THE HERMIT AND HIS CAVE.
Now and then a groan parted the lips of the unconscious Virginian, as
the giant rapidly bore him through the wood, throughout the recesses
of which the somber shades of night were gathering.
At length the surface of the ground grew hilly, and the giant
approached so near the Scioto that the swash of the waters against
its new banks could be distinctly heard. He followed the course of
the stream for some distance, when he turned aside, and darted into a
small ravine once the bed of a tributary of the Scioto. In the banks
of the ravine were just discernible several gloomy apertures, into
one of which the backwoodsman disappeared.
Five steps from the orifice brought him to a strong oaken door,
seemingly imbedded in the limestone rock, and a short fumbling in the
gloom above his head threw wide the portal.
Dark as the night without was the gloom beyond the stone threshold;
but a joyful bark greeted the giant’s ears, and a dog sprung forward
to greet him.
“Home again, Wolf,” said the man, securing the door. “And I’ve
brought you a friend--a friend as near dead, I should judge, as you
get them, for, with an arrow sticking near through one, and the
awfulest torn throat you ever saw, things must look dangerous.”
The speaker moved forward, and, without the aid of a light, tenderly
placed Mayne Fairfax upon a couch, deep with soft dressed skins.
Then he ignited a tiny pile of bark films, which soon communicated a
warmth to a heap of sticks, which blazed and crackled with some fury.
“Here, Wolf, quit smelling around the patient,” cried the giant,
turning to his charge. “I’m the doctor in this case, and I’m about
to see what can be done. May be he isn’t so badly hurt as I opine.
That arrow,” he continued, after a long silence, during which he
had critically examined the hunter’s wounds, “that arrow must be
pulled through. I’m not much of a surgeon, but I reckon as how I have
managed some pretty dangerous cases. Here goes! If that arrow ain’t
taken out, a certain young man will never shoulder a rifle again.”
A protuberance on the young hunter’s back told the giant that the
arrow had nearly gone through the body, and delicately, yet firmly,
the rude surgeon set to work. His keen hunting-knife first severed
the shaft; then made the incision, and the remainder of the shaft was
withdrawn. Then some astringent liniment was rubbed on and into the
wounds, which were covered with strong adhesive plasters.
As this operation was completed, Mayne Fairfax groaned and opened his
eyes.
His first inquiry regarded his situation.
“You’re in the home of Bill Hewitt,” answered the giant, “and he has
just pulled the arrow of that madwoman from your body. Luckily, as I
have discovered, it struck no vital part. The deviation of an inch,
either to the right or the left, would have rendered my surgical
operations unnecessary. So you may begin to believe in special
providences.”
Fairfax tried to answer, but the condition of his throat, torn by the
jaws of the gray wolf, baffled him.
“I’ll dress your breathing apparatus right now,” said Hewitt, “and
then I opine you can chatter away like a parrot.”
The young hunter never winced under the pain occasioned by the
dressing of his throat.
“It’s best for you to stay down for a few days,” said Hewitt, after
completing the operation. “Exertion of body may irritate your breast
wound, and end in something disagreeable. I’ll stay with you all the
time, for I don’t go visiting much in these parts, nor these times.
Now just lay still, but talk to me while I get supper for two; tell
me all about yourself, and what brought you alone away down here.
Boy, you look like a Virginian.”
“I am a Virginian,” answered Fairfax, watching the giant’s backwoods
culinary operations. “My name is Fairfax.”
“Fairfax!” cried the backwoodsman, quickly turning upon the speaker.
“What Fairfax?”
“The son of Ronald Fairfax, of Roanoke.”
“I knew him,” said the giant.
“That is singular. When did you leave Virginia?”
“So you’ve got to questioning before you’re half through with your
story, eh?” cried Hewitt, with a strange smile. “Well, I’ll tell you;
but you must go on with _your_ tale; and perhaps I’ll tell you mine,
some day. _Perhaps_, I say, and _some day_. I left Rockbridge county
a matter of twenty-one years ago.”
“Three months since I stood in my father’s house,” resumed young
Fairfax, whose countenance told that he would have questioned
his preserver further; “and were it not for the existence of that
accursed renegade, Jim Girty, I would be there this night.”
“Yes, curse Jim Girty, boy,” muttered Hewitt. “Oh that curses could
kill.”
“Yes, yes,” hissed Mayne Fairfax, and his nervous hands closed
in silent anger. “Near Rockbridge county the family of Nicholas
Morriston rather rashly dwelt alone in the wilderness. The father
was a hotheaded man, who lived in fancied security, while Indian
raids were being made all around him. One night, poor fellow, he paid
dearly for his rashness, for often had I entreated him to remove his
family to a place of safety. One night, I say, when too late to fly,
he paid the penalty attached to stubbornness. But not only did he
suffer, but every member of his family, save _one_, fell beneath the
swoop of the white hawk.”
“The red hawks, you mean,” interrupted Hewitt.
“No, no. The destroying band was led by Jim Girty, whose evil
passions had been inflamed by the beauty, the innocence and grace of
Eudora Morriston.”
“I anticipate the remainder of your narrative, boy,” suddenly
interrupted the giant hermit. “Eudora Morriston is now Jim Girty’s
prisoner, and it is she whom you seek in the land of the dread
Wolf-Queen and her tribe.”
“Yes. By tarrying, perhaps months, in Chillicothe, I might have
secured the assistance of the renowned Simon Kenton; but the thought
of Eudora’s situation--growing more precarious every day--caused me
to spurn the great hunter’s offer, and, alone, I swore to rescue her
or perish in the attempt.”
“You’re a brave boy, a brave boy!” cried the giant, admiringly.
“I had a little boy once--a tiny fellow with golden hair, and the
prettiest eyes you ever saw. But where he is now, God knows. You love
Eudora Morriston?”
A flush suffused Mayne Fairfax’s temples.
“Yes, but she knows it not. I never breathed aught to her of my
passion.”
For a long time the hunter was silent, and the outward workings of
his countenance, told of mental struggles in the mysterious unseen.
“I loved once--a long while ago,” he said, at length, fixing his
gaze upon the reclining hunter. “But I don’t think I love anybody
now, save my boy--wherever he is--and Wolf, here,” and he stroked
the mastiff’s shaggy hide. “These hands,” he quickly continued,
stretching forth his broad palms, “are red with the gore of a
fellow-creature, whose skin was as fair as yours, my boy. With the
brand of Cain upon my brow, I fled Virginia--fled between two days,
and here I am, a cave-hermit, on the verge of fifty years, with a
giant’s frame, unracked by disease; but with hair and beard almost as
white as driven snow.
“Yes, yes,” he continued, as though the young hunter had put a
question, “it is a terrible thing to kill a fellow-creature in the
first heat of passion; but I will not tell you aught further of that
dark night, now. Boy, from that day to this I have not taken a human
life--nor ever will I, not even the life of an Indian. I will assist
you to recover the sweet creature you seek--together we will snatch
her, unharmed, from the fangs of the white wolf--Jim Girty; but into
whatever precarious situations we may fall, remember, boy, that these
hands shed no human blood. These fists are enough for a score of
red-skins. They have proved themselves thus in times gone by. But
here, our supper is ready. I’ll prop you up with these skins, and you
can make out to eat, I hope.”
The repast proved quite nutritious to Mayne Fairfax, and not a word
passed between the twain until it had ended, and the still smoking
remains thrown to Wolf.
“Boy, did you ever hear your father speak of William Hewitt?”
suddenly questioned the giant.
“Never to my knowledge,” answered the young man.
“Strange, when we knew each other so well,” soliloquized the hermit,
in a semi-audible tone. “But, perhaps, he would have his heirs remain
ignorant of that dark night, as well he might. But, my boy, I’d give
my right arm, nay, my very life, to know what became of him--my boy.”
“I will make every inquiry when I return,” said Fairfax.
“But how shall I know the result of your inquiries?”
“I will return and make them known to you.”
“How can I reward you?” cried Hewitt, grasping the young man’s hands.
“Say nothing about that. I am already rewarded. But--what was that?”
“My door-bell,” said the giant, with a smile, as he rose to his feet
and hastened to the mouth of the cave.
A minute later Fairfax heard the massive oaken door open and close,
and a confused murmur of voices approaching him.
“Boy,” suddenly said the giant, leading a tall and athletic young
Indian into the mellow light of the fire, “here is the only visitor I
have. The Bible says that it is not good for man to be alone always,
so I picked up a companion. This is Oonalooska, the bravest young
warrior of his tribe.”
Mayne Fairfax stretched forth his hand, and the young brave pressed
it with no small degree of feeling.
“So the madwoman struck the white hunter?” said Oonalooska, half
interrogatively, still retaining Fairfax’s hand.
“Yes; her shaft pierced my breast, and her wolf tore my throat.”
“She will be like a great storm now,” returned the Shawnee, “because
one of her wolves is dead. Oonalooska fears for the Pale Flower in
the Shawnee village.”
“Then she is there!” cried the young hunter, with eagerness.
“Yes,” answered Oonalooska, “she is under the fiery eyes of the White
Wolf, and unless he guards her well, Alaska will tear her from him,
and put her to the torture.”
“No, no!” cried Mayne Fairfax. “Hewitt, I feel strong enough to go
and rescue her.”
“You’re as weak as a kitten,” said the giant, with a smile for the
young hunter’s futile effort to rise. “We will send Oonalooska back
to the village, and he shall report affairs for us. It will be a
terrible conflict if affairs reach such a climax between Girty and
Alaska, the Wolf-Queen; but Girty may still possess the strange
influence he has held over her in days gone by. I am certain that a
crisis will not be reached in the Shawnee village for some time.”
“But send Oonalooska thither at once,” cried Fairfax, “and tell him
to tell Eudora that a friend seeks her rescue. And, Shawnee,” here he
addressed Oonalooska, “if you can save the Pale Flower at once, do
so, and convey her hither.”
“Oonalooska will not sleep,” was the reply; “but to overcome the
White Wolf and Alaska he must have the cunning of his white friends.”
“I cannot leave this young man until his sores are healed,” said
Hewitt. “But that will not be long. Then we will baffle Jim Girty,
and you, who hate him, can send him to Watchemenetoc.”
The Indian’s eyes flashed at the hermit’s last sentence, and a minute
later Oonalooska was gone.