WITHIN THE LONE CABIN
The delay which kept Dane Norwood at Fort Howe as chief witness against
the two rebel leaders was hard for him to endure. He longed to be away
in his search for the missing girl. At times he was like a caged lion
just from the jungle, and threatened bodily harm to a number of
soldiers of the garrison. When at last free, he and Pete lost no time
in heading up the river, straight for the little settlement below Oak
Point. Here he was joyfully received by the Loyalists, and the scraps
of news he was enabled to impart were eagerly received and discussed
for days. He told them of the trial and conviction of Flazeet and
Rauchad, and that their punishment would undoubtedly be very severe.
He related the hardships of the Loyalists who had come to Portland
Point with the fall fleet. Some had gone up river, but others, chiefly
disbanded soldiers, were having a serious time. They had pitched their
tents in a most exposed place, thatched them with spruce boughs, and
banked them with snow. But the suffering was so terrible that numbers
had already died. This was sad news to the settlers, and they
considered themselves fortunate in their comfortable abodes, with
sufficient food and fuel to last them through the hard winter.
Colonel Sterling had aged greatly since Dane last saw him. He was much
stooped, and his hair and beard whiter than ever. His eyes expressed
the agony of his soul. They, more than anything else, revealed to Dane
what he had undergone since the loss of his daughter. He uttered no
complaint, and when the young man entered his house he had asked no
questions. He knew all too well that Dane's search had been in vain.
He said little that evening, but listened with bowed head as the
courier related his experiences during the past few weeks. But Old
Mammy was not so reticent, and asked Dane no end of questions, and
begged him to bring back her lost darling.
"De Lo'd will not let dem Injuns keep my lil'l lamb," she declared.
"Yo' kin find her, Mistah Dane, an' bring her back to me. I pray fo'
her ebbery night an' all tro de day. I know yo' will come agin, an'
bring my los' lamb wif yo'."
The next day Dane and Pete left the settlement and headed up river.
They started early and travelled hard. They were well aware that a
storm was not far off, so Dane wished to be well up the Washademoak
before the tempest burst. He knew of the band of Indians far inland,
and there he hoped to find Jean. It was the most likely place where
she would be taken, so he reasoned. But if he could not find her
there, he would no doubt learn something of her whereabouts.
He parted with Pete at the entrance to this stream early that
afternoon, as he wished to send the Indian to Oromocto with a message
to Davidson. As for himself he could not take the time to go as every
hour was precious. With feverish haste he pressed on alone, planning
to travel all night, if possible. It was a dreary and desolate region
through which he moved, with not a sign of life anywhere. His
snow-shoes bent and creaked beneath his great strides, tossing the snow
aside like spray from a ship's bow. The weight of his musket, and the
pack of food upon his back impeded him not in the slightest degree. He
was a giant of the trail, sturdy of body, sound in wind, and possessed
of remarkable endurance. He had to be all these to be chief of the
royal rangers in the service of William Davidson. He knew what it was
to travel day and night, bearing some message of importance, so the
journey ahead was nothing out of the ordinary. But he had a greater
mission now than ever before, and this inspired him to more strenuous
efforts. The vision of a fair face was constantly with him, and the
thought that Jean needed his help drove him forward like the wind.
The short afternoon was waning as he rounded a bend in the stream. To
the left was a small cove, and it was here that one of the trails
overland to the Great Lake and the river beyond began. Dane knew of
the log cabin tucked away among the trees which served as a
resting-place to weary travellers. He had often stopped there, but he
had no intention of doing so now when every minute was so precious.
Keeping straight on his way, he had almost reached the point on the
upper side of the cove, when he came across a well-beaten trail leading
to the cabin. He examined it carefully and with considerable interest.
He knew at once that a large body of men had recently passed that way,
and he wondered who they could be.
Dane's suspicions at once became aroused, for who else but the slashers
would be travelling in a body from the Washademoak? He did not relish
the idea of stopping to investigate, but he knew that this was his duty
as a King's ranger. With a slight exclamation of annoyance, he went
ashore and plunged into the forest in order to come close to the cabin
under cover of the trees. It would not do to follow in on the beaten
trail lest the slashers should be near. He must not be seen by his
old-time enemies, so caution was necessary.
It took him but a short time to come in sight of the cabin, and when a
few rods away he paused and listened. But not a sound could he hear,
so thus emboldened, he stepped up close to the door. The snow around
the building had been beaten down by numerous moccasined feet, and
looking to the right, he saw where the visitors had left the place by
the overland route.
And as he stood there a groan from within the cabin fell upon his ears,
followed by a weak, wailing cry for help. Quickly he pushed open the
door and entered. At first he could see nothing, but as his eyes
became accustomed to the darkness, he detected a form huddled upon the
floor, almost at his feet.
"What's wrong?" he asked.
"I'm dying!" was the reply. "Fer God's sake, help me!"
"Who are you, anyway? and what has happened?"
"I'm Bill Botreau, an' the slashers have fixed me. Tom's dead. That's
him jist over there."
Drawing a small candle from his pocket, Dane stepped over to the
fire-place, and lighted it at one of the live coals which still
remained. He was thus enabled to see more clearly, and the sight which
met his eyes gave him a severe shock. Everything in the room was
smashed to pieces, table, benches, and bunks. It was evident that a
great fight had taken place, and the victors had departed leaving their
two victims upon the floor.
Dane paid no heed to the dead man in a corner of the room, but turned
his attention to the wounded one near the door. He could not see his
face, and as he looked he gave a sudden start, for lying before him was
one of the three men who had attacked him at Portland Point.
"Where are you hurt?" he asked.
"Here," and the man placed his hand to his left side. "One of them
devils jabbed me with his knife. Oh!" His hand dropped, and his face
became distorted with pain.
Dane felt certain that the injured man could live but a short time, so
he must gain all the information possible. He stooped and held the
candle low.
"Do you know me?" he asked.
The prostrate man stared hard at his face for a few seconds, but
manifested no sign of recognition.
"I guess you don't," Dane continued. "But I know you as one of the men
who attacked me last May at Portland Point. I am Dane Norwood, the
King's ranger."
"Good Lord!" Botreau gasped. "Do it quick, then, fer God's sake."
"Do what?"
"Finish what them devils nearly did. I deserve it."
"I'm not a brute even if you are," Dane declared. "I want to help you,
not kill you."
"But I'm beyond help, an' will soon be like Tom there."
"How did it happen?"
"Too much rum an' a fight. We've not been on good terms with the gang
since Seth Lupin's death. They blamed us fer their troubles."
"What! Is Seth dead? Who killed him?" This was important news to
Dane.
"Yes, Seth's dead, but who killed him I don't know. It was awful!"
"Where? When?"
"Up stream, just outside the lodge where the Indians had left the
Colonel's daughter."
He paused, but Dane laid a heavy hand upon his shoulder.
"Go on," he ordered, in a voice filled with intense excitement. "Where
is the girl? Is she safe?"
"Blamed if I know. We got them Injuns to carry her off fer Seth. Then
that night jist as he was about to enjoy her company something
happened. Me an' my pardners were waitin' fer him to come back, but he
never came. At last gittin' anxious, we went to see what was the
matter, an' there we found Seth layin' on the ground dead. I tell you
it was awful. I ain't been any good since."
"What became of the girl?" Dane questioned.
"I don't know. She was gone when we got to the lodge. It must have
been the devil that killed Seth an' carried off the girl."
"Nonsense," Dane impatiently chided. "Don't be such a fool as to
believe that."
"But if you'd seen the marks upon Seth's throat, you'd say it was the
work of the devil, an' no human bein'. An' there are others who think
the same, too."
"What happened after that?"
"The gang came, an' they chased Injun Sam. But they made a mess of
that job, an' got scared 'most to death."
"What did they chase Sam for?"
"Oh, some thought that he was the one who killed Seth an' carried off
the girl. He had been seen hangin' around, an' so he was suspected.
But it wasn't Sam, I tell ye. It was the devil, an' they found that
out to their sorrow."
"In what way?"
"They were campin' one night in the woods when in a twinklin' they were
all knocked senseless. When they came to, their guns, grub, an'
everything else was gone. Now, if the Injuns had done it, they
wouldn't have left one of the gang alive. They were 'most scared to
death, so they are certain now that it was the devil."
"So you haven't heard anything more about the Colonel's daughter?" Dane
queried.
"Nuthin'."
All this was valuable news to Dane, and it filled him with a great
hope. He was not superstitious, so the idea of the devil did not
affect him in the least. It was Sam, no doubt, who had rescued Jean,
and was taking good care of her. His heart now was lighter than it had
been since her capture. But where was Sam? He must find him as soon
as possible. He knew where he generally camped, so he determined to go
there at once.
In his excitement he had forgotten, however, about the slashers who had
recently left the cabin. But his mind reverted to them as he looked at
the helpless, suffering creature before him.
"Where are the slashers going?" he asked.
"Against the mast-cutters," was the reply. "They have been plannin'
this fer some time, an' are expectin' to meet the men from the north
to-morrow. I hope to God they'll git the surprise of their lives.
They're devils, that's what they are, an' I hope the mast-cutters'll
kill every damn one of them. Look what they've done to me an' Tom."
"When are they planning to attack the mast-cutters?"
"Sometime to-morrow night. They're plannin' to murder every one of
them. An' they'll do it fer sure, the devils, unless the mast-cutters
are warned."
This Dane realised was only too true, and the blood surged madly
through his veins. He must reach the camp first and warn the men of
their danger. And he would lead them against the slashers, for nothing
would give him greater satisfaction than to surprise and confound those
skulking rebels. His heart turned toward Jean, and he longed to go in
search of her. But now, as when standing near that line drawn in the
sand, duty came first. He felt that Jean was safe, but the lives of
the King's men were at stake, so there must be no hesitation on his
part. But what was he to do with the injured man? That he was in a
critical condition, he was well aware, but how bad he did not know. It
was getting dark now, and he could not delay much longer.
"When did the slashers leave here?" he asked.
"When?" Botreau repeated in a dazed manner. "I don't know when. But
it seems an age."
"Then, I must get ahead of them, and warn the mast-cutters."
But the stricken man gave a pitiful cry, and reaching out, caught Dane
feebly by the hand.
"Don't leave me," he pleaded. "I'm dyin', an' I'm afraid to die alone.
Oh, it's terrible here, an' I'm gettin' so weak. I wonder what makes
this room so dark. An' it's cold, too. Fix the fire, won't ye, an'
lay me near it."
Dane stooped and held the candle close to the man's face. He knew that
he was dying, bleeding to death, for the floor was wet with blood.
There was nothing that he could do, and of no use would it be to attend
to the fire. No earthly heat could now warm the body of the wretched
man before him. All he could do was to watch and wait while the life
slowly ebbed away.
For a few minutes silence reigned in the room, broken only by the dying
man's laboured breathing. At length he slightly lifted his head and
looked wildly around.
"Keep back!" he cried. "Don't touch me! I didn't steal the girl! I
didn't, I say!"
"Hush, hush," Dane soothed, kneeling by his side and taking his hand in
his. "I won't let anything touch you."
But nothing could comfort the unhappy man. He fought his imaginary
foe, and pleaded to be saved.
"It's the devil that did it, I tell ye," he wailed. "Look, there's the
marks of his fingers upon Seth. Don't let him get me, for God's sake,
don't!"
Never before had Dane been in such an awkward predicament. It was hard
to listen to the raving man when he could do nothing to help him. And
all the time it was getting later, and he should be on his way to warn
the King's men. He rose to his feet, stepped to the door, and looked
out. It was blowing hard, and he knew that the storm was not far off.
He must get away before it burst.
A peculiar sound from the man on the floor caused him to hasten to his
side. In an instant he saw that all was over, and that the earthly
career of Bill Botreau was ended.
There was little now that Dane could do. He did not fancy the idea of
leaving the bodies lying there uncovered, so going outside he cut and
carried in a large armful of spruce boughs. These he spread carefully
over the bodies.
"It is more than your own gang would do," he mused. "You were
contemptible men, I know, but not as bad, perhaps, as those villains
who left you here. They must be checked and paid back in double coin
for all their devilish work, and I want to be on hand when payment is
being made."