_The Meeting--The tale of Wrong and Blood--The Avenger--The
Oath--The Mountain Maid--The Lover._
Oh, I could play the woman with mine eyes, and braggart with my
tongue.
But gentle heaven, cut short all intermission,
Front to front bring thou this fiend of Scotland and myself,
Within my sword's length set him; if he 'scape,
Heaven forgive him too.--_Shakespeare._
When Fall-leaf reached the ground he started for the river, pursuing his
way cautiously, but rapidly. Ever and anon he would pause and listen. It
was evident he was pursued by the party from whom he had just escaped,
but, as he passed along, their shouts were received only by a scornful
curl of his bronze lip.
But he soon found more difficult objects with which to contend. As he
emerged into an open space, he came suddenly upon the party under the
command of Rains. He was not at once discovered. Bending to the earth,
he crept cautiously along, concealing himself as best he could, by the
under brush and tall grass. But he was not long to remain undiscovered.
One of the rebel party, having espied the object of their pursuit,
raised his rifle, and as its report rang through the forest, it was
answered by a sharp cry of the Indian, who sprang into the air, and fell
backward.
In an instant he was surrounded. Upon examination it was found that the
bullet had penetrated his breast, rendering a dangerous, if not fatal
wound, from which the blood was flowing profusely. He was quite
conscious, but unable to move or speak.
"Shall I send a bullet through his brain?" asked one of the rebel band.
"It is unnecessary. That ugly wound in the breast will soon end him. But
stay. His tribe must not know of his death. Throw him into that hole by
yonder rock, then fill it up with stone and dirt."
The form of Fall-leaf was taken from the ground, and cast with violence
into a cavern, or "sink-hole," about twenty feet in depth, large enough
at its bottom to contain the bodies of a dozen men, but, unlike the
majority of such old water-escapes to caverns in the bowels of the
earth, the mouth of this hole was so small that it was quite difficult
for the passage of a single form. As soon as this was done, the party
proceeded to fill the entrance with rock and rubbish.
"It is done. He will trouble us no more!" said Rains.
"He is buried alive!"
"Yes, but no matter. Let us return to camp!"
The rescuer of Fall-leaf, after his escape, pushed rapidly forward to
the river bank. Here he paused for a moment and listened. No sound was
heard. He placed his ear to the ground.
"They are no longer in pursuit, but are returning to camp," he muttered,
after a pause. Then he drew a small whistle from his pocket, and sounded
a shrill note. There was no reply, and he repeated the call. Still there
was no answer.
"Has he been seized by those ruffians? If so, I must return to his
rescue. But, stay. I heard the report of a rifle, and then a sharp cry.
He may have met some of the soldiers, and suffered at their hands. At
all events, it will be useless now for me to go again to camp, as the
guard will be doubly vigilant. I will return to the cabin, and if
Fall-leaf does not appear by nightfall, I will then go in search of him.
Perhaps Johnson will accompany me."
He plunged into the river, and soon reached the other side. Onward he
went, up the mountain, not pausing for a moment, showing himself
perfectly familiar with the locality. At length he emerged into an open
space, near the summit of the ridge he had been traversing, at the
opposite side of which appeared a rude log cabin. He sprang forward with
a smile as his eyes fell upon the dwelling, but as he came nearer the
smile faded, and a look of wonder, or painful anxiety, became fixed upon
his face. At length he paused and exclaimed:
"What means all this? How I tremble! What forebodings flash across my
brain! If harm has come to them, I shall go mad, mad! Oh! my father--my
dear sister, why are you not upon the threshold to welcome my return? No
answer! All is silent there--and all is desolation, too. The creeping
vines are torn away--the flowers choked with weeds--the beauty of the
place departed--_she_ is _not_ there, else it would not be so! And I am
doomed to--I must be satisfied first. Alibamo! Sister! _Alibamo!_" His
voice rang out with startling clearness.
"Who calls! William! Brother!"
"Johnson--my best friend--oh! _you_ are yet living!" cried William, as
he sprang into the arms of Johnson, who had appeared in the cabin door.
"Yes, friend, you are living; but where is my fa---- oh! I fear to
ask--I am a coward, Johnson!"
"You observe a change here, I suppose?" asked Johnson.
"Yes! But tell me _why_ this change? I can bear it now!"
"First let me hear of yourself, William, and then I will answer you.
Where have you been detained so long?"
"I cannot answer until you have told me of my father and my sister. Are
they alive?"
"I hope so!"
"You _hope_ so! Oh! Johnson, my heart will burst with this suspense.
Think for a moment. I have been a prisoner now nearly three months. At
the battle of Wilson's Creek I was taken by the enemy, having been left
wounded upon the field. I suffered--oh! how terribly! I suffered from
bodily pain--from hunger--my heart wrung by the taunts and insults
heaped upon me by the wretches who held me in their power. I often felt
death would be a great relief, but _hope_--the bright star of hope rose
high above the dark cloud which surrounded me, and I lived on. What was
that hope, Johnson? It was of home! Father! Sister! I dreamed of
liberty, even in my dungeon's depths--and on the grimmy walls I traced
the flowers and vines my sister reared. The night winds whistled
through my casements, and I heard my sister's voice--her song so sweet
and thrilling. If dreaming thus, I woke to sadness, my father's voice
would speak to me, bidding me be firm and hope. At last the news reached
me, even in my cell at Springfield, that Fremont was coming. My wounds
were healed, and I resolved to escape. Oh! how I longed for freedom. And
why? First, that I might once more clasp my father and my sister in my
arms, and then join Fremont. I watched for opportunity, and soon it
came. I escaped at night, by the assistance of Fall-leaf, an Indian
chief. I started at once for home. I was crossing the mountain this
morning, when suddenly I came upon the outposts of Price. I saw my
deliverer a prisoner, and bound. I did not hesitate, and by a stratagem,
released him. The trick was discovered and we were pursued. I became
separated from Fall-leaf. I should have returned in search of him, but I
could not. In the distance I could see my home, never before so loved. I
felt that dear ones were waiting my approach, and I hastened onward. And
now, with burning brain and bursting heart I ask, are they yet living,
and you reply you 'hope so!'"
"Come in, William, I will tell you all," answered Johnson.
"All! Oh! that word has a terrible sound. I cannot go in if _they_ are
not here! Each familiar article would only be a dart piercing my heart.
Here I will listen where there is air to breathe."
He seated himself upon a log before the door, and dropping his face in
his hands, he said:
"Go on!"
"William, it will require all your fortitude to listen to the narrative,
for it is a tale of blood!"
"Go on!" replied William, without raising his head.
"I will. After the fall and defeat of the brave General Lyon, at
Wilson's Creek, and the consequent retreat of the Union army, our
position here was by no means an enviable one. It was well known that we
were originally from the East. We were called 'abolitionists,' and this
was enough. Other families were equally persecuted, and we resolved to
leave the country. A party of Unionists, consisting of all our immediate
neighbors, assembled here to make arrangements for leaving on a stated
day. We were seated around this very spot, unconscious of danger,
conversing upon our present trials and future hopes. We numbered twenty
souls, thirteen of whom were women and children. On a sudden a party of
rebel ruffians dashed upon us from the surrounding woods. Escape was
impossible, and but one of our party was armed. We sat quietly awaiting
their approach, thinking this the best course to pursue, as we could not
believe unarmed men would be murdered in cold blood, even by those
wretches. But we were wofully in error. Their captain, one Robert
Branch, rode to the side of Walter Leeman, and clove his skull. I sprang
to my feet--so did our comrades. But the conflict was of short duration.
Seven unarmed men could not cope long with forty mounted assassins. I
saw--your father--fall--"
A groan was the only response from William. He did not raise his head.
"I seized the rifle of my fallen friend, and for a moment used it with
terrible effect. I saw three villains fall under the blows I gave, but
this could not last. I was stricken down, but not until I had heard the
barbarous captain cry out, 'Spare that maiden beauty--she must be mine!'
I could not save her--I fainted!"
"Oh! sister--Alibamo!" sobbed William.
"I must have remained unconscious for some hours, as it was dark when I
awoke. I could scarcely move, either from loss of blood, or the terrible
excitement and exertion I had undergone. I remained quiet until
daylight, with the exception of several times calling the names of my
friends. But I received no answer. And no wonder. Oh! what a sight met
my eyes in the morning. I almost wished it had never come. Even the
bright sun must have sickened as it gazed on such a sight."
"Was my father dead?" asked William.
"I could not find his body, although I searched for it everywhere. It is
my belief that he was only wounded and then carried off, a prisoner.
Five of my friends lay dead and cold by my side. Myself and your father
made up the seven men who were present when the fight began. My wife was
bleeding at my feet. She was not dead--but only survived long enough to
gently press my hand, and _look_ her last farewell. She could not speak.
I had but an indistinct recollection of her having thrown herself before
me, and the blow levelled at my life was received by her. Oh! God, why
was I saved to life--but not to live? For I cannot live without her! I
had only been stunned by the blow."
"And my sister?" asked William.
"She, too, must have been taken captive!"
"Then, by heavens, we have much to live for!" cried William, starting to
his feet.
"Much to live for? Yes--our country--our hopes--revenge! Oh! William,
could you have seen that sight, _you_ would feel as I now feel. Could
you have felt the burning fires that seared my heart as I lifted the
dying form of her I loved so truly, in my arms, and vainly begged her
not to leave me yet, you would feel as I now feel. Could you have heard
the cry of agony wrung from my wretched breast when I knew I no longer
had a wife, you would feel as I do now. Oh! William, it is
terrible--terrible!"
"What course did you pursue?" asked William.
"I consigned our loved ones to the grave, disguised myself, staining my
skin with walnut bark, and then started forth for vengeance!"
"And what have you accomplished?"
"But little as yet. I have not met _the_ man. I could have killed, but
if discovered, or even suspected, it would prevent the carrying out of
my plans. Price has employed me as a spy, and thus I have access through
his lines. My plans are first, to find your father and your sister. I am
almost certain she is with the rebel army, and that I heard her sweet
voice, last night, singing a mournful song."
"Oh! if she lives--but let us go. I will enter the lines of the rebel
army this very night. I _will_ go, and if my sister is there, she shall
be saved, or I will perish with her!"
"I am waiting only for to-morrow night. At that time Price will suppose
I have just returned from Warsaw. Then I will go with you!" replied
Johnson.
"I shall go to-night!" answered William. "But I shall enter the camp by
stealth, crawl from tent to tent, listen to all conversations, and
perhaps in this manner may get important information, both for our
friends, and of my father and sister."
"It is a desperate hazard, William!"
"I am resolved!"
"I shall go with you!" replied Johnson.
"No, or at least, not within the camp. If you were seen before the
expected time, it would create suspicion. You will conceal yourself
before you reach the outer pickets. But I must find Fall-leaf. I will go
to the point where I heard the rifle report. He may be wounded--perhaps
dead."
Night was fast approaching as the friends took their course down the
mountain, and toward the rebel camp. The fires could be distinctly seen,
and the shrill notes of the fife, and the rattle of the drum, echoed
across the mountain, and from hill to hill. As they reached the river,
William exclaimed:
"It is nine o'clock. They are beating the tattoo in camp. In an hour all
will be quiet. But let us now search for Fall-leaf. The moon is shining
brightly, which will favor our search!"
The friends sprang into a small skiff which Johnson drew from its
concealment in a clump of under brush, and in a moment were upon the
opposite bank. Without further words, William led the way, and soon
arrived on the spot where Fall-leaf had been wounded. He examined the
ground carefully, and at last exclaimed:
"Here are traces of blood, and the grass is trodden down, plainly
showing that a great struggle has occurred, or that a large party have
passed over this place."
"Let us trace the path. Here it runs, up this slope, toward this rock.
And look! here the earth has been disturbed. Do you not remember there
was a cave here? And its mouth or entrance is filled with rock and
earth, which has been newly thrown there. Fall-leaf has been killed, and
buried here!"
"Why buried? These rebels are not in the habit of burying those whom
they murder. Why should they bury Fall-leaf?"
"Because he is of a powerful tribe, and his death, if known, would make
eternal enemies of all the Delawares."
"He was their friend, was he not?"
"No! He met Fremont at Tipton. He had formerly been his friend, having
often met him on the plains between this and the Rocky Mountains. His
whole tribe is deeply attached to the general, and will do all in their
power to assist him. And if the Delawares should learn of his death, I
believe that tribe alone would almost annihilate Price and his army."
The work of removing the stone and earth which obstructed the entrance
of the cave, now began.
They toiled on in silence. At length the last obstacle was removed, and
William called:
"Fall-leaf! Fall-leaf!"
There was no answer.
"He is dead, or not here!" said Johnson.
"He must be here else why has this cave been filled, and so recently. I
will descend and ascertain."
William sprang into the cave. He had nothing with which to strike a
light, but in a moment he said:
"There are _two_ bodies here. I will pass them out, and by the moonlight
we can examine their features."
William lifted the bodies toward the entrance, and as he did so he said:
"One of them has been here a long time, as the decomposition indicates.
Lay them on the ground, Johnson, and I will search farther!"
After a moment's pause, Johnson asked:
"Do you find anything else?"
"No--nothing!"
"Then come out."
William left the cave, and as he did so, Johnson grasped him by the arm,
and asked:
"Will you be calm!"
"Yes--yes!" replied William. "But what do you mean?"
"Will you think _only_ of revenge?"
"Of revenge! What do you mean?"
"Look there!" cried Johnson, pointing to one of the bodies which had
been taken from the cave.
"My father!" shrieked William, as he glanced at the corpse.
"Yes, your father! But, pray be firm--be calm."
"I am calm--very calm!" sobbed William, as he sank beside the inanimate
clay.
"The Indian is recovering, William," said Johnson.
This was indeed the case. In spite of his long confinement in the cave,
and the suffering endured from his wound, Fall-leaf had recovered
sufficiently to speak. He had partially raised himself from the ground,
and was resting his head upon his elbow.
But William was too deeply affected to observe this, or to notice the
words spoken by Johnson.
At last he arose from his prostrate position beside his father's corpse,
and for a moment gazed wildly around him. He pressed his hands to his
temples, as if endeavoring to collect his scattered thoughts. His eyes
fell upon the Indian, and then were raised to Johnson.
"I remember all now!" he said. "I hoped it was a dream--but it is a
dread reality--but not all--not all!"
"William! You know me?"
Johnson gazed upon him with earnestness.
"You think I am mad, Johnson! But I am not. Hark! Great heavens!
Listen!"
Johnson shook his head.
"Here, Johnson--here! kneel with me--here, beside my father's clay!
_That_ voice tells me I have work to do!"
"What voice, William?"
"A thousand voices calling for vengeance. But, kneel with me now, and
swear by the God of truth and justice--swear by my wrongs, your wrongs,
our country's wrongs--swear by your murdered wife, to join me in
pursuing these fiends in human form, until they are swept from the
earth!"
"I swear!" cried Johnson, as he knelt beside his friend.
"Me--me next!" answered Fall-leaf. He made an effort to get upon his
feet, but fell back.
"That voice again?" cried William, starting up, and listening.
"I hear nothing!" answered Johnson.
"But I do! It is a sound soft and plaintive. It echoes along the
mountain, and I know its melody. It is the voice of Alibamo."
For a moment all were silent and listened eagerly to catch the distant
sound, but it was so low and indistinct that nothing definite could be
made of it.
"It is only the murmur of the river, William," said Johnson.
"To me it is the murmur of an angel, and I will trace its source.
Johnson, you must remove Fall-leaf to our cabin. His wound is painful,
and needs attention. Bury my father first, and then perform this duty. I
will meet you to-morrow night."
Without further words, William darted from the spot, and commenced his
course up the mountain toward the camp of Price. Now and then he paused
to listen, but all was silent, save the murmur of the breeze among the
oaks, and the rippling of the rills.
"Am I dreaming?" he at last exclaimed. "No--no! there is her voice
again! Sister!"
William paused, listening intently.
Upon the clear, moonlight air, rang out a voice, sweeter than angels'
echoes. But the words; they spoke of love--of willing captivity--of
future joys mingled with hope. Of her brother-her father-_and her
lover_--"HARRY!"
"Is it possible _she_ has loved a rebel! O God! is my cup of bitterness
not yet full? But I will steal closer, and listen!"
In a short time he reached a rock, upon which, in the clear moonlight,
could be seen, two forms. The one a female, pure and lovely as the
moon's own rays; the other, a delicate youth, of about twenty years of
age, yet bearing the impress of a noble soldier. Alibamo spoke:
"Are you not required in camp, dear Harry?"
"Yes, love--but here, also!"
"You would not sacrifice your duty for love?"
"My first duty is here--with one I love so wildly. And you love me, do
you not, Alibamo?"
"Oh! Harry--I cannot tell you how dearly!"
"Then you are not _my_ sister!" shrieked William, who had heard these
words.
"Halt! Who comes there?"
These words were spoken by one of the sentinels of the picket. In an
instant, William had darted from the spot. The sentinel fired upon him
without effect. He was soon out of danger, and then paused irresolute.
At length he said:
"It will be useless to return to night. That gun has aroused the camp,
and they are beating the long roll. But, why should I wish to return. My
sister loves a rebel. No! what is that? Why, he--her lover is waving the
Stars and Stripes from yonder rock. He knows I see him--and
hark!--she--my sister--is singing--The Star-Spangled Banner. Surely this
is all a dream."