THE BORDER RIFLEMEN;
OR,
THE FOREST FIEND.
A ROMANCE OF THE BLACK-HAWK UPRISING.
BY LIEUT. LEWIS W. CARSON.
NEW YORK.
BEADLE AND ADAMS, PUBLISHERS,
98 WILLIAM STREET.
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1872, by
FRANK STARR & CO.,
In the office of the Librarian of Congress at Washington.
CONTENTS
I. The Border Suitor—Cooney Joe 9
II. Minneoba’s warning 15
III. Black-Hawk Insulted 22
IV. Little Fox—Na-She-Eschuck 29
V. The Price of Treachery 35
VI. The First Blow 42
VII. Overboard 49
VIII. Melton’s Scout—A Bush Fight 54
IX. The Defense of the Island 61
X. The Forest Fiend 68
XI. Black-Hawk Keeps His Word 75
XII. Sadie’s Sacrifice 82
XIII. Guests Not Invited 88
THE BORDER RIFLEMEN;
OR,
THE FOREST FIEND.
CHAPTER I.
THE BORDER SUITOR—COONEY JOE.
The sun was going down behind the western hills in a flood of yellow
light, and a river dimpled on under the slanting rays, great fish
leaping now and then from the placid surface, and the trees along the
bank casting fantastic shadows into its depths. In a sheltered nook,
near a spot where a little creek joined the river, a settler had built a
cabin, which the hand of woman had beautified and adorned as only the
hand of woman can. Bright flowers bloomed on each side of the rustic
doorway and an English ivy vine clung to the walls and was rapidly
spreading its delicate tendrils over the whole front. The cabin faced
the stream, and behind it the hand of industry had cleared many acres
which now showed heavy growths of cereals and roots, carefully
cultivated. It was a silvan spot, and one upon which the eye of the
artist would linger long and pleasantly.
The door opened suddenly, and a young girl holding a water-pail in her
hand came out with a free, careless step, singing a merry song. She was
plainly dressed, and yet there was an air of native grace about her
every movement which plainly showed that she had not always lived amid
such wild surroundings. She was beautiful—not the vapid beauty of
cities, but that of perfect health, and a free life. Her form was
untrammeled by the fashions which cramp and deform the beautiful women
of our day, and her face, a little browned by exposure to the to sun,
glowed—
“With sunny beauty and rustic health.”
Maud Müller—Whittier’s Maud—was not more beautiful than this frontier
damsel. Not only was her face cut in a perfect mold, but her eyes
sparkled with life and vivacity, and her sunny hair, unconfined, hung
about her shoulders in beautiful profusion.
She left the river, turned down the creek, entered a little grove half a
mile from the house, passed through it, and looked across the open field
beyond.
“Father,” she cried, “are you there?”
No answer was returned, save the echo of her musical voice, and she
looked about her in evident surprise.
“Where can he have gone?” she murmured. “Father!”
As the words left her lips there was a slight rustle in the bushes by
her side, and a man came out and stood beside her. He was still young,
but his strikingly handsome face bore the marks of a life of dissipation
and riot. He was quite tall, nearly six feet in his moccasins, with a
face which showed unmistakable signs of Indian blood, though somewhat
remote, and a wandering black eye, full of passion. He was dressed in
hunting costume, and held in one hand a long rifle, and two small
protuberances in the breast of his hunting-coat showed where his pistols
lay concealed.
“I thought I should meet you here, Sadie,” he said, quietly. “You don’t
look very glad to see me.”
“You know what I think of you, William Jackwood,” she replied, turning
quickly away. “How dare you to come here, after what has happened?”
He laughed a low, bitter, chilling laugh, which did not indicate
enjoyment, and his black eyes seemed to emit sparks of fire.
“I would not refer to our last meeting, if I were you, Sadie,” he said,
evidently controlling himself by a violent effort. “I was half crazy
with liquor that night or I would not have said what I did. See here;
give me a chance to make this right with you and I’ll do it. I want to
be a friend to you—I do, upon my soul. I’ll ask your pardon on my knees,
if you’ll forgive, and promise not to lay it up against me.”
“I forgive you,” she said, with a cold, passionless glance, “but you
must not come here any more, for all that. My father has told me not to
have any more to say to you, and I shall obey him.”
The man stood grinding the butt of his rifle into the soft earth, and
fighting a powerful battle to keep down his heart. The girl no longer
looked at him but took up the pail and was moving on.
“Wait a moment,” he said, hoarsely. “I can’t part from you like this,
Sadie. You don’t know what you are doing or what will happen if you
don’t use me more kindly. By—I beg your pardon, but I am half mad—I
can’t stand it. Do you know that I worship the ground you tread for your
sake, and would give my life at any moment if it would be of service to
you?”
“You must not speak to me in that way, Mr. Jackwood,” she said, in a
more gentle tone. “I am truly sorry for you if you speak the truth, but
I can not listen to you. Aside from the fact that my father does not
like you, I have my own inclinations to consult, and I do not and never
can love you.”
“Then you love some one else,” he cried savagely. “All right; marry him
if you dare, but of this be assured—the moment you stand up before the
minister with _any_ man, if it were my own brother, I will kill you both
where you stand. Do you hear me?—I will kill you both.”
“Do you dare to threaten me in that way, Will Jackwood? Oh, if my father
were here, he would teach you to insult his daughter in that way. Do you
think to frighten me by idle threats? Since you force me to say it, know
that the sight of your dark face is and always has been odious to me,
and that I will never speak to you again except upon compulsion under
any circumstances.”
He caught her by the wrist with his disengaged hand and held her firmly,
when she dropped the pail and struck him full in the face with her open
hand. He uttered a cry like that of an angry tiger, and letting go his
hold upon the gun caught her about the waist with his strong right arm.
Powerless in his grasp, she struggled with all her strength and screamed
for help. The call was not made in vain, for a quick step was heard, and
a heavy body crashed through the bushes, and Sadie screamed again.
“Comin’, by the mortal, comin’!” roared a hoarse voice. “Oh, yes.”
Will Jackwood released her instantly and caught up his gun, just as a
short, thick-set, powerfully-built man darted from the bushes and stood
beside them. He wore the fringed hunting-shirt and beaded moccasins of
the scout and hunter, and his long, flax-colored hair was crowned by a
greasy coon-skin cap in the last stages of dissolution. The face was a
marvel of native ugliness, but in spite of that he was greeted with a
cry of joy from Sadie.
“Cooney Joe is hyar,” he yelled. “What is the matter now?”
“I have been insulted, Joe,” cried Sadie, panting for breath.
“By that yer p’ison critter, I’ll bet. Now look out, Black Will, acause
I’m a-goin’ to give yer the durndest lickin’ you ever got sence yer
mammy took ye over her knee. Hyar’s fur ye.”
Before Black Will could bring his rifle to a level the stout hunter
dashed in and his heart was beating against the broad breast of the man
known as Jackwood. In a moment more they were locked in a fierce
grapple, fighting in true western style, without the slightest idea of
the rules of the ring. In a stand-off fight, the long arms and powerful
build of Black Will would have given him a decided advantage, but in the
close grapple Cooney Joe was more than his equal, and loosening one hand
by a violent effort he struck his antagonist such a blow in the face
that his teeth seemed to rattle in his jaws, and he staggered. Throwing
himself forward with a victorious war-whoop, Cooney Joe brought him to
the ground, and the next moment was kneeling on his breast with his
long, brown fingers fastened on his throat in a decidedly uncomfortable
way.
“Yah-h-h—hip! Got ye that time, my sweet infant! The old coon kin climb
a tree yit. Say the word, Miss Wescott, an’ by the big meat pie I’ll
choke the life clean out of his pesky karkidge.”
“Let him go for the present, Joe,” she said. “He has been punished
sufficiently, and it will teach him that I am not friendless.”
“Oh, pshaw! don’t let him git off that way. Take off his belt and let me
larrup him with it till he _howls_.”
“No, no; don’t strike him again. Take away his weapons and let him go.”
“Hold on,” said Black Will hoarsely. “Don’t touch the pistols and I
promise to go away at once, and not make a move for revenge to-day.”
“That’s fair,” said Joe, rising. “I never knowed the critter to break a
fair promise, Miss Sadie, and you kin trust him.”
Cooney Joe stood up and Black Will slowly arose, with an expression of
fearful malice upon his dark face, slowly brushing the dust from his
clothing without speaking a word. Cooney Joe had taken up his rifle and
stood leaning upon it, a grin of enjoyment stretching his naturally wide
mouth.
“Curi’s how things come ’round, ain’t it? I’ve wanted a lick at you fur
nigh onto five year an’ never got a chance till now; does me good, this
does.”
“Of course you know I’ll have your life for it, Joe Bent,” said Black
Will, in a quiet tone.
“Sartin, sartin, if ye kin git it,” replied Cooney Joe. “But don’t
forgit that ef I see yer hand go anigh a pistil in a strange company
I’ll try to shoot first. ’Member that, don’t ye.”
“I’ll try to remember, Joe,” was the reply. “Now, Miss Wescott, I will
say to you what I intended to say when this meddling fool broke in upon
us. You shall never live to be the wife of another man. If I can not
have you, no one else shall, I swear by every thing I hold true.”
“P’isen critter, ain’t you, Will?” said Cooney Joe, regarding him with a
look of benign interest, as a great natural curiosity. “I’ll be
individually an’ collectively cussed ef you ain’t a nice picter to go
a-talkin’ about marryin’ a gal like Miss Sadie. Why, bu’st my buttons,
ef I don’t think she’d ruther have me!”
“I would indeed,” replied Sadie.
“Who asked you to speak, Joe Bent?” said Black Will, savagely. “Keep
your distance and live in safety for twenty-four hours, but after that I
will take your life, no matter where I meet you.”
“You rare ’round the awfulest kind, don’t ye,” replied Joe, with a merry
look. “Dash my bacon ef you ain’t a study fur a painter. I’ve see’d
chaps in the theater at St. Louis that rared ’round the stage jest as
you do now, but somehow they allus got special hail kolumbia in the end.
Now _git_; I don’t want to say any thing more _but_ git.”
Black Will quietly tightened his belt, brought his rifle to a “right
shoulder shift,” and was off at a long, slinging pace which carried him
rapidly across the field.
“Thar goes a pizen critter, Miss Sadie,” muttered Cooney Joe. “Now I
reckon he meant jest what he said when he told me that he’d hev my life,
but I’ve took a good many chances, though he’ll hev my ha’r sartin ef I
don’t shoot first when we meet.”
“I am sorry to have brought you into danger, Joe,” said the girl.
“Sorry—danger—git out! D’ye think I keer fur _that_, little gal? Why,
make it the wust ye kin, the chances ar’ I git a shot afore he does, an’
ef I _miss_, then it’s my own fault. Whar’s yer daddy?”
“I came out to find him and bring him some drink. I thought he was at
work in this field.”
“He orter be keerful,” said Joe Bent, uneasily, “’cause the Injins are
gitting r’iled up awful, and thar’s no tellin’ when they may break out.
Let’s try an’ find him.”
“There he is now,” cried Sadie.
As she spoke, a middle-aged man, with a hoe across his shoulder,
appeared at the other side of the woods and came rapidly toward them. As
he came near he shouted cheerily to Joe Bent, who seemed very glad to
see him, and they shook hands heartily. Mr. Wescott had the same air of
gentility which showed itself in his daughter, but, like her, had
adapted himself to his present surroundings, and looked the picture of a
genuine western farmer. In stature he was almost a giant.
Sadie rapidly recounted her meeting with Black Will, and all that had
passed between them, and the face of Mr. Wescott darkened, while his
hand closed convulsively upon the handle of his hoe.
“It is a lucky thing for the black-hearted scoundrel that I was not by,
Sadie,” he said, “or it would have gone hard with him. What brings you
up this way, Joe?”
“I sort o’ got a hint to git off the hunting grounds from that
pernicious red devil, Napope, who is sp’ilin’ fur mischief. Ar’ ye good
friends with the Injins, ’square?”
“Certainly; I never wronged one of them in my life.”
“Not that it matters much ef they once rise,” continued Joe, “because
then they won’t hev any friends in the white race. I’ve my doubts of
that Black Will, anyhow. Two weeks ago I saw him in the Injin village,
an’ him an’ that cussid Napope was ez thick ez flies in sp’iled bacon.”
“What is the trouble with the Indians?” said Wescott, uneasily.
“Them cussid agents rob them like thieves,” replied Joe Bent. “Ef
Black-Hawk would only ketch an’ burn them, I don’t believe our fellers
would kick much, they act so fearful mean. Do you know that I think the
village the best place fur Miss Sadie, ’bout this time in the year?”
“I’ll talk to you by-and-by,” said Wescott, with a quick glance at his
daughter’s observant face. “Come to the house and get something to eat.”
They quickened their steps and reached the cabin, and while Sadie set
about preparing a meal, they sat outside and smoked their pipes, talking
in low, eager tones. Sadie could see that their conversation was very
important, and, woman-like, felt piqued that they kept it secret from
her, and hurried her preparations. In a few moments the homely meal was
smoking on the board, and they sat down, enjoying their food with keen
relish; but the two men dropped their conversation, or rather, changed
it to indifferent subjects, much to the disgust of Sadie. Just as they
were about to rise from the table, she gave utterance to a cry of
surprise and ran to the door, and a moment after appeared, leading an
Indian girl by the hand.