A PRIZE GAINED AND LOST.
JENKINS, as it afterward turned out, was in the wood reconnoitering the
fort when the shot was fired which had well-nigh been so fatal to him.
His object in doing this was to find out, before venturing to show
himself, whether the Shawnees or whites held possession of the
settlement. He had made the discovery of the attack when but a few miles
off, and hearing the guns and becoming alarmed for his own safety, he
ascended a tree and remained there until every Indian had departed from
the neighborhood.
Some time after the closing scene of the last chapter, the sentinel
confessed to Jenkins that he mistook him for an Indian when he fired,
and he begged forgiveness for his great mistake. It is needless to say
that the pardon was freely granted, and good humor held reign among them
all.
The day after the attack and repulse, Dick Dingle, for the first time in
his life, was taken sick. He was not dangerously so, but so severely
that he was compelled to remain within doors. This happened
unfortunately for Peterson, for the two had determined to pursue the
retreating Indians for the purpose of capturing the renegade. A short
consultation was held, when Peterson announced that he should make the
attempt himself, accompanied only by Mansfield, who was all eagerness to
join him.
Accordingly at noon, the two passed out of the gate and commenced the
expedition by plunging into the forest. The trail of the retreating
Shawnees was so recent that it had not been obliterated by the rain, and
it was easily followed. It led up the river a couple of miles, when it
crossed to the Kentucky shore and took a northwest direction directly
toward Mad river.
Our friends had not proceeded far when Peterson assured Mansfield that
they were gaining rapidly upon the savages. The latter, encumbered by
their dead and wounded, were making their way very slowly through the
wood, and evidently had no thoughts of pursuit. An hour or two later
Peterson remarked,
"We're goin' too fast, Mansfield; we'll run our heads into some trap
afore we know it. Let's set down a while."
The two seated themselves upon a fallen tree and engaged in
conversation.
"If we don't stop we'll be up with them afore night," said Peterson.
"And why shouldn't we?"
"Because--sh! there's some one back of us now."
Before they either had time to conceal themselves, the bushes parted,
and the mysterious Frontier Angel stood before them.
"What are you doing here?" she asked quietly.
"Looking for that renegade," replied Mansfield.
"Do you know how far the Shawnees are away?"
"Can't be very fur, I think," replied Peterson.
"They are encamped a half-mile from here, and have sent scouts back upon
their trail to see who pursues. If you remain here twenty minutes longer
you will be seen and shot."
"Whew! that's more than we bargained for," remarked Peterson; "if it's
all the same, we'll decline at present and slide."
"Do you know anything of McGable--"
Our hero stopped, for she had disappeared as quickly and quietly as she
came.
"It won't do to wait hyer--reds is about," admonished Peterson.
No time was lost by our friends in seeking safety. The trail of the
retreating body was so broad and palpable that there was little fear of
their pursuit being noticed. The scouts sent back would take the
direction of the back trail, and keep alongside of it to ascertain
whether any force was following them. If so, an effort would be made to
draw them in ambush. They had no suspicion, and cared nothing for such
pursuit as was really made.
Peterson and Mansfield proceeded in a direction at right angles with the
main travel, for several hundred yards, where they secreted themselves.
Here they remained for over an hour. By this time it was well toward
night, and they ventured forth to resume the Shawnee trail again. After
reaching it, they followed it a considerable distance, when finding that
the Indian camp could be but a short distance away, they halted and
again made off in a side direction.
It was while doing this, and when several hundred feet from it, that
Peterson, who was slightly in advance, suddenly halted and raised his
hand over his head as a signal for Mansfield to remain quiet. Both stood
motionless a moment, when Peterson took several stealthy steps forward
and motioned for Mansfield to come to his side. The latter did so, his
looks showing more than words, the curiosity he felt. The ranger, by way
of reply, pointed ahead, and downward. Mansfield followed the direction
of his finger, and he felt every nerve thrill within him, as he saw a
few feet in advance, the extended and sleeping form of the renegade,
McGable.
"We've got him at last!" whispered Peterson exultingly.
The man, from all appearances, had lain down to rest a short distance
from the camp to escape the hubbub and confusion occasioned by the
presence of so many wounded and dying. That he was entirely unsuspicious
of personal danger was evident from this fact.
Mansfield was too excited and fearful of awakening him to even whisper
or suggest anything to Peterson. The latter, coolly and deliberately,
stepped forward and removed the rifle from the nerveless embrace of
McGable; then, stooping gently, pulled his knives from his girdle. This
done, Peterson cocked his own gun, and holding it pointed toward the
breast of the renegade, said:
"Now wake him, Mansfield--give him a kick on the shins, and don't be
afraid of hurting him."
Our hero gave him a gentle touch with his foot, which, failing to have
effect, he increased to a kick. Seeing him make a movement as though
awakening, he stepped back as directed. The renegade, mumbling to
himself, finally opened his eyes and stared bewilderingly about him,
seemingly totally unable to comprehend his whereabouts.
"Mr. Thomas McGable, Esq., I believe," said Peterson, with much gravity,
without removing the aim of his rifle.
[Illustration: "'Mr. Thomas McGable, Esq., I believe,' said Peterson
with much gravity, without removing the aim of his rifle."]
"Who the devil are you?" demanded the renegade.
"Your master, sir."
"We'll see about that. Where--"
He paused as he reached for his rifle and found it gone; and his
astonishment turned to furious indignation when he discovered that his
knives had also been removed.
"What in the name of the furies are you doing with my arms?"
"Jest sot 'em one side for fear you might hurt yourself."
"See here, I understand your game, but it won't do. You think I'm your
prisoner, eh? Did you know there is a hundred Shawnees within calling
distance, who'd cut you to pieces ef they knowed you war here. Now, if
you don't hand me my gun and knives back, they'll do it. I call 'em and
then you may whistle for your hair."
Peterson's face grew as black as a thunder-cloud, and his eyes fairly
scintillated with fierceness.
"Tom McGable," said he, in a voice as deep and rumbling as the distant
thunder, "we come after _you_. You've _got to go back_ to the settlement
with us, and it don't matter whether you're dead or alive! I've swore
that I will bring you back with me, and ef I thought it would be any
trouble to drive you thar, I'd shoot you through your black heart this
minute, grab you by the neck, and drag you along. You can holler to the
Shawnees, but it would never do _you_ any good; you'd never live to see
'em. Ef I hadn't made a promise, I'd knife you this minute. Tom McGable,
you may take yer choice; you can either git up and walk along jist as we
tell you, without making the least noise, or you can set still and be
shot on the ground there. It don't make a bit of difference to me, but
one or t'other has got to be done. I'll give you four seconds and a half
to decide in. Ef you ain't started by that time, I'll shoot, by
thunder!"
During the utterance of these words, the renegade manifested a curious
compound of emotions. First indignation and blustering bravado were
depicted upon his snaky face; this gave way to doubt and hesitation, and
when the last expletive fell from Peterson's lips, he was the embodiment
of trembling, craven-hearted fear.
"What--what will you do with me?" he asked tremblingly.
"Kill you, like as not."
"What do you want me for?"
"Come, you going to start? Your time's up. Speak quick!"
Pale as death and muttering a fearful curse, the renegade arose to his
feet and faltered that he was ready.
"Trot along then, and we'll foller."
"Which way you going? This way?" he asked, turning his face in the
direction of the Indian camp.
"I ruther guess not at present. Turn round t'other way 'zactly, don't
turn your head, or try to come any of your dodges, for the minute you
do, you'll be hacked to flinders, shot, and yur ha'r raised."
McGable wheeled around in the direction indicated, and started forward,
our two friends following him closely. It was now quite dark, and the
gloom in the wood was intense. There was no moon, and the sky was still
cloudy and obscured. When the darkness became so great, Peterson took
the renegade by one arm, Mansfield by the other, and the trio thus
proceeded.
After walking an hour or so, the renegade, probably finding there was no
immediate, personal danger, regained in some degree his courage and
ventured to speak.
"I'd like to ask you a question. No 'bjection I s'pose."
"Not as long as you're respectful to your 'speriors," replied the
ranger.
"Wal, then, how come you to find me?"
"We looked for ye."
"I s'pose, but you didn't s'peck I was such a cussed fool to go off in
the woods to sleep, did you? Leastways, I didn't s'peck I was myself."
"No, it was kinder accident that we found you."
"S'pose so. How was it you was so well fixed at the block-house for us.
How did you find out we were coming?"
Peterson reflected a moment before replying to this question. He was in
doubt whether a disclosure would not be dangerous to the Frontier Angel.
He asked Mansfield's advice upon it, and the two fell behind and debated
it in an undertone for a few moments. They came to the same conclusion,
that, as McGable was already condemned to death, and there seemed no
possibility of his escape, there could be no harm in letting him know
the truth. This decided, they stepped forward, took him by the arms, and
the ranger replied, or rather asked:
"S'posen we tell you; what of it?"
"Oh nothin', only I thought I'd like to know before I died. There's a
gal that's called the Frontier Angel, that I've had my s'picion of. I've
told the Shawnees of it, but she acts so good, they won't believe it.
Didn't she have nothing to do with telling you?"
"Yes, she told us."
"So I thought. It's lucky the Injins won't believe it."
"Now I wish to ask you a question," said Mansfield.
"Wal, what is it?"
"Who is Frontier Angel?"
The renegade maintained silence for several minutes till our hero
repeated in a louder tone.
"Who is the person they call Frontier Angel? Do you know?"
"Yes, but I cannot tell you."
"Why not? I am sure it can do no harm."
"P'r'aps not, but _I can't tell you_. Let that be the answer."
"I am not willing that it shall be. I insist that you tell or give some
reason for not doing so."
"I'll give you the reason, then. I know who she is, but have sworn never
to tell a white, and I swear agin I never will."
"In that case, I have no right to question you further."
The renegade made no reply, and the three continued their journey for a
considerable distance in silence, when he said:
"There's one thing, howsumever, I'll tell you without the axing. The gal
they call the Frontier Angel _is crazy_!"
Mansfield started painfully at this.
"What made her crazy?" he asked, forgetting himself.
"Don't ax me, fur I can't tell you any more."
"She ain't white, is she?" demanded Peterson. "Won't hurt yer, I guess,
ef you let us know that much."
"I won't tell you no more, so you can both dry up."
The journey was now continued without a word being spoken by any. The
renegade seemed sullen and moody and maintained silence. His remarks had
set both Peterson and Mansfield to thinking. It was not the first time
they had both puzzled themselves thus. Who could the singular Frontier
Angel be? was the all-absorbing question. She was crazy! that accounted
for the reverence and awe in which she was held by the Indians. And yet
her manner had never awakened the remotest suspicion that such was the
case among the whites with whom she had come in contact. That accounted
for the temerity with which she executed the holy object of her
life--that of befriending the whites in peril.
Despite the improbability of the case, Mansfield could not avoid the
thought that she was a white person. He could form no possible reason
for thus thinking, and yet the thought would present itself. At last he
imparted his singular idea to Peterson. The latter dissipated it at once
by telling him that such could not be the case. Dingle, who knew as
much, if not more of her than any of the rangers, assured him that he
had noticed her features and face to satisfy himself, as he entertained
and had heard so many doubts expressed about it. She had the black eyes
and hair of the Indian, although the prominent cheek-bones and several
other characteristics of the race were wanting. But the skin showed
unmistakably that she belonged to the aboriginals.
"But where has she obtained that perfect knowledge of the English tongue
that she evinces in her conversation?"
"Dick can't answer that, but h'yers as thinks that goes to show she's a
sperit sure, 'cause if she ain't, what else can she be?"
This set Mansfield's thoughts in another direction. A darker picture
presented itself. The refusal of McGable to answer his question added
life to the picture, and our hero became satisfied that he had now
struck the truth.
"Isn't she your _wife_, Tom McGable?" he asked, bending his mouth close
to the ear of the renegade.
The latter started, as if stung by a serpent, trembled and breathed hard
for a moment, but made no answer. Mansfield repeated his question in a
more peremptory tone, but it was of no avail: the renegade had
resolutely sealed his lips.
This, together with his manner, demonstrated to a certainty to
Mansfield, that the Frontier Angel had been or was now the Indian wife
of McGable. She had married him, he believed, when she dreamt not what a
black heart she was taking to her bosom. Goaded by his cruelty and the
subsequent knowledge of his awful crimes against his own race, her
reason had become dethroned. And the safety of the people, that was the
object of eternal hatred to her husband, now became the burden of her
life. The change from the natural aversion which she, as an Indian, felt
to the whites, to that of friendship and love for them, he believed was
due to the unbounded horror created in her mind by the atrocities of
McGable. It was one of those singular phenomena which the human mind
often presents. Mansfield, previous to this, had felt some slight degree
of compassion for their captive, but it was all gone now. The man who,
independent of the last-named crime, could bring himself to forswear and
massacre his own kindred, without a shadow of provocation upon their
part, he felt deserved any death that the ingenuity of man could invent.
The march of the three was continued all through the night, and the halt
in the morning was of but a few minutes duration, as Peterson felt
fearful of pursuit in case the absence of the renegade was discovered. A
short time after, the settlement was in sight, and before twenty minutes
more had passed, Tom McGable, the notorious renegade, was ushered within
the palisades by our two friends.
The astonishment and rejoicing created by his capture were unbounded. He
was taken at once to the block-house and placed in the upper story, from
which it was impossible for him to escape. There had been quite a heavy
reward offered for his apprehension, and the commander assured Peterson
and Mansfield that, as soon as it could be secured, they should have it.
The latter, however, refused to receive any portion, as he had rendered
no assistance worthy of mention in the capture of the prisoner.
The excitement became so great among the settlers that the commander, to
quiet them, gave out that the garrison would determine what should be
done with McGable at once. Abbot, hearing this, requested the commander
that he might be allowed, as a great favor, to see the prisoner alone
for a short time. The peculiar circumstances of the stricken father
being known, this request was granted; and McGable, under charge of
Dingle--who asserted that he had been cured by his capture--and the
officious Jenkins, was conducted to Abbot's house. There being but one
door by which the lower story could be entered the guards remained
outside, and Abbot found himself face to face with the man who had so
well-nigh killed his entire family at one blow. Mrs. Abbot, not wishing
to be present at such an interview, had purposely absented herself, and
the two, the murderer and the murdered, we might almost say, were alone.
Abbot gave the renegade a seat, and then sat himself in front of him,
where he could look directly into his face.
"I have petitioned that I might see you alone, McGable," commenced
Abbot, in a low, quiet tone, "in order that I might ask you something,
which, perhaps, you suspect. God knows that I have no desire to revenge
myself upon you. Only grant me this privilege, and I will forgive you,
McGable, for the awful crime you have committed. Last spring I sent
Marian upon a flat-boat, expecting to rejoin her in this settlement a
few months later. Instead of reaching her destination, the boat was
decoyed and all on board murdered, with the exception of Peterson, who
effected his escape. He left Marian dying, he believed, upon the boat as
he sprang away. Had he left her dead, this interview would not have been
sought by me. But there has been a doubt ever since in the mind of her
mother and myself, of the _manner in which_ she died,--for we do not
pretend to hope that she survived. This doubt has so troubled us, that I
have tried all means of solving it. You must know the circumstances,
McGable, and now a broken-hearted father appeals to you to give this
knowledge, and set his trouble forever at rest."
While Abbot was uttering these words, the renegade sat like a demon
incarnate, his eyes blazing with the most baleful passion. His teeth
were set and he drew his breath hard and gaspingly through them. He
controlled this whirlwind of fury, in a measure, before Abbot had
finished, and when he spoke it was in the low, frightful voice of
suppressed passion.
"Richard Abbot, your daughter refused me, and I swore I would be
revenged. I joined the Shawnees as Simon Girty and others did, but I
kept watch upon your settlement. I found out that you was going to send
her to this place in company with others. Then I cac'lated the time had
come, and was only sorry that _you_ wasn't there, too, that you could
have been tomahawked, too! I found out when the boat started, and it was
dogged till it reached the right spot, when we came down upon it. Don't
ax me no more. I've had my revenge, and that's enough."
The stricken-hearted man sat as pale and silent as death while these
burning words were being uttered. It was not his emotions alone that
made him thus, but the mighty struggle it took to control them.
"Will you not tell me?" he asked, in a voice of wailing agony that it
would have melted the heart of human.
"_No_; I'll tell you nothing!" fairly shouted McGable, glaring like a
tiger upon him.
"Once more I ask you, McGable, and in the name of Heaven do not refuse
me. Was Marian killed outright?"
"None your business," was the sullen reply.
Such a sudden dizziness came over Abbot at this point, that, for fear of
fainting, he arose and hurried into the room which occupied the same
floor, and which connected with the one in which he had been sitting. He
hoped to return in a moment, and was so bewildered and overcome that he
only thought of being alone till he could regain his self-command. It is
said the Old Boy himself sometimes helps his favorites. Whether such is
the the case we are not prepared to say; but what now took place is
enough to make us skeptical, to say the least.
Most singularly it happened that just before Abbot withdrew, Dingle felt
a sudden return of his sickness of the morning. It was so violent that
his iron will could not resist it, and he staggered away for the same
purpose of being alone; for, if our readers have noticed it, it is
almost invariably the case that when a man, unaccustomed to sickness, is
suddenly taken, his first wish is to be alone with himself. He felt,
too, that perfect recklessness which is apt to come over us at such
times, in regard to temporal matters, and had Dingle been admonished at
this particular moment of his imprudence, his probable reply would have
been that McGable might go to perdition for all he cared. Thus it
happened that the terrible renegade was left with no guard at all except
Jenkins.
Even then it might not have happened so unfortunately, had not the
last-named individual taken it into his head to ascertain how matters
were progressing inside. Being left without the companionship of Dingle,
it was perfectly natural that he should take this means of passing away
time.
"Hello! inside there, you, how you getting along?" he called out, poking
his head in at the door. Receiving no reply, he shoved his head further
in, and then made the discovery that the renegade was standing alone in
the middle of the floor. "Hello! all alone, eh? what you thinking about?
Your sins, I s'pose. Shouldn't wonder now if you did feel sorter down in
the mouth."
"What do you want?" gruffly demanded McGable.
"Oh, nothing in particular. Dick has just gone off to see the doctor to
get some medicine to take for the gripes he has just got, and I thought
I'd look in to pass away time till he comes back."
"Where is he?" asked the man quickly, vainly striving to conceal his
agitation.
"Just off here, a little ways. If you want to see him, I'll call him."
"Never mind."
"I s'pose now--umph!"
The last exclamation of Jenkins was perfectly involuntary, and caused by
receiving a terrific blow from the foot of the renegade, directly in the
stomach, which doubled him up like a jack-knife. As he gasped and rolled
over upon the grass, McGable shot over his head like an arrow, and
bounded away for the palisades. Nearly all the men were at the
block-house, debating upon his fate, but several descried the flying
fugitive, and shouted the alarm. An instant after he scaled the
palisades, and Peterson and several other rangers sped across the
clearing in pursuit. Dingle, who had nearly recovered, raised a regular
war-whoop, and joined in the chase.
Late at night, several of the pursuers returned, moody and sullen with
their ill success. In the morning, another made his appearance with the
intelligence that Dingle and Peterson were still in rapid pursuit, but
there was little hope of overtaking the renegade, as he possessed a
wonderful fleetness of foot, and in all probability had given them the
slip during the night.
So it proved. Some time after the two rangers returned and confirmed
this suspicion. They had not even caught a glimpse of him after he
crossed the clearing and entered the wood.