THE DEAD SHOT.
And now 'tis still I no sound to wake
The primal forest's awful shade;
And breathless lies the covert brake,
Where many an ambushed form is laid.
I see the red-man's gleaming eye,
Yet all so hushed, the gloom profound,
That summer birds flit heedlessly,
And mocking nature smiles around.--LUNT.
Five years have passed. It is the summer of 1825. In that
comparatively brief period, what vast changes have taken place! How
many have come upon and departed from the stage of life! How many
plans, intentions and resolutions have been formed and either failed
or succeeded! How many governments have toppled to the earth, and
followed by "those that in their turn shall follow them." What a
harvest it has been for Death!
The missionary's cabin stands on the Clearing where it was first
erected, and there is little change in its outward appearance, save
that perhaps it has been more completely isolated from the wood. The
humble but rather massive structure is almost impervious to the touch
of time. It is silent and deserted within. Around the door plays a
little boy, the image of his mother, while some distance away, under
the shadow of the huge tree, sits the missionary himself. One leg is
thrown over the other, an open book turned with its face downward upon
his lap, while his hands are folded upon it, and he is looking off
toward the wood in deep abstraction of thought. Time has not been so
gentle with Harvey Richter. There are lines upon his face, and a sad,
wearied expression that does not properly belong there. It would have
required full fifteen years, in the ordinary course of events, to have
bowed him in this manner.
The young man--for he is still such--and his little boy are the only
ones who now dwell within the cabin. No tidings or rumors have reached
him of the fate of his wife, who was so cruelly taken from him four
years before. The faithful Teddy is still searching for her. The last
two winters he has spent at home, but each summer he has occupied in
wandering hither and thither through the great wilderness, in his
vain searching for the lost trail. Cast down and dejected, he has
never yet entirely abandoned hope of finding traces of her. He had
followed out the suggestion of the trapper, and visited the Indians
that dwelt further north, where he was informed that nothing whatever
was known of the missing woman. Since that time his search had been
mostly of an aimless character, which, as we have already stated,
could be productive of no definite results.
The missionary had become, in a degree, resigned to his fate; and yet,
properly speaking, he could not be said to be resigned, for he was not
yet convinced that she was entirely lost to him. All traces of the
strange hunter seemed irrecoverably gone, but Richter still devoutly
believed the providence of God would adjust everything in due time. It
is true, at seasons, he was filled with doubt and misgiving; but his
profession, his devotedness to his work, brought him in such close
communion with his divine Master that he trusted fully in his
providences.
On this summer afternoon, thoughts of his wife and of the strange
hunter occupied his mind more exclusively than they had for a year
past. So constant and preoccupying, indeed, were they, that he once
or twice believed he was on the eve of learning something regarding
her. While engaged in reading, the figures of his wife and the hunter
would obtrude themselves; he found it impossible to dismiss them, so
he had laid down the book and gone off into this absorbing reverie.
An additional fear or presentiment at times haunted the mind of the
missionary. He believed this hunter who could resort to such
diabolical means to revenge himself, would seek to inflict further
injury upon him, and he instinctively looked upon his boy as the
vulnerable point where the blow would be likely to fall. For over a
year, while Teddy was absent, Richter had taken the boy with him, when
making his daily visits to the village, and made it a point never to
lose sight of him. During these years of loneliness, also, Harvey
Richter had hunted a great deal in the woods and had attained
remarkable skill in the use of the rifle--an accomplishment for which
he had reason to be thankful for the remainder of his life, as we
shall presently see. On a pleasant afternoon, he frequently employed
himself in shooting at a target, or at small game in the lofty trees
around him, until his aim became so unerring that not a warrior among
the Sioux could excel him. It may seem singular, but our readers will
understand us when we say that this added to his popularity--and, in a
manner, paved a way for reaching many a heart that hitherto had
remained unmoved by his appeals.
The year preceding, an Indian had presented the missionary with a
goat, to the neck of which was attached a large cow-bell, that
probably had been obtained of some trader. Where the animal came from,
however, he had never been able to tell. It was a very acceptable
present, as it became a companion for his Charley, who spent many and
many an hour in sporting with it. It also afforded for a while a
much-valued luxury in the shape of milk, so that the missionary came
to regard the animal as an indispensable requirement in his household.
The goat acquired a troublesome habit of wandering off in the woods,
with an inclination not to return for several days. From this cause
the bell became useful as a signal to indicate the animal's
whereabouts. It rarely wandered beyond hearing, and caused no more
trouble than would have resulted from a cow under the same
circumstances. For the last few weeks it had been the duty, or rather
privilege, of Charley to bring his playmate home, and the child had
become so expert that the father had little hesitation in permitting
him to go out for it. The parent had misgivings, however, in allowing
him to leave the house, so near dark, to go beyond his sight if not
beyond his hearing; and for some time he had strenuously refused to
permit the boy to go upon his errand; but the little fellow plead so
earnestly, and the father's ever-present apprehensions having
gradually dulled by their want of realization, he had given his
reluctant consent, until it came to be considered the special province
of the boy to bring in the goat every evening just before nightfall.
The afternoon wore away, and still the missionary sat with folded
hands, gazing absently off in the direction of the wood. The boy at
length aroused him by running up and asking:
"Father, it is getting late. Isn't it time to bring Dolly home?"
"Yes, my son; do you hear the bell?"
"Listen!"
The pleasant _tink-a-link_ came with faint distinctness over the still
summer air.
"It isn't far away, my son; so run as fast as you can and don't play
or loiter on the way."
The child ran rapidly across the Clearing in the direction of the
sound, shot into the wood, and, a moment later, had disappeared from
his father's sight.
The father still sat in his seat, and was looking absently toward the
forest, when a startled expression flashed over his face and he sprung
to his feet. What thus alarmed him? _It was the sound of the
goat-bell._
All of my readers who have heard the sound of an ordinary cow-bell
suspended to the neck of an animal, have observed that the natural
sound is an _irregular one_--that is, there is no system or regularity
about the sound made by an animal in cropping the grass or herbage.
There is the clapper's tink-a-link, tink-a-link--an interval of
silence--then the occasional tink, tink, tink, to be followed,
perhaps, by a repetition of the first-named sounds, varied
occasionally by a compound of all, caused by the animal flinging its
head to free itself from troublesome flies or mosquitoes. The bell in
question, however, gave no such sounds _as these_, and it was this
fact which filled the missionary with a sudden, terrible dread.
Suppose a person take one of these bells in his hand, and give a
steady, _uninterrupted_ motion. The consequence must be a regular,
unvarying, monotonous sound, which any ear can distinguish from the
natural one caused by the animal itself. It was a steady tink, tink,
tink, that the bell in question sent forth.
The missionary stood but a moment; then dashing into the house, he
took down his ever-loaded rifle and ran in the direction of the sound.
In his hurry, he forgot powder-horn and bullet, and had, as a
consequence, but a single charge in his rifle. He had gone scarcely a
hundred yards, when he encountered the goat returning home. One glance
showed there was _no bell_ to its neck, while that ominous tink, tink,
tink, came through the woods as uninterruptedly as before.
The father now broke into a swifter run, almost losing his presence of
mind from his great, agonizing fear. The picture of the Indian, whom
he had felled to the floor, when he insulted his wife years before,
rose before him, and he saw his child already struggling in the
savage's merciless grasp. Nearer and nearer he approached the sound,
until he suddenly paused, conscious that it was but a short distance
away. Hurrying stealthily but rapidly several rods to the right, the
whole thing was almost immediately made plain to him.
Two trees, from some cause or other, had fallen to the ground in a
parallel direction and within a yard of each other. Between the trunks
of these an Indian was crouched, who held the goat-bell in his left
hand, and caused the sound which so startled the father. The savage
had his back turned toward the missionary, and appeared to be looking
in the opposite direction, as if he were waiting the appearance of
some one.
While the father stood gazing at this, he saw his boy come to view
about fifty feet the other side of the Indian, and, as if wearied with
his unusual hunt, seat himself upon a log. As soon as the boy was
visible, the savage--whom Richter recognized at once as the same man
that he had felled to the floor of his cabin, four years
before--called into use a little common sense, which, if it had been
practised somewhat sooner, must have completely deluded the father and
accomplished the design meditated. If, instead of giving the bell the
monotonous tink, the Indian had shaken the clapper irregularly, it
would have resulted in the certain capture of the child, beyond the
father's power of aid or rescue.
The missionary, we say, penetrated the design of the Indian almost
instantly. Although he saw nothing but the head and top of one
shoulder, he recognized, with a quick instinct, the villain who had
felt the weight of his hand years before, and who had now come in the
fullness of time, to claim his revenge. Directly in front of the
savage rose a small bush, which, while it gave him a view of the boy,
concealed himself from the child's observation.
The object of the Indian seemed to be to lure the boy within his
reach, so as to secure him without his making an outcry or noise. If
he could draw him close to the logs, he would spring upon him in an
instant, and prevent any scream, which assuredly must reach the
father, who, with his unerring rifle would have been upon the ground
in a few moments. It was an easy matter for the savage to slay the
boy. It would not have done to shoot his rifle, but he could have
tomahawked him in an instant; hence it was plain that he desired only
to take him prisoner. He might have sprung upon his prey in the woods,
but there he ran the risk of being seen by the child soon enough for
him to make an outcry, which would not fail of bringing immediate
assistance. His plan, therefore, was, to beguile the little fellow on
until he had walked directly into the snare, as a fly is lured into
the web of a spider.
This, we say, was the plan of the Indian. It had never entered into
his calculations that the goat, after being robbed of her bell, might
go home and tell a tale, or that there were other ways in which the
boy could be secured, without incurring half the peril he already had
incurred.
The moment the father comprehended what we have endeavored to make
plain, he raised his rifle, with the resolve to shoot the savage
through the head. As he did so, he recalled the fact that he had but a
single charge, and that, as a consequence, a miss would be the
death-warrant of himself as well as of his child. But he knew his eye
and hand would never fail him. His finger already pressed the trigger,
when he was restrained by an unforeseen impediment.
While the deadly rifle was poised, the boy stretched himself up at
full length, a movement which made known to the father that his child
was exactly in range with the Indian himself, and that a bullet
passing through the head of the savage could not fail to bury itself
in the little fellow's body. This startling circumstance arrested the
pressure of the trigger at the very moment the ball was to be sped
upon its errand of death.
The missionary sunk down upon one knee, with the intention of bringing
the head of the savage so high as to carry the bullet over the body of
his boy, but this he found could not be done without too seriously
endangering his aim. He drew a bead from one side of the tree, and
then from the other, but from both stand-points the same dreadful
danger threatened. The ground behind the tree was somewhat elevated,
and was the only spot from which he could secure a fair view of the
bronze head of the relentless enemy.
Two resorts were at the command of Richter. He could leave the tree
altogether, and pass around so as to come upon the savage from a
different direction; but this involved delay during which his boy
might fall into the Indian's power and be dispatched, as he would be
sure to do when he found that the father was close at hand; and from
the proximity of the two men, it could hardly fail to precipitate a
collision between them. The Indian, finding himself at bay, could not
fail to prove a most troublesome and dangerous customer, unarmed, as
Richter was, with weapons for a close encounter.
The father might also wait until the boy should pass out of range.
Still, there was the possibility of his proceeding directly up to the
spot where the savage lurked, thus keeping in range all the while.
Then the attempted rescue would have to be deferred until the child
was in the hands of the savage. These considerations, passing through
Richter's brain much more rapidly than we have narrated them, decided
him to abandon both plans, and to resort to what, beyond question, was
a most desperate expedient.
The Indian held the bell in his left hand. It was suspended by the
string which had clasped the neck of the goat, and, as it swayed
gently back and forth, this string slowly twisted and untwisted
itself, the bell, of course, turning back and forth. The father
determined to slay the Indian and save his son by _shooting this
bell_!
It is not necessary to describe the shape and make of the common
cow-bell in general use throughout our country; but it is necessary
that the reader should bear them in mind in order to understand the
manner in which the missionary proposed to accomplish this result.
His plan was to strike the bell when in the proper position, and
_glance the bullet into the head of the savage_!
The desperate nature of this expedient will be seen at once. Should
the gun be discharged when the flat side of the bell was turned toward
him, the ball would pass through, and most probably kill his child
without endangering the life of the Indian. If it struck the narrow
side, it accomplished neither harm nor good; while, if fired at the
precise moment, and still aimed but an inch too low, the bell would
most likely be perforated. Consequently, it was requisite that the
rifle be discharged at the precise instant of time when the signal
brass was in the correct position, and that the aim should be
infallibly true.
All this Richter realized only too painfully; but, uttering an inward
prayer, he raised his rifle with a nerve that knew no faltering or
fear, holding it pointed until the critical moment should arrive. That
moment would be when the string was wound up, and was turning, to
unwind. Then, as it was almost stationary, he fired.
No sound or outcry betrayed the result; but, clubbing his rifle, the
father bounded forward, over the trees, to the spot where the Indian
was crouching. There he saw him in his death-struggle upon the ground
the bell still held fast in his hand. In that critical moment, Harvey
Richter could not forbear glancing at it. Its top was indented, and
sprinkled with white by the glancing passage of the lead. The blood,
oozing down the face of the savage, plainly showed how unerringly true
had been the aim.
Something in the upward look of the dying man startled the missionary.
"Harvey Richter--don't you know me?" he gasped.
[Illustration: "Harvey Richter--don't you know me?" he gasped.]
"I know you as a man who has sought to do me a wrong that only a fiend
could have perpetrated. Great Heaven! Can it be? Is this you, Brazey
Davis?"
"Yes; but you've finished me, so there isn't much left."
"Are you the man, Brazey, who has haunted me ever since we came in
this country? Are you the person who carried away poor, dear Cora?"
"Yes--yes!" answered the man, with fainting weariness.
Such, indeed, was the case. The strange hunter and the Indian known
as Mahogany were one and the same person.
"Brazey, why have you haunted me thus, and done me this great wrong?"
"I cannot tell. When I thought how you took her from me, it made me
crazy when I thought about it. I wanted to take her from you, but I
wouldn't have dared to do that if you hadn't struck me. I wanted
revenge then."
"What have you done with her?"
"She is gone, I haven't seen her since the day after I seized her,
when a band of Indians took her from me, and went up north with her.
They have got her yet, I know, for I have kept watch over her, and she
is safe, but is a close prisoner." This he said with great difficulty.
"Brazey, you are dying. I forgive you. But does your heart tell you
you are at peace with Him whom you have offended so grievously?"
"It's too late to talk of that now. It might have done years ago, when
I was an honest man like yourself, and before I became a vagabond,
bent on injuring one who had never really injured me."
"It is never too late for God to forgive--"
"Too late--too late, I tell you! _There!_" He rose upon his elbow,
his eyes burning with insane light and his hand extended. "I see
her--she is coming, her white robes floating on the air. Oh, God,
forgive me that I did her the great wrong! But, she smiles upon
me--she forgives me! I thank thee, angel of good----"
He sunk slowly backward, and Harvey Richter eased the head softly down
upon the turf. Brazey Davis was no more.