re’l peart, this
mornin’.”

Douglas hurriedly passed onto the spot indicated. Amy lay upon an
improvised bed near the center of the tent. At his approach, she arose
to a sitting posture and smiled feebly. In the semi-twilight of the
interior, she looked wan and haggard. Her clothing was threadbare and
shabby; her brown hair, falling about her shoulders, was a tangled mass.
The corners of her mouth were sagged. Truly she was a wreck. Little of
her girlish beauty remained. Douglas looked upon her, and shuddered at
the awful change in her appearance.

Near the bedside sat a middle-aged woman, striving vainly to soothe Amy’s
fretful child. The emaciated, peevish baby was a miniature of its mother.
Its cry was weak and querulous. Apparently it was about six months old;
but it had the claw-like hands and mummified features of an old woman.
Yet Ross noted its resemblance to its mother.

Taking the thin, calloused hand extended toward him, he seated himself
and asked kindly:

“How are you feeling this morning, Amy?”

“Not very well. Baby’s cross—and my head aches.”—Then, after a slight
pause, she added gloomily:

“But I’m feeling as well as I ever expect to feel.”

“Don’t say that,” he remonstrated. “You’ll regain your health and
strength—and again be happy.”

Sadly shaking her head, she replied:

“I’ll regain my health and strength, I hope. I must do so for baby’s
sake; she needs my care and protection. But, for me, happiness is a thing
of the past.”

“Why do you say that?” he asked.

She turned away her face and made no reply. The woman holding the babe
arose and sauntered to another part of the tent.

“Why do you say that for you happiness is a thing of the past?” Douglas
pursued. “You are young, Amy—life is all before you——”

“Listen!” she interrupted. “I say there is no further happiness for me,
because my heart is broken—is dead within me.”

For some seconds both were silent, neither looking at the other. At last
he inquired:

“Where will you go when you leave here?”

“I don’t know—yet.”

There was a world of meaning in the last word. And as she uttered it, she
turned her hollow eyes full upon her questioner. Ross saw the soul-hunger
reflected in her face—and he started. Their eyes met. She dropped her
white lids, and the hot blood mantled her pale cheeks. An embarrassing
silence fell upon them. He was the first to speak.

“Amy,” he murmured softly, “I want to help you—I want to be kind to you——”

Passionately she caught his hand in both of hers, and whispered—all her
soul in her voice and manner:

“Ross—Ross! Listen to me! Say that you’ll take me away from here—to a
place where George Hilliard can never find us—where we can begin life
over and——”

The look in his eyes repelled her advances; and breaking off in the
middle of the sentence, she trembled and was silent.

Gently but firmly withdrawing his hand from her clinging clasp, he
said—almost sternly:

“Amy, what you have in mind can never be. I loved Amy Larkin tenderly and
truly. Amy Hilliard I have no _right_ to love!”

For a moment she stared at him, as though she did not comprehend. Then,
with a groan, she fell back upon the bed and, hiding her face, burst into
tears.

Ross was greatly moved. He pitied her sincerely; yet he felt that he had
done right in telling her the truth. Now he bent over her and whispered
soothingly:

“Do not weep. The past is forever past. For months, I was a wounded
prisoner among the savages. As soon as I could, I made my escape and
went back to Franklinton. But you were gone. No one knew of your
whereabouts—you had left no trail behind you. I went to your old home
in Pennsylvania. I was disappointed. At last I have found you. But you
are the wife of another. Of course you were forced into the hateful
marriage——”

She had been convulsively sobbing. Suddenly she snatched her hands from
her face and, springing erect, cried excitedly:

“Ross Douglas, I’ve been deceiving you. I hoped that you still loved
me—that I could win you back—that I still might be happy with you. That
hope is dead. I’ll deceive you with my silence, no longer. I’ll tell you
the truth—all—everything!”

For one fleeting second, she paused and hungrily searched his face, still
hoping to detect there some faint glimmer of the passion he had borne
her. His features were pale, but calm—impassive; his manner was keenly
expectant. Stifling a sob, she dashed the hot tears from her eyes and
proceeded hurriedly:

“When you left me at Franklinton and went to join General Harrison’s
army, I was piqued. I argued with my better self that you didn’t
love me, as you had professed, or you wouldn’t have left me. I felt
angry—spiteful. I wanted to do something to make you suffer. My father
and George Hilliard taunted me with your desertion. They said you had
been too ready to leave me—that you didn’t love me—that you wouldn’t
return. I listened to them—I half believed them. A month from the day of
your departure, I had convinced myself of your perfidy and had consented
to marry George Hilliard.”

She paused momentarily, to moisten her dry lips. Ross Douglas’s eyes were
shining with a strange, indefinable light. But he said nothing. Hastily
she resumed:

“Let me hurry over the events of my brief married life—I cannot bear
to recall them. I promised to marry George Hilliard, on condition that
my father should sell off everything and remove to a place where you
would never find me. For, in spite of all my reasoning, I felt guilty.
We disposed of our property and removed to Frenchtown, between here and
Detroit. On our arrival there, George Hilliard and I were married. Before
our marriage he had been very kind to me; humored me—spoiled me. But
scarcely was he my husband, ere his whole nature seemed to change. He
began to drink heavily, to curse me, to abuse me. Then I realized the sad
truth that I had married a drunken brute!”

For half a minute she could not proceed. When she had regained control of
herself, she said huskily:

“He was jealous. He accused me of still loving you. And—God help me!—I
couldn’t deny the accusation. He tormented me—he beat me. My father
remonstrated; and the two had many fierce quarrels. At last my child
was born—six months ago. A few days after, my husband demanded that my
father give him money with which to buy land. My father refused—and again
they quarreled. In a whirlwind of drunken rage, George Hilliard caught up
an axe and struck my father a blow that laid him dead upon the floor. I—I
saw it all, while lying helpless upon my bed!”

Once more she stopped in her recital. No sound broke the stillness of
the place, but the fretful cry of her child in another part of the tent.
Douglas’s jaws were set; his hands, clenched. With a fluttering sigh, Amy
continued:

“After he had murdered my father, George Hilliard took all the money
he could find and fled. For weeks I lay between life and death, hardly
realizing where I was or what had happened. The good people of the
settlement provided for my wants, and took care of me. Slowly I regained
something of my wonted strength. But I had no means of support; so, with
a number of others who were returning to the East, I set out for western
Pennsylvania, hoping to find a shelter among my father’s people. But
a short distance up the lake from here, our company was set upon by a
band of Indians, and we were taken prisoners and brought to the British
encampment. Among the savages who attacked our party was George Hilliard,
disguised as an Indian. He recognized me—of course. He mocked at my
misery, cuffed and kicked me, and threatened to kill my baby——”

Here her voice almost failed her. But she went on resolutely:

“I believe he would have done so, had it not been for an angel at the
encampment—I can’t call her anything else—a beautiful girl who shielded
me from his violence, and helped me to escape. Oh, how beautiful her face
was—but how sad! She had red-gold hair, and eyes of heaven’s own blue——”

Ross Douglas had arisen to his feet. Eagerly he asked:

“And her name—her name?”

Amy Hilliard keenly eyed her questioner, before replying. Presently she
said slowly:

“I heard my captors call her La Violette.”

Douglas, in spite of a strong effort to control himself, uttered an
exclamation of joyful surprise. His countenance was alight, his eyes were
shining.

“You know her?” Amy said, with lifted brows.

“Yes—I know her,” he replied cautiously. “Go on with your story.”

But she did not. Instead she inquired:

“How long have you known her?”

“Ever since I was a captive among the Indians,” he answered candidly.
“She nursed me when I was wounded; she helped me to escape.”

Her woman’s intuition enabled her to arrive at the truth at a bound.
Calmly she said:

“Ross, you love this beautiful girl—you love La Violette.”

He made no reply in words. But the hot blood crimsoned his tanned cheeks
and mounted to his white forehead. Then the tell-tale tide receded as
quickly as it had arisen; and again he was outwardly calm.

At that moment, the woman who had been caring for the baby approached the
mother and remarked:

“The little thing’s gone to sleep, at last. I see you’re feelin’
better,”—in a slightly sarcastic tone—“so I’ll let you take care of her
now, while I look after my own affairs.”

“I thank you for your kindness,” Amy murmured confusedly.

“You’re welcome,” the woman replied, with a slight toss of the head, and
turned and left.

“You love La Violette,” the young woman repeated, again fixing her gaze
upon Ross’s face.

“Yes, I love her, Amy,” he answered deliberately. “But I didn’t fully
realize the fact until this hour. She was very kind to me during my
captivity. She loved me—and I knew it. But I thought of you; and
blinded myself to her charms. I was true to you through it all—in
deed and in thought. As soon as I escaped, I returned to your home,
intending—desiring to make you my wife. You were gone. But still I
thought you true. I had no idea that you would marry George Hilliard, of
your own choice. I searched for you—longed for you. I loved you still—I
believed in your love for me. Yesterday I found you. I said to myself:
‘She has been forced into this marriage—she isn’t to blame. But she is
lost to me forever; I have no right to love her now.’ Then La Violette’s
face arose before me. And I knew that I loved her—that my love for
you was a thing of the past. Last night was the first time that I
acknowledged to myself that I loved La Violette. But I argued with myself
that you hadn’t been at fault, and that it would be cruel—heartless for
me to think of marrying La Violette, should I ever find her. In the
silent watches of the night—alone with my God—I resolved to give up
all quest for her, to remain faithful to my plighted troth. But this
morning——”

He broke off abruptly and looked her full in the eyes.

“Go on,” she whispered, with pale lips.

“But this morning you have told me your story; and——”

Again he stopped.

“Well?” she breathed faintly.

“_I—am—free!_”

Spasmodically hugging her baby to her breast, she sank back upon the bed
and turned her face from him. He saw that she was pale and trembling; and
he sincerely pitied her. Bending over her, he whispered gently:

“I’ll be your friend, Amy, as in the past. I’ll do all in my power to
find you a home, to make your future life comfortable and happy.”

She made no reply, by word or sign.

“I believe you said you had started to return to your relatives in
Pennsylvania?” he remarked.

She slightly inclined her head.

“Very well. When we can leave here, I’ll find you company and send you
thither. Now I must be going. Don’t think me cruel. I’m trying to be just
and merciful.”

A few moments later, he was without the tent. The heavens were thickly
clouded; the rain was falling drearily. A short time he stood with bared
head, unmindful of the buzz of human life around him. Then, sighing, he
took his way toward the place where Hiram Bradford was confined.

[Illustration]




CHAPTER XIX.


Douglas presented his pass to the guard at the corner blockhouse. The
soldier glanced at it and silently stepped aside. Ross entered the large
unfloored room and looked about him. The place was damp and gloomy; the
pent air was musty and offensive. A number of whites and Indians were
sprawling upon the bare ground. In one of the farther corners was a
solitary individual. Ross made his way toward him. By the murky light
that struggled in at the loopholes and crevices, the young man recognized
Hiram Bradford. At the same instant, the older man recognized the
newcomer and, arising to his feet, held out his hand, saying:

“Ross Douglas, I’m glad to see you. I’m overjoyed to know you escaped
death in yesterday’s battle.”

“I’m glad to meet you, Bradford,” Ross replied; “but I’m sorry to meet
you here.”

“I understand,” Bradford returned coolly. “Sit down. I’ve something of
importance to tell you.”

They seated themselves upon a puncheon bench that stood against the log
wall. Douglas noted the marked change in his companion’s appearance. The
older man’s hair was white as snow; his face, lean and cadaverous; his
figure, emaciated and bent. Noticing Ross’s commiserating look, Bradford
remarked:

“Yes, I’m changed, Douglas—greatly changed. An incurable malady is
rapidly sapping my vitality. I’ve but a short time to live—even if I
escape death at the hands of your commander, which I don’t expect. You
saw General Harrison before you came here?”

“I did.”

“Did he say what disposition would be made of me?”

“He—he said you wouldn’t be exchanged,” Ross stammered.

“It’s unnecessary to say more,” Bradford returned calmly. “He intends to
court-martial me—to have me shot as a spy and deserter. Well, according
to the usages of war, I deserve the fate. It’s best that I should die so.
It’s a fitting climax to a misspent life. I have but a short time to live
at best—a few days can make no difference. And a sudden, painless death
is to be preferred to one of lingering torture from a slow disease.”

Then, seeing the pained look upon Douglas’s face:

“Tut-tut, my boy! Don’t grieve over my fate. I tell you it is best that
I should die so. But I don’t care to talk of it; it’s just a little
_unwelcome_ to contemplate.”

Here he paused and smiled feebly. A lump rose in Ross’s throat; he could
say nothing in reply. Bradford asked quickly:

“Where have you been since you escaped from the village upon the
Mississinewa?”

Douglas found his voice, and told his companion of his wanderings and
adventures. When the younger man had finally finished, the older remarked:

“It was well that La Violette helped you to escape; otherwise, the
treacherous Indians would have killed you. When I returned to the
village and found you gone, I was furious; but La Violette explained the
situation to me—and I was satisfied. Immediately, I took the dear girl
with me and went to Canada. Then I instituted search for you. I sent a
messenger to your old home at Franklinton——”

“Why were you so anxious to find me, Bradford?” Ross could not refrain
from asking.

“Don’t interrupt me,” the other cried irritably. “I have much to tell
you. I mean to explain all, but I must do it in my own way. As I said,
I hunted for you far and near; but I couldn’t locate you. My health
was failing. I realized that I was affected with a fatal malady, and I
worried night and day—I feared I was to die without again seeing you.
Finally my business led me to this vicinity. I came not as a spy”—the
color mantled his pale cheeks, and the puckered scar flamed scarlet—“but
as a British commissary to look after the needs of Tecumseh’s warriors.
Yesterday I was captured; and here I am—doomed to an ignominious death.
But it doesn’t matter; I’ve found you—I can carry out my plans ere I
die.”

The husky voice was hardly audible.

For a few moments neither spoke. Mastering his emotion, Bradford asked
abruptly:

“Douglas, would you like to see La Violette?”

“Very much,” Ross replied promptly.

“Do you know where she is?”

“At the British encampment across the river.”

“Ah! You _do_ know. Did you see her there—did you meet her?”

“No; but I heard of her presence there, through another.”

“Ross Douglas, do you love La Violette?”

Anger blazed in the young man’s handsome countenance, and he replied
hotly:

“What is it to you, Hiram Bradford, whom I love?”

“Much more than you suspect, my boy,” was the cool rejoinder. “Answer my
question, please. Do you love La Violette?”

Douglas shut his fists and set his teeth. For a full minute, he sat and
glared at his audacious questioner. But Bradford did not quail. On the
contrary, he smiled and said with provoking coolness:

“I must have a positive answer from you. Do you, or do you not, love La
Violette?”

“Yes, I—love—her,” replied Ross through his shut teeth.

“You don’t know how happy I am to hear you say that!” the older man
exclaimed joyfully. “She loves you, my lad—you know that, as well as I.
Will you marry her?”

“You are carrying this thing too far, Bradford,” Douglas cried. “Why do
you meddle in my affairs—why have you done so in the past?”

“You want to know?” Bradford replied, his scarred countenance suddenly
losing its expression of mocking carelessness, and becoming grave.

“I want to know,” was the decided answer.

“Then prepare yourself for a disagreeable surprise,” Bradford said in a
husky whisper.

“I’m ready for anything,” Ross replied. “Go on.”

“Ross Douglas, _I—am—your—father_!”

With a hoarse cry—half-groan—the young man arose and staggered against
the rough wall. His face was colorless; his limbs were shaking; and he
threatened to sink to the ground.

Bradford quickly got upon his feet and, grasping his companion by the
shoulders, forced him to resume his seat, saying in bitter accents:

“Don’t let the disagreeable truth unman you. Sit down. I shall not
disgrace you long with my presence on earth.”

Ross sank upon the rude bench, murmuring brokenly:

“_You, my father!_ Hiram Bradford, the _spy_—the _deserter_—the British
_tool_, my _father_! _Oh, God!_”

Then both were silent. Douglas bowed his head upon his hands. Bradford
leaned back against the wall and panted. His face was deathlike. The red
scar upon his cheek was purplish. But he kept his keen eyes immovably
fixed upon the bowed form at his side.

At last Ross slowly lifted his head; and, extending his hand toward his
companion, whispered hoarsely:

“Forgive my hasty words. The—the surprise—the shock was almost more than
I could bear! For the moment I was dumbfounded—crazed.”

The older man eagerly grasped the proffered hand and replied in agitated
tones:

“I have nothing to forgive, my son. Would to God you could say as much!”

“You—are—my—father!” Ross muttered mechanically.

“I am John Douglas, your father,” was the convincing reply.

Each had partially regained control of his feelings. Now the son said
softly:

“Tell me all—_all_!”

There was intense bitterness in the father’s voice, as he answered:

“Yes, my boy, now I’ll tell you everything. The whole truth can’t make
you despise me more than you do already—than I despise myself. Are you
ready to listen patiently?”

Ross nodded; and his father proceeded:

“My real name is John Douglas; though for years I have borne the
_alias_—Hiram Bradford. I cruelly deserted your mother when you were an
infant. We loved each other, but we couldn’t agree. The fault was all my
own. Your mother was a sweet-tempered angel; I was a hot-headed brute.
In those days I drank heavily. I was unreasonable—abusive; but she meekly
bore with me. Her meekness only angered me. It maddened me to meet her
reproachful looks. At last I could stand it no longer. Like the base
knave that I was, I deserted her and you. I must have been possessed of a
devil—I can’t explain my actions otherwise. And the same devil has dogged
my footsteps through all the years.”

He paused and drew a sighing respiration, ere he continued:

“But let me hasten. What use to dwell upon my past mistakes and misdeeds?
I went to Canada and entered the service of the English government, as
an Indian agent. I partially reformed—I made money in abundance. But I
was unhappy; I wanted to return to your mother—to see you. At last I
could endure the torture no longer. I set out upon my return journey. All
the weary way, I pictured to myself how I should take your mother and
yourself in my arms and beg your forgiveness; but fate cheated me. I was
doomed to such black and bitter disappointment—to such poignant sorrow
as”—his voice faltered—“a remorseful conscience alone can know. I reached
the old home. Your mother was dead; you were gone. The neighbors informed
me that your uncle had taken you away—they knew not whither.”

Again he paused, as though expecting his listener to make some remark.
But Ross’s countenance remained stern and impassive. The father cleared
his throat and went on:

“I returned to Canada and resumed work for the British government. The
demon of perversity still followed me. I deserted the flag of my native
land, as I had deserted my wife and child. I became the Englishman’s
spy—his tool—his dog. But I didn’t forget you, my son. My business led me
among the Indians. From one end of the Northwest Territory to the other,
I searched for you; but I could gain no tidings of you. I thought you
dead, and gave up the fruitless quest. You know how I met you at last and
learned your name. It’s unnecessary to say more.”

“And La Violette?” Ross suggested.

“You wish to know her history?”

The son inclined his head.

“About seventeen years ago,” John Douglas resumed, “I was stationed at
Quebec. While there I made the acquaintance of a wealthy Englishman,
Charles Brownlee, in this manner: He had a beautiful wife, and a little
daughter one year old. One day the family was out driving, and their
horses became frightened and got beyond their driver’s control. I caught
the maddened animals, and, at the risk of my own life, brought them to
a stop, receiving this wound for my temerity”—pointing to the puckered
scar upon his cheek.—“Charles Brownlee became my fast friend. I visited
at his house. I learned to love and respect the parents and to worship
the angelic child. Also, I learned much of their family history. Charles
Brownlee had inherited his wealth from his grandfather. A cousin, who
felt that he had been wronged out of his rightful share of the estate,
came to Quebec to demand restitution. My friend refused to listen to the
claimant’s demands; and the disappointed and angry man left the house,
vowing vengeance. A week later, Charles Brownlee and his beautiful wife
died very suddenly. The murderous cousin had hired an unscrupulous
domestic to poison them. This was never proven, but I know whereof I
speak—for I have some knowledge of drugs, and I was in the house at the
time.”

The speaker stopped and wearily shifted his position.

“Go on—father,” Ross whispered, his face alight with interest.

The son hesitated at the paternal term, but resolutely used it. The
father’s drawn features relaxed into a happy smile, as he took up the
thread of his narrative.

“After the death of her parents,” he continued, “I stole away Charles
Brownlee’s little daughter, and hid her among the Shawnees. Her life
alone stood between the unprincipled relative and the estate he coveted;
and I felt that it was necessary to hide her from him. Tenskwatawa
adopted her. The tribe believed—and yet believes—her a gift from the
Great Spirit. The Prophet has loved her—has been kind to her. But
when I sought to take her from him, to send her to school, he was
exceedingly angry and threatened to have me killed. However, my will was
the stronger. I had my way, and sent her to a mission school in Quebec.
There she remained—securely hidden from the prying eyes of her relative’s
agents—for five or six years. At the end of the time, I restored her to
the care of the Shawnees. There you met her. She learned to love you; you
fell in love with her——”

“Have you told La Violette her life’s history?” Ross interrupted.

“Call her Violet Brownlee—that’s her English name,” the father answered.
“Yes, I have told her all.”

“Why—why do you wish me to marry her?” the son inquired hesitatingly.

“For this reason: You are my son; and I love you. I love her as a
daughter. Ever since I met you at the Prophet’s Town, I have felt you
should marry her. She loves you—she needs your protection. The murderer
of her parents still lives. He is in undisputed ownership of the
property. But he knows that she isn’t dead; and is anxiously awaiting
for her to put in an appearance and lay claim to the estate—that he may
dispose of her forever. I have in my possession documents that establish
her identity and her title to her father’s wealth——”

“Isn’t it for the sake of this same wealth that you wish me to marry
Violet Brownlee, Hiram Brad—father?” Ross asked haltingly, his face
flushing.

“Not at all,” John Douglas replied in a tone of deep sincerity. “I
have property and money—I’m wealthy. All I have is yours. I’ve never
enjoyed my riches—now it’s too late. In giving all to you, let me fondly
imagine that I’m making some slight atonement for what I’ve made you and
your mother suffer. You’ll find my deeds, mortgages, and other private
papers—including those pertaining to Violet and her inheritance—in this
leathern packet. I’ve carried it with me for months, hoping to meet you
and give it to you.”

With these words, the father drew from a pocket within his hunting-shirt
a large leather wallet, and extended it toward his son.

Silently Ross took the pocketbook and thrust it into his bosom.

“You’ll carry out my wishes,” the older man remarked quietly.

“If you don’t live to carry them out yourself, father,” Ross replied with
feeling, “I will see that Miss Brownlee gains possession of her own——”

“Please say that you’ll marry Violet, my son,” the father said pleadingly.

For a few minutes the younger man was silent—wrapped in deep thought.
Then he answered slowly and solemnly:

“If I find everything as you have stated—and she’ll consent to become my
wife—I’ll marry her.”

“Thank you—thank you!” John Douglas murmured huskily.

Then after a momentary pause:

“Now, let me tell you what you must do first. Under the protection of a
flag of truce, you must go to the British camp and bring Violet here.
Tell her I’m a prisoner and wish to see her—but don’t let her know that
I’m to die an ignominious death——”

His voice failed him. And covering his face, he wept silently.

“Don’t despair—don’t give way to grief,” Ross said kindly, at the same
time arising and laying his hand upon his father’s shoulder. “I’ll
intercede for you—I’ll do all in my power to save you.”

John Douglas, lifting his tear-wet face, whispered tremulously:

“You—you say you’ll try to save me?”

“I will,” Ross answered firmly.

“Then—then you don’t hate me—despise me?”

The son’s voice was thick with emotion, as he replied:

“No, father, I don’t hate you; neither do I love you. But I pity you—and
will use what little influence I have, in your behalf. I freely forgive
you all the wrong you have done me; but I can’t forget that you were
cruel to my mother—that you have been a traitor to your country. Still
you’ve been kind to me in many ways—you’ve had my welfare at heart. And
I’ve learned to like you. In time, perhaps——”

“Say no more!” the father cried, dashing the tears from his eyes. “I’m
more than satisfied. You don’t know how you have sweetened the bitter
draught that I must drink. Oh, Ross—my son! If only I could live my life
over——”

Again he broke down. Ross felt the hot tears upon his own cheeks.
Presently the father regained control of his emotions, and, rising, said
calmly:

“You spoke of interceding in my behalf. To whom will you go?”

“To General Harrison.”

“Don’t go. It will avail nothing.”

“I’ll make the trial,” was the decided reply. “This evening I’ll see you
again. Keep in good heart until I return. Good-by—father.”

Silently they shook hands and parted.

[Illustration]




CHAPTER XX.


The rain still fell; the wind still blew in fitful gusts. The canvas
walls of the officers’ tents swelled in and out, and cracked and popped
boisterously. In the shelter of the traverses, soldiers huddled together
and smoked in silence. The parade ground was deserted; and the sodden and
trampled earth, the dripping flags clinging closely to their staffs, and
the cloaked figures of the sentries stubbornly pacing their beats, gave
to the interior of the American fortification a gloomy and depressing
aspect.

Ross Douglas left the blockhouse, where he had found the father he
had never known, and at a rapid pace walked toward General Harrison’s
quarters. The young man’s countenance reflected his contending
emotions—the varied and exciting experiences through which he had gone.
He was glad he had learned La Violette’s history—but sorry he had heard
of his father’s misspent life; he rejoiced at the thought that the sweet
girl loved him, that he loved her, that she was to be his wife—yet he
grieved over his father’s impending fate. Then, also, he sincerely pitied
Amy Hilliard, and worried that La Violette was still among the British
and Indians. Indeed, his heart was torn and bleeding!

On reaching the commander’s tent, he pushed past the orderlies at the
door and stood in the General’s presence. He was preoccupied and did not
stop for ceremony, but said abruptly:

“General, I have seen Hiram Bradford, and have returned, as you ordered.”

Harrison was closely studying a map that lay spread out upon a rough
table before him. Without looking up, he made reply:

“And you found him much changed?”

“In many ways, General.”

The commander lifted his head and answered sharply:

“I noted no change in the scoundrel, except in his appearance. His health
is broken; but he is the same cool, unscrupulous, defiant knave.”

Ross winced, but sturdily returned:

“We didn’t observe alike, General Harrison. I found him in ill-health,
weak, repentant——”

The hero of Tippecanoe whirled about upon his stool. His rugged face
darkened ominously. A storm was brewing.

“My young friend,” he interrupted in hard, cold tones, “you talk as if
you came to plead his case.”

“I came to intercede in his behalf,” Ross replied calmly.

General Harrison sprang to his feet, his face black with rage.

“By heavens!” he cried. “You are——”

Then the grizzled warrior stopped suddenly. He bit his thin lips—and was
silent. At last he said quietly, but firmly:

“What I would say, young man, is this: It’s useless to ask me to show
clemency to Hiram Bradford—the spy, the deserter. I can’t blame you—I
_don’t_ blame you—for feeling sorry for him. He has befriended you—in a
way, perhaps. But you’re an _American_—you love your country. And you
mustn’t forget that this man is your _country’s_ bitter and avowed enemy.
That’s not all. During the Tippecanoe campaign, he entered my service as
a scout—he enlisted regularly. At that time, he was in the employ of the
English—was their spy. He plotted against my life—he deserted. I needn’t
tell you all this; you know it only too well. _You_ were the first to
arouse my suspicions. _You_ put me on my guard—and saved my life. After
your escape from the savages—at Franklinton, you remember—you told me
that Hiram Bradford had confessed all to you. As a spy, I should let him
go; for his scheme failed—and his attempt upon my life was in another
war. But a deserter once is a deserter forever;”—fiercely—“and the
penalty is _death_! To-morrow a preliminary court-martial will be held;
and you will appear as a witness against Hiram Bradford.”

Douglas dropped upon a stool, moaning:

“I can’t! Oh, God!—I _can’t_!”

His keen, mental agony was shown in his face. General Harrison was
surprised. Advancing, he laid a hand upon the young man’s shoulder and
said kindly:

“You mustn’t take the matter so to heart, my boy. Hiram Bradford
deserves to die. He shall have full justice; but no mercy will be shown
him, if proven guilty. I cannot fathom why you—a pure-minded patriot—are
so anxious to have a traitorous deserter escape merited punishment.”

“Let me tell you, General Harrison,” Ross cried, springing to his feet.
“Then do as you will. Hiram Bradford, the English spy—the American
deserter, is John Douglas—my _father_!”

Had a British shell exploded within the tent, General Harrison could not
have been more dumbfounded. He tried to speak, but failed. After staring
blankly at his companion for some time, he commenced to pace rapidly
up and down the room, clasping and unclasping his brown hands, in an
agitated manner. At last he stopped in front of Ross, and said calmly:

“Sit down and tell me all about it.”

A number of officers entered the tent, before the tale was concluded. The
commander paused long enough to say:—“Be seated, gentlemen; I shall be
through presently.”—And again he gave Douglas his attention. At last the
two arose. Taking Ross’s hand, the commander murmured:

“Circumstances change the aspect of many plain cases. Your father shall
not be tried for his crime; he shall go free. But the matter must forever
remain a secret between ourselves—even your trusty comrades mustn’t know.
This afternoon an officer and escort will bear a flag of truce to the
British camp, to complete arrangements for an exchange of prisoners. You
will take your father and accompany them. Bring the young woman back with
you; but leave your father there, with the injunction that he is to make
his way to Canada and never set foot upon American soil again. Wait a
moment—I’ll give you an order for his release.”

A quarter of an hour after, father and son issued from the blockhouse
together—and John Douglas was a free man. In the full light of the murky
day, he looked bent, worn, and feeble; and he kept close to his stalwart
son’s side, as though looking to him for guidance and protection.

Shortly after noon, the two joined the officer and escort, who were
setting out for the British encampment. On their way toward the eastern
gate of the fortification, they were joined by Farley, Bright Wing, and
the hound.

“Where’ve you been all the forenoon, Ross?” the old woodman demanded
in an injured tone. “Me an’ the Injin an’ dog’s been huntin’ you all
over the place. Duke nosed ’round, an’ said you was down at that
blockhouse”—pointing with the barrel of his gun.—“But me an’ the Injin
knowed that couldn’t be, ’cause ther’s pris’ners in there—an’ you
wouldn’t have no business with them. Then the houn’ took up a ’maginary
trail, and tracked you to Ol’ Tippecanoe’s tent. We knowed that was a
lie, too; ’cause we peeked in, an’ you wasn’t there. So we’ve kind o’
lost faith in the purp. The smell o’ blood, yisterday, must ’ave spiled
his scent. But where’ve you been?”

Scarcely slacking his pace, Douglas replied briefly: “I was at the
blockhouse and at General Harrison’s quarters. Duke told you the truth.”

“You was!” Joe ejaculated. “Well, dang my skin if the dog didn’t know
more’n a couple o’ human critters—he did, by Tabithy! Purp, I beg y’r
pardon. But where’re you goin’ now, Ross?”

“To the English camp.”

“I’ve heerd it said,” Farley grumbled, “that the burnt child dreaded the
fire; but you seem to be an ’xception to the rule. Ross Douglas, what in
the name o’ goodness ’re you goin’ over there fer? Oh, I’m an ol’ fool! I
might ’ave knowed. You’re goin’ over to git that little red-headed gal,
of course——”

He suddenly stopped speaking. His watery eyes bulged; his jaw dropped. He
had caught a square look at Ross’s companion.

“W’y, dang—it—all—to—dingnation!” he mumbled. “If that ain’t the
scar-faced scout that was with Gener’l Harrison, at Tippecanoe, it’s his
ghost. An’ he looks more like a ghost ’n a mortal man—he does, by cracky!”

“Ugh! Scar Face—much sick, sight lean,” Bright Wing grunted.

Ross made no reply; John Douglas did not glance around, even. By this
time, the squad of soldiers had reached the gate and were passing
through. Father and son hastened to overtake them. Farley and his
companion kept close upon the heels of those in advance; and with them
left the fortification. Ross thought his comrades had stopped within the
walls—and felt relieved. He did not notice their presence, until he stood
at the water’s edge.

“What are you doing here, Joe?” he demanded sharply.

“We’re goin’ with you,” Farley returned coolly.

“You cannot,” Ross said firmly. “Take the dog and return to the fort.”

But Joe and the Wyandot stubbornly shook their heads; and Duke, dropping
upon his haunches, looked appealingly into his master’s face.

“Take Duke and go back to the fortification,” Ross repeated, with
difficulty repressing a smile at the childlike pertinacity of his friends.

“We ain’t a-goin’ back,” Farley answered sullenly.

“Ugh! No go back—go with Fleet Foot,” the Indian muttered.

“Why?” the young man asked impatiently.

“You may need us,” Farley explained. “We don’t over an’ above like the
company you’re keepin’.”—With a jerk of his thumb toward John Douglas.

Ross dropped his eyes to the ground. His face flushed hotly. He was in a
quandary; he did not know what to do or say.

The soldiers had launched a boat, and were scrambling into it.

“Come on—don’t delay us,” the officer called.

“Here are two of my comrades who desire to accompany me,” Ross hastened
to explain.

The officer cut him short with:

“Bring them along—but be quick about it. The boat will accommodate us
all.”

A few minutes later, the entire party had landed on the opposite shore
and were making their way toward the British encampment. There the
American officer engaged in a consultation with General Proctor and his
staff, while Ross Douglas and his companions went to the quarters of
Tenskwatawa and La Violette, at Fort Miami.

John Douglas led the way into the stockade of the old fort. The place
was filled with Indians and white prisoners. Some of the latter were
ill-fated settlers; others were the luckless Kentuckians of General
Clay’s command. Several of the militiamen knew Ross Douglas and, calling
to him, asked what were the prospects of a speedy exchange. He answered
their questions briefly as he hurried along. Occasionally a guttural
voice exclaimed—“Fleet Foot!”; and the young man became aware that many
of the savages recognized him and were scowling at him. But they did not
offer to impede the progress of the small party. Scar Face, whom they
hated and feared, was leading it.

On reaching the farther side of the inclosure, John Douglas stopped and
whispered to his son:

“Here’s the cabin Violet occupies. You’ll enter with me; your friends
will remain outside—on guard. The Indians are dissatisfied—restless—and
ready for any desperate venture. I don’t think they’ll dare to interfere
with us in any way—but they may. Caution your comrades to be discreet—to
give no heed to threatening words and gestures, unless the savages offer
to attack them.”

Ross, turning to Farley, said in a low tone:

“You and Bright Wing will keep Duke with you and guard the door. Do
nothing rash—you understand?”

Joe nodded gravely; and Ross continued:

“We’ll transact our business and get out of here, as soon as possible;
the place is unsafe. Be careful of your words and actions, and restrain
the hound.”

Again Joe nodded. For a wonder, he did not utter a word in reply.

Just as father and son were about to enter the low door of the hut, the
latter caught sight of a burly, thick-set Indian swaggering up to the
spot. His fat and flabby features were grotesquely and hideously painted.
He wore a complete suit of coarse cloth, and carried an English rifle.
Nearing the group at the door, he stuck his tongue into his cheek and
leered impudently.

Ross started. There was something about the obese brave that seemed
familiar; yet the young man could not recall that he had ever seen the
bloated wretch.

“Who is the greasy knave?” Ross murmured to himself.

Farley caught the words and muttered in reply:

“I don’t know—but I’ve seen him somewheres. He’s as sassy as a pet fox—he
is, by Jerushy!”

“Ugh!” Bright Wing ejaculated explosively—and was silent as a graven
image.

“Come,” John Douglas said, plucking his son by the arm. “Things are not
to my liking. You must take Violet and be off.”

Together the two passed into the cabin. The place was in semi-darkness.
Ross heard a startled exclamation in the far corner of the room. Then he
became aware that someone had arisen and was moving toward him. His eyes
grew accustomed to the gloom; and he dimly perceived a sylphlike figure
advancing toward the center of the floor. There it stopped. The murky
light streaming in at the hole in the roof fell upon it.

Ross Douglas distinctly saw a halo of red-gold hair, the outlines of a
fair, sweet face—and murmured tenderly:

“La Violette!”

“Fleet Foot!” was the joyful exclamation.

She stood leaning far forward, her hands clasped in front of her; but she
did not offer to move nearer to him. Ross swept a hurried glance about
the interior. He was alone with her; his father had left the cabin. The
young man heard her quick respirations—saw her attitude of indecision—and
opening his arms, he called softly:

“I love you, darling! Come to me!”

With a glad cry, she flew to him and nestled in his arms. He strained her
to his breast—too happy to speak. At last he breathed into her ear the
needless question:

“Do you love me, La Violette?”

Lifting her golden head and reproachfully fastening her violet eyes upon
his face, she answered:

“Can you ask me such a question, Ross Douglas? You _know_ I love you—have
loved you ever since you saved my life. But do you really love _me_?”

In answer he kissed her ripe lips and murmured:

“I worship you, dear—love you better than I love anyone else on earth.
I’ve loved you ever since I first met you. But I was betrothed to
another; and I wouldn’t admit to myself, even, that I loved you. But
to-day I am free. I have come to take you from this place—from this life.
Will you go with me, La Violette?”

“To the ends of the earth,” she whispered.

Holding her from him at arm’s length, he asked playfully:

“Violet Brownlee, will you be my wife?”

“Ah! you know all,” she returned smilingly.

“I know all,” he returned soberly. “My father has told me.”

“Your father?” she remarked wonderingly.

“Yes, my father—Scar Face, Hiram Bradford, John Douglas.”

Again she nestled in his arms, and for a moment was silent. Presently she
murmured musingly:

“I used often to wonder why Hiram Bradford took so great an interest in
me. A few months ago he told me my history. Then I fell to wondering why
he had kept you a prisoner against your will, yet was anxious for your
welfare. Nor could I understand why he was so worried over your escape
and the fact that he could not find you. Now all is plain.”

He stroked her red-gold hair, but made no reply. He would have been
content to hold her thus for hours. Suddenly she lifted her head from his
shoulder, and whispered:

“Ross.”

“Well, darling?”

“Let me see your hand. No, the other. Ah! you still wear Tenskwatawa’s
ring. You carried off the Sign of the Prophet; now you come to carry off
his daughter.”

He bent his head and breathed in reply:

“I valued the Sign of the Prophet; it assured my safety. I value his
daughter much more; she assures my happiness.”

Standing upon tiptoe and pulling him down, she fondly kissed him and
answered:

“This is a fit reward for your pretty speech. But Tenskwatawa will
be here presently; your father has gone for him. Do not let him see
the ring. He has lost much of his power; and it is better so. He and
Tecumseh have deceived their people and led them astray. I see it all
now. The wisest of them are but ignorant savages. And the English—my own
people—have made tools of them——”

She stopped speaking and hastily withdrew from her lover’s embrace. He
turned to discover the cause of her action, and observed Tenskwatawa
entering the door.

Not deigning to notice the young man, the Prophet walked up to La
Violette and, laying his hands upon her shoulders, murmured gutturally:

“My daughter, Scar Face has told me that you mean to leave the tribe—your
father, forever. Is it so?”

“Tenskwatawa, my father, it is true.”

“Has Fleet Foot stolen your heart, my daughter?”

“He has, my father,” she replied in a voice hardly audible.

“And La Violette will accompany him to his lodge and dwell there?”

The girl looked her interrogator in the face and nodded. Tenskwatawa
remained silent. The stillness of the room was oppressive. At last the
Prophet removed his hands from her shoulders and, bowing his head,
muttered brokenly:

“It is well. Where her heart is, La Violette should be. She is a paleface
maiden; she loves a paleface brave. She shall be the light of his
lodge—as she has been the light of Tenskwatawa’s life.”

Then, extending his hand to her:

“My daughter, farewell. The Great Spirit gave you to me—he takes you from
me. Great is my sorrow; but I will bear it as becomes a Shawnee. My sign
is lost; my power has departed. My children spurn my words of advice; the
English laugh at my undoing. My sorrow is great. I can bear it—I am a
Shawnee. My daughter, farewell—farewell, _forever_!”

Impulsively she threw her arms around his neck and sobbed upon his breast.

“Tenskwatawa, my father, you have been kind to me. I have tried to be
a daughter to you. Now I am about to leave you forever—to return to my
own people. The Great Spirit wills it so. My father, I would exact one
promise from you at parting.”

Gently he disengaged himself from her embrace, and answered:

“What my daughter desires, I will do.”

“Then,” she cried, “use all your influence—all your power—to dissuade
your children from fighting longer under the English banner. The
Seventeen Fires will conquer in the end. The Great Spirit wills it. The
redmen will lose their lives and their lands to no purpose. Promise me
you will do what I ask.”

“It is too late,” he replied dejectedly. “My children are mad with
the taste of blood. No longer will they listen to my voice. I helped
to lead them into this; now I cannot drag them out. They are dogs for
the English; they bay along the trail—they obey the lash. Tecumseh, my
brother, has their ears; they will not hear my words. I have sinned; and
thus the Great Spirit punishes me. My daughter, I shall see you no more.
Farewell!”

Drawing his blanket over his head, to hide his emotion, the Prophet
quitted the cabin. His thin lips were set; and his horrid, painted face
was drawn and ashen. A moment afterward, John Douglas entered and
remarked briskly:

“You must be off. Make haste! I’ll accompany you to the river.”

La Violette made a compact bundle of her few effects, and announced
herself as ready. John Douglas led the way from the cabin. Farley and
Bright Wing still stood without; and Duke was smelling around the door.
As La Violette stepped into the open air, the dog fawned upon her,
evincing his pleasure at again meeting her. Tears sprang to her eyes;
and, patting the animal’s head, she murmured:

“Ah! You remember me, good fellow.”

“Duke forgets neither his friends nor his enemies,” Ross said smilingly.

Farley stepped forward and, doffing his cap and extending a grimy hand,
remarked:

“So you’re La Violette, young woman. I’ve heerd somethin’ of you in
the last day ’r so.”—He grinned maliciously at Ross.—“This youngster
here couldn’t do nothin’ but talk ’bout you—he couldn’t, by ginger!
I’m glad to meet you, I am. Thought I’d intr’duce myself—seein’ Ross
Douglas wasn’t goin’ to do the job fer me. He’s ’fraid o’ my beauty,
little gal—’fraid you might shine up to _me_. An’ this is Bright Wing, a
Wyandot. He’s a purty good feller, if he _has_ got a red skin. Me an’ the
Injin’s Ross’s ol’ comrades. Lordy! Hain’t we been in many a scrimmage?
Gol-fer-socks! I guess so.”

La Violette laughed musically at Joe’s absurdities; and, grasping the
extended hands of each, said: “I trust we shall become better acquainted
in the future—and be fast friends.”

“Ugh!” was the monosyllabic response of the Wyandot, as he stepped aside
and, leaning upon his gun, fixed his black eyes upon a distant part of
the stockade.

Farley had not yet had his say, however; and there was sincere admiration
in his voice and manner, as he resumed:

“You’re a dang sight purtier ’n I ’xpected you to be, little gal—you are,
by Katherine! As near’s I could git it from Ross Douglas’s ravin’s, you
was a kind of red-headed Injin squaw—somethin’ like the Winnebago jade
that wanted to marry _me_. You see, miss, the women’s alluz been after
_me_——”

“Joe—Joe!” Ross cried, smiling in spite of himself.

“It’s a fact, as sure’s my name is Joseph Peregoy——” the woodman began.

But John Douglas impatiently interrupted him with:

“This is no time to recount your love affairs, my friend. After you
have reached the other side of the river, you may boast to your heart’s
content. Let’s be off.”

With the words, he started toward the gate of the dilapidated palisade,
the others of the party closely following him. Farley grumbled as he went
along:

“Ol’ Pucker Face is as imperdent as a squawkin’ catbird—but he’s _right_.
Ding-it-all-to-dangnation! When _will_ I learn not to let my limber
tongue git the best o’ me?”

Then aloud to Ross:

“That fat an’ greasy redskin, that come sidelin’ up to us jest as you was
goin’ into the hut, has been slippin’ ’round ’mong the other Injins an’
doin’ a heap o’ talkin’. I’ll bet a new ramrod he’s up to some devilment.
I wish I could place him—I’ve seen him somewheres.”

Ross merely nodded; and, taking La Violette’s arm, hurried her onward.
Just outside the walls, John Douglas turned and whispered in his son’s
ear:

“We’ll proceed to the landing-place at once. If the officer who came over
with us isn’t there with his soldiers, you must hail your friends on the
other side and have a boat brought to you immediately. The Indians know
and hate you and your comrades. There’s mischief brewing. Let’s hasten.”

The little party moved rapidly. John Douglas’s whispered words and
anxious demeanor had warned his companions, of the gravity of the
situation; and they realized that no time was to be lost, if they would
escape. At last they came in sight of the place and, to their great
relief, beheld the American officer and his escorts just ready to embark.
An English officer and two subalterns were among the group upon the
shore.

Ross frantically waved his hand and hallooed at the top of his voice. The
American soldiers gave him a ringing cheer in reply, thus signifying they
would await his arrival.

At that moment, a score or more of savages, quickly emerging from the
shelter of the trees, confronted Ross and his companions.

Bright Wing uttered a sharp grunt and cocked his rifle. Farley did the
same, muttering as he did so:

“Jest as I ’xpected! Ther’s that dang fat brave leadin’ ’em.”

Ross placed himself in front of La Violette, and looked to the priming
of his weapon. John Douglas carried his own gun, which had been restored
to him on leaving the blockhouse at Fort Meigs. Now he boldly stepped
forward—his hollow eyes blazing—and shouted authoritatively, in the
Shawnee tongue:

“Out of the way, you hellhounds! Do you not know me?”

From force of habit, the Indians retreated a few steps. But the thick-set
warrior, who acted as leader of the band, scowled fiercely as he replied
in blunt backwoods English:

“You needn’t fire any Injin lingo at me, Mr. Scar Face—as the redskins
call you. I don’t understand it. But I know you—I’ve seen you ’round the
camp. An’ I know what y’r little game is now—an’ I’m goin’ to block it.”

“George Hilliard!” Ross exclaimed.

“The low-lived critter!” Farley hissed, nervously fingering the trigger
of his rifle.

The fat warrior overheard Ross’s exclamation, and returned savagely:

“Yes, I’m George Hilliard; an’ I’ve come to have a final settlement with
you, Ross Douglas——”

“Out of the way, you infernal renegade!” John Douglas cried menacingly.

“Not till I’m through with my business, Mr. Scar Face,” Hilliard answered
coolly. “An’ you’d better not be callin’ hard names, ’r you’ll git a
dose o’ the same medicine we mean to give that young dandy at y’r side.
I’m commandin’ this squad o’ redskins; an’ they don’t like _you_ much
better’n they do _him_. You jest keep quiet till I git through with my
business.”

Then turning his attention from father to son:

“Ross Douglas, you an’ me’s goin’ to have a final settlement right here.
You toted off my wife last night—me an’ my gang trailed you ’cross the
river. An’ now you’ve come to carry off the Prophet’s gal. You ain’t
content with one woman—you want two. But then I happen to want this young
miss myself—an’ I’m goin’ to have her. Fair ’xchange is no robbery. You
can have my wife; I’ll take your plump little sweetheart. Hand her over
peaceably, an’ you an’ y’r crowd can go on to the fort; refuse, an’ my
warriors ’ll kill an’ scalp the last one o’ you. Do you understand?”

“I understand you—you devil incarnate!” Ross answered in a voice hoarse
with rage. “Do your worst! You shall not lay your vile hands upon this
pure being, as long as the breath of life is spared me!”

“Which won’t be very long!” Hilliard muttered with an oath.

Farley and Bright Wing set their teeth and calmly awaited the attack.
Ross turned to his father and asked:

“What can we do?”

“Fight to the death!” was the cool and determined reply.

Slipping an arm around La Violette’s waist, Ross whispered:

“Good-by, darling! Lie down behind that mound, out of the way of flying
bullets. As soon as the first discharge of firearms is over, run toward
the boat at the top of your speed. If I escape death, I’ll rejoin you
there.”

She was very pale; and her limbs were trembling. But she replied firmly:

“I will not leave your side, Ross. If you must die, I die with you!”

The soldiers on the shore had been witnesses of the whole proceeding. At
the distance, they could not tell what was going on; but knowing that
something was amiss, and fearing the worst, a number of them had left the
boat and started toward the scene of disturbance. Now they came running
at full speed along the bank. The Wyandot’s quick eyes caught sight of
them and he grunted:

“Palefaces come—heap many. Ugh!”

“That’s a fact, Injin!” Farley muttered in reply. “If we can only hold
the red devils off till——”

Ross Douglas was anxiously watching the actions of the savages. Suddenly
he saw them quit talking and make a move to encircle their victims. An
inspiration came to him. Taking a step forward, he raised his right hand
and cried in ringing tones:

“Children of Tenskwatawa!”

The attention of the Indians was arrested. They stopped and stared hard
at the speaker.

“Behold the Sign of the Prophet!” Ross shouted.

At the same time, he slowly waved his hand to and fro, and, imitating the
sinuous movements of the red hypnotist, advanced upon the semicircle of
warriors. The effect was marvelous.

“The Sign of the Prophet! The Sign of the Prophet!” they wailed in
terrified accents, shrinking away from him—their eyes immovably fixed
upon the talisman.

For a moment George Hilliard was dumbfounded. He could not understand
what was happening. Realizing that Ross, in some way, was sending terror
to the hearts of the red fiends, the thick-set villain’s face grew purple
with rage. He stormed and raved. But all to no purpose; the savages were
spellbound—they could not hear his voice.

Slowly advancing—and continuing his serpentine movements—Ross continued:

“Children of the Prophet, I wear his sign—I have his power! I am doing
the will of the Great Spirit. Away—away! Go—ere I strike you blind——”

“Curse you, Ross Douglas! _I’ll_ strike you blind!” Hilliard howled
frantically.

Quick as a flash, he threw his gun to his shoulder and fired. But quick
as his movements were, John Douglas’s were quicker. Just before the
roar of the firearm rang out upon the air, the father sprang in front
of his son. The next moment he sank to earth, mortally wounded. With a
lionlike roar of rage, Duke leaped upon the murderer and dragged him to
the ground. Three rifles cracked in rapid succession; and three painted
braves met death.

The spell was broken. The savages gazed about in stupefaction. Then,
dimly realizing what had happened, they broke and fled toward the cover
of the woods, just as the soldiers, cheering lustily, dashed up.

La Violette dropped upon the ground and pillowed John Douglas’s head upon
her lap. Ross bent over the dying man, and in a voice full of anguish
asked:

“Father, can you see me—can you speak to me?”

The fast-glazing eyes looked steadily into those of the questioner, and
the white lips whispered faintly:

“I see both of you, my—my children; but very—very dimly. Do not—move out
of my sight. I’m dying! It is best so. I have given my life for you, my
son; and I—I die happy. I am going—give me your hands! Good-by—I—I——”

With a deep, tremulous sigh, he closed his eyes. Twice the deep chest
heaved spasmodically. And he was dead.

“My father—oh, my father!” Ross moaned, still clinging to the dead man’s
hand.

Joe Farley overheard the words and muttered to himself:

“Ross Douglas’s father! Scar Face—Hiram Bradford—John
Douglas—all one an’ the same. Dang-it-all-to-dingnation!
Hang-it-up-an’-take-it-down-an’-cook-it! Won’t wonders an’ mysteries
_never_ come to an end?”

Then, in a low tone, he said to the Wyandot:

“Injin, we’d better call Duke away from that painted lump o’ taller out
there. I s’pect the dog’s worried the cuss a good ’eal by this time.”

“Ugh!” Bright Wing snorted contemptuously. “Duke no worry fat
paleface-redman now; fat paleface-redman heap much dead. Me stick knife
in him.”

“Huh!” Farley ejaculated. Then to the dog:

“Here, Duke, come away from that carcass. You’ll git p’izened nosin’
’round such a varmint—you will, by Molly! Come away, I say!”

The hound obeyed.

Ross, had arisen, and stood silently gazing into the face upturned to the
clouded heavens. La Violette was weeping bitterly. The English officer
advanced to Ross’s side and said with much feeling:

“I can’t tell you, young man, how sorry I am that this thing has
happened. But the savages are unruly; they can’t be controlled——”

Then he abruptly stopped speaking and peered into the upturned
countenance. Starting back, he exclaimed excitedly:

“Why, this is Hiram Bradford—one of our own men!”

Ross nodded stiffly.

“Curse the savage brutes!” the officer muttered as he turned and strode
away. “Whom will they turn upon next?”

Taking with them the body of John Douglas—but leaving George Hilliard
and his red associates where they fell—the company made their way to the
boat, and embarked for Fort Meigs.

[Illustration]




CHAPTER XXI.


La Violette, during her short stay at Fort Meigs, lived in the tent
of the refugees. By many gracious acts, she endeared herself to her
simple-minded companions. She spent much of her time in caring for Amy’s
sick and fretful child; and the heart-broken young mother learned to
love and respect the gentle, sweet-faced nurse. The two women exchanged
confidences; and each shed tears over the trials that had fallen to the
lot of the other.

One evening, Ross and his sweetheart were walking up and down in front of
the refugees’ tent. The air was balmy; the sky was studded with stars.
From the camp-fires, twinkling like fireflies in the sweet dusk, came the
sounds of merriment; from the interior of the tent, came the cry of the
peevish baby.

“I pity her so!” La Violette said softly. “She has very honestly told me
all, Ross. She never loved you as I do; but she loved you in her way—I am
sure. And she lost you. Yet I am selfish enough to be glad, while I pity
her; for had she not done what she did, you would not be mine to-night.”

“I don’t know,” he replied, carefully weighing each word. “Perhaps I
wouldn’t have married her. I’m beginning to doubt that we ever really
loved each other. At any rate, I love _you_ now, darling—you alone! Now
let us talk of our future.”

They sauntered from the spot; while the stars smiled down upon them, as
they have smiled down upon lovers since the race began.

John Douglas found a grave just without the wall of the fortification. In
an obscure corner by himself, he was laid to rest. An erring son, he had
spent the best years of his life in the service of an alien power; but he
came home to sleep his last long sleep.

In after-years, Ross Douglas returned to Fort Meigs, with the intention
of erecting a monument to his father’s memory; but the surroundings had
changed so much he could not locate the grave.

When General Harrison was informed of the manner of John Douglas’s death,
he immediately sent for Ross. Taking the son by the hand, the old soldier
said with emotion:

“I’m sincerely glad I freed your father—sincerely sorry he’s dead. Yet
it is best. His death atones for his life. He died for you. It was a
noble self-sacrifice. Your father had in him the elements of a great and
noble nature; but his whole life was a failure, because his talents and
energies were misdirected. Whatever comes, my young friend, be true to
yourself, your country, and your God!”

For several days after the return of Ross and his friends to Fort Meigs,
the weather continued foul. Then it grew warm and bright with sunshine.
With the change in the weather, came a change in the aspect of affairs.
Hostilities were not renewed; an exchange of prisoners was effected.
The savages, discouraged by Proctor’s want of success in reducing the
American garrison, began to desert his standard in large numbers.
Realizing the uselessness of prolonging the siege, the British commander
prepared to abandon the enterprise; and on the ninth of the month he took
his departure.

The investment of the post had lasted thirteen days. During that time the
enemy had fired eighteen hundred shells and cannon balls into the fort,
and had kept up an annoying discharge of small arms; yet the American
loss in killed and wounded was only two hundred and seventy.

Offensive operations were for a time suspended. The American troops
remained at Fort Meigs and Sandusky. A few days after the British had
withdrawn, General Harrison left General Clay in command of the post, and
set out for Franklinton, to forward re-enforcements. With the commander
and his escort, went Ross Douglas and his friends. Without mishap or
adventure, the whole company reached their destination in the latter part
of May.

At Franklinton, Amy Hilliard bade farewell to Ross and La Violette and,
joining a party of returning settlers, went to her father’s people in
western Pennsylvania.

Upon their arrival at Franklinton, Ross Douglas and Violet Brownlee were
married. In the early part of July the young husband returned to Fort
Meigs. He served throughout the war, as scout and guide, with credit to
himself and advantage to his country’s cause.

Bright Wing went with his white friend, and was his companion in many a
perilous enterprise. Farley and Duke remained at Franklinton, with La
Violette.

“I am loth to have you go, Ross,” she said when he informed her of his
purpose. “You may never come back to me. Still, do whatever you feel is
your duty—I would not hold you back. _Your_ country is _my_ country now.
God bless and keep you!”

Fondly kissing her, he bade her farewell. At the door of the cabin that
was his temporary abode, he met Farley. The eccentric Joe held out his
hands, saying:

“Good-by, Ross Douglas. I hope this trip’ll be as lucky to you as y’r
last one—I do, by ginger! I’ll take good keer o’ y’r purp an’ the little
woman. An’ if you git killed, I’ll marry La Violette myself—I will, by
King Solerman’s six hundred wives! I think she’s kind o’ struck with my
good looks an’ beauty a’ready—I do, by——”

“Good-by, Joe—good-by!” Ross interrupted, smiling. “Let no harm befall
her, old friend. Good-by!”

And he was gone, leaving Farley staring after him.

At the close of the war, the young couple went to Quebec, to obtain
possession of their property. La Violette’s relative was dead; and she
had no difficulty in proving her title to the estate. Ross, with some
trouble, obtained the bulk of his father’s fortune. Turning their real
estate into money, they returned to the land they loved—to the shelter
of the Stars and Stripes. To the day of his death, Ross Douglas wore
the ring that had finally brought him such good fortune—the gift of La
Violette—_the Sign of the Prophet_.

[Illustration]




        
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