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]