GONE!
Alas, alas, fair Inez,
She went away with song,
In sounds that sang Farewell, Farewell
To her you've loved so long.--HOOD.
Alertness or watchfulness is sure to succeed the accomplishment of an
enemy's designs. The moment danger is over, then the most vigilant
preparations against it are made. The burglar knows better than to
visit the same house two nights in succession. He is wise enough to
wait until time has lulled the inmates into fancied security.
With such an interest at stake as had Harvey Richter, one may well
believe that no precaution was neglected which could operate to defeat
the designs of the savage whom he had driven in anger from his door.
He changed his hour of visitation from the afternoon to the forenoon.
Teddy needed no admonition against leaving the house during his
absence. He kept watch and ward over the house as if he would atone
by vigilance for past shortcomings.
The missionary had dwelt long enough among the Indians to gain a
pretty accurate estimate of their character. What troubled him most,
therefore, was a conviction that the savage's revenge, though delayed
for ten years, for want of the convenient opportunity, was sure to be
accomplished. He might have gone immediately to the north or east,
there to remain with his own tribe until convinced that the moment had
come to strike the blow--a blow, which no human influence, no personal
danger, no suffering, could persuade him from inflicting upon the
offending white man.
But there was no certainty even of delay. Did the savage believe the
moment to strike propitious, he would be ready for the trial. Even
then, he might be skulking in the woods, with his black eyes fixed
upon the cabin. It will be perceived, that, did he contemplate the
death of either of the parties concerned, he could have compassed it
without difficulty. Opportunities offered every day for the fatal
bullet to reach its mark; but the _insult_ to the Indian was so great,
that he contemplated a far sweeter compensation than death itself.
Whatever that might be, time would be sure to develop it, and that,
too, at the moment when least expected.
This fear became so ever-present and troublesome, that the missionary
made it known in the village, where he could command the services of
half a hundred warriors. A dozen at once made search through the woods
to ascertain whether the savage was concealed anywhere in the
vicinity. One of these chanced upon a trail, which, after following
some distance, was lost in the river. This, however, he pronounced to
be the trail of a _white man_. The suspected Indian evidently, had
fled, and no trace was discovered of him.
Another source of annoyance was opened to Harvey. Since the shot at
Teddy, nothing had occurred to remind them of the existence of the
strange hunter, whose mysterious warnings had accompanied their advent
into the country. Richter could not believe that the man had left
altogether, but regarded his actions with considerable equanimity, as
it was apparent that his warning shots were intended rather to
frighten than to kill. Harvey never would converse with his wife about
this white foe, and had cautioned Teddy not to allude to him in her
presence. The missionary had a strong hope that, some day, he would
be brought face to face with this stranger, when an explanation would
be secured and the annoyance ended. He therefore repeated his warning
to the Irishman not to shoot the hunter, unless compelled to do so to
save his own life; but rather to use every effort to secure him and
bring him to the cabin.
About a week after the occurrence narrated, Teddy went fishing,
leaving the husband and wife together. He followed the shore of the
river about a half-mile downward, when he settled himself by a huge
rock that projected a few feet into the water. He had just thrown his
line into the stream, when he heard the crackling of bushes behind
him, and, turning, saw the hunter walking in a direction parallel with
the river, with his head bent, as if in thought. Apparently he was
unsuspicious of the presence of any one.
Teddy at once sunk down to screen himself as he watched the movements
of his old foe, out of all manner of patience with himself that he had
left his rifle at home, and possessed only the arms that nature had
furnished him. Still, he resolved that the man should be secured, if
possible.
"Arrah, now, be aisy!" he whispered, "and yees may cotch a fish that
didn't nibble at yer bait. Whisht! but do ye _saa_ him? But _isn't_ he
a strappin' fellow, to be sure--a raal shark ten foot long, with claws
like an alligator!"
The hunter walked but a few rods, when he seated himself upon a fallen
tree, with his back toward the Irishman. This was the coveted
opportunity.
"Yees have got the fellow now, Teddy, barring yees haven't got him at
all, but that ain't saying ye won't get him. Be aisy now, and don't
get excited! Jist be as wise as a rat and as still as a mouse, and
ye'll catch the catamount, if he don't catch you, that is."
These self-admonitions were much needed, for the fellow was all
tremulous with excitement and scarcely able to restrain himself.
Waiting a few moments until he could tone down his nerves, he
commenced making his way toward his victim. He exercised extreme
caution until within a rod, when a twig snapped under his foot. He
made ready to spring, for he was certain of being discovered; but, to
his surprise, the hunter made no motion at all. He evidently was so
absorbed in some matter as to be unconscious of what was passing
around.
Slowly and stealthily Teddy glided toward the man, until he arose
almost to the standing position, not more than a foot distant. Then
slowly spreading out his arms, so as to inclose the form of the
stalwart woodsman, he brought them together like a vise, giving
utterance at the same time to an exultant "whoop."
"Yer days of thramping _this_ country, and alarming paceable
inhabitants are done wid, Mister Anaconda. So jist kaal over
gracefully, say tin Ave Marias, and consider yourself in the hands of
Gabriel sint for judgment."
All this time Teddy had been straining and hugging at the hunter as if
determined to crush him, while he, in turn, had taken it very coolly,
and now spoke in his gruff bass voice:
"Let go!"
"Let go! Well now, that's impudint, ye varlet. As if Teddy McFadden
would let go hook and line, bob and sinker, whin he had got hold of a
sturgeon. Be aisy now; I'll squaze the gizzard and liver iv ye
togither, if ye doesn't yield gracefully."
"Let go, I say! Do you hear?".
"Yis, I hears, and that is the extint--"
Teddy's next sensation was as if a thunderbolt had burst beneath his
feet, for he was hurled headlong full half a rod over the head of the
hunter. Though considerably bruised, he was not stunned by the fall,
and quickly recovered. Scratching his head, he cried:
"Begorrah, but yees can't repate _that_ trick!" making a rush toward
his antagonist, who stood calmly awaiting his onset.
"By heavens, I'll give you something different then!" said the man, as
he caught him bodily in his arms, and running to the edge of the
river, flung him sprawling into it. The water was deep, and it
required considerable struggling to reach the shore.
This last prodigious exhibition of strength inspired the Irishman with
a sort of respect for the stranger. Teddy had found very few men, even
among frontiersmen and Indians, who could compete with him in a
hand-to-hand struggle; yet, there was now no question but what he was
overmatched, and he could but admire, in a degree, the man who so
easily handled his assailant. It was useless to attack the enemy after
such a repulse; so he quietly seated himself upon the shore.
"Would ye have the kindness, ye assassinating disciple of the
crowner's jury, whin yees have jist shown how nately ye can dishpose
of a man like meself, to tell me why it was you run so mighty harrd
whin I took once before after yees? Why didn't ye pause, and sarve me
then jist as ye have done? I'd jist like to know that before we go any
further wid _this_ matter."
"It wasn't because I feared you!" said the hunter, turning sullenly
away, and walking into the wood.
"Farewell!" called out Teddy, waving his hand toward him. "Ye're a
beauty, and yees have quite taking ways wid ye; but it wouldn't be
safe for me to find yees lurking about the cabin, if I had a rifle in
me hand. You'd have trouble to fling a bullet off as ye flung me. Be
jabers, but _wasn't_ that a nate thing, to be sure. I'll bet a
thousand pounds which I niver had, that that fellow could draw the
Mississippi up-stream if he was fairly hitched on to it. Ah, Teddy,
you ain't much, afther all," he added, looking dolefully at his wet
garments.
Teddy had been so completely outwitted that he was unwilling any one
should know it. So he resolved to continue fishing until his clothes
were thoroughly dry, and until he had secured enough fish to repay him
for his journey. It was near the middle of the afternoon, and, as he
had remained at home until the return of the young missionary from
the village, there was nothing to disturb his labor, or sport as it
might be called, except darkness itself.
During this same afternoon, Harvey Richter and his wife were sitting
on a bench in front of their cabin. The day was warm, but, as the
bench always was shaded, it was the ordinary resort of the young
couple when the weather was sultry. The missionary had been reading,
but the volume was laid aside, and he was smilingly watching his wife
as she sported with the boy in her lap. The little fellow was in
exuberant spirits, and the parents, as a matter of course, were
delighted. Finally he betrayed signs of weariness, and in a few
moments was asleep in his mother's arms.
"I think it was a wise thing, for several reasons--that of changing
your hour from the afternoon to the forenoon," said the wife.
"Why do you think so?"
"We all feel more wearied and less inclination at this time of day for
work than we do during the earlier hours. We could then be little
together, but now nothing interferes with our afternoon's enjoyment of
one another's society."
"That is true; but you see the Indians are more likely to be off
fishing or hunting during the earlier part of the day. They have
willingly conformed, however, to the change."
"I think it is more in accordance with your own disposition," smiled
the wife, "is it not?"
"Yes; I am free to admit that my lazy body inclines to quiet and rest
after partaking of a hearty dinner, as I have done to-day."
"If we think of rest at this early stage in our lives, how will it be
when we become thirty or forty years older?"
"I refer only to the temporary rest of the body and mind, such as they
must have after periods of labor and excitement. Such rest the
youngest as well as the oldest requires. Be careful, Cora, you don't
drop the little fellow!"
"Never fear," laughed the mother, as the youngster woke and commenced
several juvenile antics more interesting to the parents than to any
one else:
"How lively!" remarked the proud father. "It seems to me I never saw a
child at his age as bright and animated."
And what father does not hold precisely the same opinion of his young
hopeful?
"Look!" exclaimed the mother, "some one must be coming to see you."
An Indian woman was discernible among the trees, walking along the
path at a rapid walk, as if she were greatly hurried. Her head was
bent, but now and then she raised it and glanced toward the cabin,
showing that that was her destination.
Passing from the shadow of the wood into the Clearing, the missionary
recognized one of the worst women of the tribe. She had scoffed at his
preaching, had openly insulted him, and during the first month or two
had manifested a disposition approaching violence. To this Richter
only answered by kindness; he used every means to conciliate her
good-will, but thus far with indifferent success. Her husband,
The-au-o-too, a warrior favorably inclined toward the white man, was
thoughtful and attentive; and the good minister wondered that the
savage did not restrain these unwomanly demonstrations upon his
squaw's part.
She approached with rapid step, until she stood directly in front of
them. Harvey saw that her countenance was agitated.
"Well, At-to-uck," said he, kindly, "you seem troubled. Is there
anything I can do for you?"
[Illustration: "Well, At-to-uck," said he, kindly, "you seem
troubled."]
"Me ain't trouble," she answered, using English as well as her very
imperfect knowledge would admit. "Me ain't trouble--_me_ ain't."
"Who may it be then?"
"The-au-o-too--he _much_ trouble. Sick--in woods--die--_berry_ sick."
"What do you mean, At-to-uck?" asked the missionary, his interest
strongly awakened. "Has anything befallen your husband?"
"He fall," she answered, eagerly, catching at the helping word, "he
fall--much hurt--die--die--won't got well."
"Where is he?"
She spun around on one foot, and pointed deeper into the woods. "He
dere--lay on back--soon die."
"And he wishes me to see him; is that it?"
She nodded her head vigorously, but made no answer for a moment. Then
she suddenly broke forth:
"Send At-to-uck to git good man--hurry--berry hurry--he die--won't
live. The-au-o-too say hurry--die soon--won't see good man--Riher."
Harvey looked at his wife. "What must I do, Cora? It will not do to
leave you, as Teddy may not return for several hours, and yet this
poor Indian should be attended in his dying moments."
"You should go, Harvey; I will not fear."
He turned to the squaw in perplexity.
"How far away is The-au-o-too?"
"Not much far--soon find--most dead."
"It may be," he said in a low tone, "that he can be got to the house,
although it would be no easy matter for us two to bring him."
"I think your duty calls you to the dying man."
"I ought to be there, but I tell you, Cora, I don't like this leaving
you alone," said he, impressively. "You know we made up our minds that
it should never occur again."
"There must be occasions when it cannot be avoided, and this is one of
them. By refusing to attend this man, you may not only neglect a great
duty, but incur the ill-will of the whole tribe. You know the
disposition of this woman."
The latter, at this point, began to give evidence of agitation, and to
remark in her broken accents that The-au-o-too was dying and would be
dead before they could reach him. The missionary, in sore perplexity,
looked at his wife.
"Go," she said, or rather signified without speaking.
"I will," he said, rising with an air of decision. "God grant I may
never regret this."
"I trust you never will."
He kissed the infant, embraced his wife and then signified to the
squaw to lead the way.
"Keep up a good heart," he added, turning, as he moved away.
The wife smilingly nodded her head but said nothing. It did not escape
the notice of her husband that there were tears in her eyes, and he
half resolved to remain with her after all, but the next moment he
moved on.
The squaw took the well-beaten track, walking very rapidly and often
looking back to see that she was followed. Her strangeness of manner
the missionary attributed to her excitement regarding her husband.
Several times she exhibited hesitation, and once or twice muttered
something that was unintelligible to him.
When they were about half-way to the village, she paused.
"Well, At-to-uck, what is the matter now?"
"Mebbe dead."
"Oh, I hope not," he answered, cheerfully. "Do you turn off here?"
She answered in the affirmative and asked him to lead the way.
"No; I am unacquainted, and you ought certainly to know where to find
your dying husband better than I do."
She took the duty of guide upon herself again, and advanced but a rod,
when she abruptly paused. "Hark! hear groan? Me hear him."
Harvey listened intently but heard nothing. Knowing that the hearing
of the Indians is marvelously acute, he believed the squaw had heard
sounds of distress; but, instead of quickening her steps, she now
moved more slowly than ever.
"Have you lost your way, At-to-uck?"
"No," she answered, in a significant voice.
The suspicions of the missionary that had been slumbering were now
fully roused.
"What do you mean then?"
The squaw turned full around and gave a leer which, if possible, made
her face more hideous than ever. Without thinking Harvey caught her by
the arm and shook her sharply.
"Explain this, At-to-uck. What is the meaning of this?"
"He-he-e-e-e! _big_ fool. The-au-o-too hunt--_no hurt_!"
A sharp reproof arose to the missionary's lips, but deeming it would
be lost upon such a person, he merely turned his back upon her and
walked away. She called and taunted him, but he was the last man who
could have been roused to anger by such means, and he walked, with his
arms folded, slowly and deliberately away toward the path.
It had not occurred, as yet, to the mind of Richter that anything more
than a simple annoyance to himself was contemplated by this
proceeding; but, as he resumed his steps homeward, a suspicion flashed
upon him which almost checked the beating of his heart. "God save it
being so!" was his mental prayer, as he hurried forward. A moment
later he was on a full run.
The afternoon was well advanced, but he soon caught a glimpse of his
cabin through the trees. Before this, however, he had detected the
outcries of his infant, which struck him as a favorable omen, and he
abated his speed somewhat. But, as he came into the Clearing, his
heart gave a great bound, as he saw his child lying upon the ground
some distance from the house. His anxiety was so distressing that he
dashed by it into the cabin.
"Cora, Cora, what is the matter? Where have you concealed yourself?
Why this untimely pleasantry?"
He came out again, caught up the infant and attempted to soothe it,
all the time looking wildly about in the hope of seeing the returning
mother.
"CORA! CORA!" he again called in agonized tones, but the woods gave
back only the hollow echo. For a few moments he was fairly beside
himself; but, at the end of that time, he began to reason more calmly.
He attempted to persuade himself that she might return, but it was
useless; and with a sort of resigned despair, he looked about him for
signs of the manner in which she was taken away.
The most convincing evidence was not wanting. The ground was trampled
and torn, as if there had been a violent struggle; and, inexperienced
as were his eyes, he detected the unmistakable impress of a moccasin
upon the soft earth, and in the grass. The settle, too, was overturned
and the baby lay in the grass as if tossed there by the act of some
other arm, than a mother's.