A SAVAGE FRIEND.
After his interview with Hank Putney, Iron Hand set out hastily to
return to the rendezvous of his band. As he hurried along, a smile of
exultation overspread his countenance, and he seemed to experience a
secret feeling of joy at the success of his deep-laid schemes.
He would occasionally indulge in a low, smothered laugh, as some
point of his plot more subtle than the rest would recur to his mind.
As he drew near to the cave, he found his lieutenant at the entrance
awaiting his approach.
“Well, lieutenant,” he exclaimed, addressing that officer, “what
news?”
“There is a new applicant, an Indian, sir, who is desirous of joining
the band.”
“A new recruit, eh, and an Indian too! This is strange intelligence.
What do you know of him?”
“Nothing further, than he says that he has been forced to fly from
beyond the lines of our enemy, the rebels. Indeed, he seemed ardently
desirous of being enrolled as a member, and appears to bear a deep
hatred toward his persecutors.”
“Is this all the knowledge you have of this fellow?”
“It is, sir.”
“You will send him to me then, immediately. But look ye, lieutenant,
should he be admitted to the League, you will keep a vigilant watch
on his movements.”
In a few moments afterward, Iron Hand was confronted in his
apartments by this new aspirant for predatory honors.
“What reasons bring you within the precincts of this camp?” asked the
Tory chieftain, as he bent upon his visitor a cool, calculating gaze,
as though he would read his innermost, thoughts.
The Indian gave an explanation of his actions in a brief and
apparently satisfactory manner, for at its conclusion Iron Hand
exclaimed:
“Ah, I understand! you seek to become one of us in order that you may
find an occasion to revenge yourself?”
The Indian bowed in response.
“Then you have not sought in vain,” he continued; “for we are about
to attack a party of these rebels this very night, and there you will
have an ample opportunity to glut your vengeance. You may report
yourself to my lieutenant, who will appoint you your station.”
As the Indian was about to depart, the Tory chief arose quickly and
approached him. Laying his hand on his shoulder, he whispered:
“The reward is, for those who perform their duty faithfully and do
not neglect the interest of the band--pillage, plunder, and wealth;
but for a traitor--death!”
With this warning injunction, the newly-enrolled member withdrew to
prepare himself to take part in the coming _melée_.
The different members of the band were in a state of bustle and
confusion, making preparations for the expected encounter. This new
enterprise was originated, not with the usual design of pillaging,
but for the purpose of attacking a small party of the enemy that
were encamped midway between the rendezvous of the League and the
American lines, and whom, on account of their proximity, it was
deemed expedient to remove, as the retreat of the band was liable at
any moment to be discovered by them.
At midnight they set out, and stealthily made their way through the
forest to the appointed place of attack. Their foe, lulled into
a feeling of security against attack, and little dreaming of the
presence of their deadly opponents, were slumbering calmly.
At a preconcerted signal, out flashed the fire of a hundred rifles,
whose sharp crack went reverberating through the forest.
The attacked party, though completely taken by surprise, fought
bravely, and it was not until overwhelmed by superior numbers that
they slowly retreated, obstinately disputing every foot of the ground.
Iron Hand watched every action of the strange Indian.
“See, with what a desperate vim this fellow strikes!” he exclaimed,
as he observed the Indian, heedless of danger, throw himself
recklessly upon the foe. “These other rascals fight for plunder only,
but he seems to battle for the hatred he bears those rebels. This is
my man--I will trust him,” he murmured to himself; “he will be of
valuable service to me personally, do I but play well my part.”
At the command of the chief the pursuit was discontinued, and the
Tories, jubilant over their success, returned to the cave. The quiet,
calm demeanor of the strange Indian was quite a striking contrast to
the boisterous hilarity of his companions.
For a long time, the chief topic of conversation among the members of
the Tory League, was the fearless intrepidity of their new comrade,
who bore with unblushing indifference the plaudits thus bestowed upon
him.
* * * * *
Imogene was awakened from the swoon into which she had fallen after
the termination of her interview with Iron Hand, by the touch of some
cold object.
As she raised herself slowly, she just succeeded in catching a view
of the figure of a man--an Indian, she knew by his peculiar dress and
the feathers that adorned his head--as he glided swiftly from the
apartment.
“Who could this mysterious visitor be?” she asked herself.
While arising from her reclining position she felt something in her
hand--it was a small piece of paper carelessly folded.
Opening it hastily, she with difficulty managed to decipher from the
rude, scrawling characters, the following significant warning:
“Be watchful--a friend is near.”
Startled beyond measure by the contents of this anonymous note,
she was obliged to read it over repeatedly before she could fairly
realize its import.
In vain did she strive to give herself a satisfactory answer as to
who this unknown friend could be. Of such a person sufficiently near
to be of service to her, she knew not.
This inspiring news, vague though it was, revived her drooping
spirits. Pressing the billet fervently to her lips, she placed it
safely in her bosom, as though it were a gem of the richest order.
The nearly extinct sparks of hope that lay dormant within her breast,
were again enkindled into a flame. Oh, how slowly the hours, which
to her seemed like years, glided by, as in a state of feverish
excitement, she anxiously awaited the arrival of that promised
assistance which came not.
Night was fast approaching; the evening of that day on which the Tory
chieftain had threatened to visit her, to receive her final answer.
Imogene sat musing, trying to picture to herself the result of the
terrible drama in which she was acting so conspicuous, but yet so
unwilling a part.
“Perhaps her new-found friend had been detected in his gallant
attempts to aid her, and was now suffering the penalty of his
generosity?” she thought.
While thus battling with her despondent feelings, she was startled
by hearing a gentle, catlike footstep on the floor. Starting back
half-affrighted, she beheld approaching her the bearer of the
mysterious note.
There was no mistaking his identity, for there was the same
peculiar dress, the same drooping war-locks. The stranger advanced
unhesitatingly, and as he entered into the circle of light projected
by the lamp, he threw off his disguise, displaying to view the
features of our old and trusty friend, the faithful scout and
patriot--War-Cloud.
For a moment Imogene was speechless.
“What! War-Cloud, you here, too!” she exclaimed, at length, with a
look of amazement.
She was about to speak further, but the scout raised his finger with
a significant gesture, warning her to remain quiet. In answer to her
anxious, inquiring look, he related in a few hurried sentences the
ruse he had practiced to enable him to join the band, and how he
accidentally learned of her presence in the cave, through two Tories
whose services he had enlisted in a conspiracy he had formed for the
abduction of Iron Hand.
Imogene listened with wrapt attention. At the conclusion, War-Cloud
ordered her to be prepared to take her departure at midnight, and
then withdrew from the place as noiselessly as he had entered.
Finding herself once more alone, Imogene, assuming an attitude of
prayer, poured out her soul in fervent thanksgiving to Him who is the
dispenser of all blessings.
The scout hastened back to his accomplices, of whom he had spoken. It
appears that immediately after joining the League, he had noticed,
with his natural keen perception, a lurking spirit of dissatisfaction
among several members of the band, especially among two in particular.
By fomenting this turbulent spirit, and by promises of sharing the
bounteous reward offered for the capture of the Tory chieftain, he
had succeeded in bringing them over to his views, at the same time
without permitting them to obtain even an inkling of his own real
character.
With their plans thus well matured, the conspirators prepared to put
them into execution. Scarcely had the gun from one of the neighboring
frontier forts boomed the hour of midnight, when they quietly arose,
and stepping carefully over the bodies of their sleeping companions,
hurried to the apartment of Imogene, who, fearful that every moment
would herald the advent of her detested suitor, Iron Hand, was
impatiently awaiting them.
The crisis of their undertaking had now arrived. To succeed in
leaving the place without causing any alarm, was the only difficulty.
As soon as they arrived at the mouth of the cave, the sentinel
stationed there hailed them, but with the rapidity of lightning,
War-Cloud sprung upon him, and bearing him to the earth, firmly
secured him.
The next moment Imogene, under the guidance of one of the Tories,
waving a hasty adieu, was gone. The scout and his companion returned
to their places among their slumbering comrades, there to abide their
time for the carrying out of the rest of their plan.
As soon as he felt assured that Imogene had reached a safe distance,
the scout arose, and seizing his rifle, hastened to the entrance of
the rendezvous and discharged it. In an instant every member of the
band was on his feet, inquiring the cause of the alarm.
Motioning his companion to keep close to him, War-Cloud, uttering a
loud cry, dashed into the apartment of the chief. On hearing of his
prisoner’s escape, Iron Hand, with an oath, rushed into Imogene’s
late place of confinement, only to find that the bird had flown.
At this discovery, his frenzy knew no bounds. Uttering a yell of
rage, he bade War-Cloud and his companion to mount and follow him.
For a time the Tory’s chieftain’s usual cunning seemed to have
deserted him, for without seeming to harbor the slightest suspicion
of treachery, he ordered War-Cloud to lead the way.
By the aid of the full autumnal moon, which ever and anon shot, like
a flying ghost, from one dark mass of vapor to another, the trail of
the fugitives was followed without difficulty.
It was necessary to overtake them before they should reach the
American lines, or else all was lost. On, on, they rode, until they
were almost within gunshot of the enemy, when through an intervening
space in the trees, Iron Hand spied the fleeing forms of Imogene and
her guide.
With a cry of exultation, the Tory, plunging his rowels deep into
the reeking sides of his steed, hurried in pursuit of them, closely
followed by his two companions. Imogene heard the cry and looked
back. She saw the Tory, and understood the demoniac expression of his
countenance. She cast her eyes on the face of her companion, but upon
it was stamped a look of calm indifference.
Oh, for a few short moments, and she would again be free! How
agonizing the thought that she was thus to be retaken! and, too,
within sight of the very camp-fires of her friends. Once more did she
sum up courage to steal another glance at her pursuers. They were
gaining upon her slowly but surely.
In vain did she endeavor to accelerate the speed of her panting
animal. Another instant and she would again be within the power of
her detested captor! She could almost feel his hot breath.
“Ha! ha! fair rebel,” he exclaimed with a malignant laugh, “captured
at last!”
As he was on the point of laying hold of the bridle of Imogene’s
steed, he felt himself seized on either side by an iron grasp, while
a brace of pistols were presented at his head.
“Villains! What means this?” he cried, struggling to free himself.
“That the tables are turned, chief, and you’re our prisoner,” replied
War-Cloud, raising his weapon in a threatening manner.
“Ah, treason! You--” but before he could complete his sentence, he
was dragged from his horse, disarmed, and firmly bound.
The Tory made a desperate attempt to regain his liberty, but, seeing
how futile were his efforts, he sullenly resigned himself to his fate.
In a short time the party reached the American outposts, by whom they
were conducted to the nearest frontier garrison, to the commander
of which, War-Cloud related his adventures, and at the same time
requested an escort to conduct his prisoner to Fort Ann the next
morning, which was readily granted.
After paying his companions that had assisted him in Iron Hand’s
capture, their portion of the reward, and exacting from them a
promise that they would engage no longer in their former occupation,
he dismissed them.