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.
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