EFFIE ST. PIERRE.
Near the bank of the Maumee, and almost within rifle-shot of Fort
Miami, stood the trading-post of Mitre St. Pierre. It had been
erected by the speculating Frenchman, a decade prior to the opening
of our story, and the old fellow had grown rich from the investment.
Possessing the shrewdness and tact of his people, he gained the
confidence of the savages, who patronized him to the dismay of other
and rival posts along the river.
Mitre St. Pierre was near sixty years of age; but his eyes flashed
with the light of younger years. He possessed a massive frame, and his
little head--entirely out of proportion to the rest of his body--seemed
buried between broad shoulders, so entirely devoid of neck it was. He
kept no assistance at the Post--commonly denominated “St. Pierre’s
Den;” he did the work ofttimes of ten men in curing the skins the
Indians exchanged with him for fire-water, and various other arduous
duties.
His household consisted of his half-breed wife, and a _protege_--the
latter a young brunette, as beautiful as the wild flowers that kissed
the limpid waters of the Maumee, and as gentle as the tame fawn that
ate from her delicate hands. He did not keep secret the fact that she
was not his child; he told her that, one day, he had found her in the
forest not far from a settler’s cabin, pillaged by the Indians. All
this, old St. Pierre would say, happened in Kentucky. How often would
Effie wander down to the river, and there, seated among the flowers,
wonder whose child she was, and whether the story the old trader had
uttered so often, was true. She was happy in the trading-post, for
her adopted parents--notwithstanding the disreputable names they bore
beyond the stockade--treated her with kindness, and she never wanted
for male companionship, for the handsome red-coated officers of his
Majesty, stationed in Fort Miami, often found their way to the Post,
and lingered long in her presence. They brought her books, which proved
as dear friends to the Angel of the Maumee, as their uniformed donors.
A great rivalry existed between the officers, and at length the field
was left to one who was considered Effie’s choice from the many.
Major Rudolph Runnion was a handsome man, but strongly addicted to the
twin vices that beset the soldier doing dull garrison duty--drinking
and gambling. Educated at Oxford, when quite young, he possessed a
fine education, purchased a commission in the English army, and soon
found himself assigned to garrison duty in America. His talents and
manners were his passport to the friendship of Effie St. Pierre, and
if the girl exhibited partiality for either of her suitors it was
for the British major. She was ignorant of his vices, and, whenever
convenient, the old trader would speak to her in a tone that told her
that he desired her, some day, to become the Briton’s bride.
While the falling twilight beheld the scene enacted in the first
chapter, Effie St. Pierre encountered a young Ottawa Indian before the
Post.
She recognized the red boy who had borne many messages from the British
fort to her forest home.
“Ha! the Angel of the Maumee walks in the evening,” said the youthful
Indian, pausing before the girl, and drawing a delicate _billet doux_
from beneath his capote.
Effie St. Pierre glanced at the superscription, easily recognized as
Major Runnion’s.
“What can be his wishes to-night, to-night?” she murmured, breaking the
waxen seal; and a minute later, in the gloaming, she read:
“Effie--I am in trouble. Meet me ’neath the giant
cottonwood opposite the cove. I await you there. For the
love of Heaven, fail not to come.
Rudolph.”
She looked up at the young Ottawa, as if she doubted the authenticity
of the note.
Major Rudolph Runnion in trouble?
Scarce five hours before he had left the Post, in merry spirits, and
while he walked away she heard him singing a gleeful love song, which
he had learned from her lips.
“Why does the white girl’s eyes pierce Omatla?” asked the Indian boy.
“Does she think that he has carried a forked letter to her?”
She met his interrogatives with another.
“Where is the scarlet soldier?”
“Down beneath the big cottonwood.”
“Is he ill?”
“He is wild in his head,” said the young Indian, touching his forehead.
“He walks up and down the river, beneath the leaves of the big tree,
shuts and opens his hands, and mutters words that Omatla could not
understand. Does he want the white girl to come to him?”
“Yes.”
“Then let the white girl go,” said the youthful Ottawa. “Her hand can
cool the scarlet soldier’s head.”
“Omatla, has any thing unusual transpired at the fort to-day?”
questioned Effie, determined not to leave the trading-post without
caution.
“Now must Omatla’s lips close,” was the unexpected reply, “and he must
go to the soldier and say that the Angel of the Maumee turns from him
when the dark clouds gather.”
“No! no!” cried Effie, springing forward and detaining the Indian, with
the magic touch of her tapering fingers; “I will not desert him in his
trouble, Omatla. He is the dearest friend I have in yonder fort, and he
shall not call on me in vain. Tarry here until I run into the Post.”
Nodding assent, the Indian remained stationary, and Effie hurried into
the structure.
The secret of her interviews with the British major beneath the
cottonwood, she had long since confided to her adopted parents,
causing them the more to yearn for the match to which they thought the
_eclaircissements_ were leading.
“I’m going down to the cottonwood,” she said, glancing at the old
couple, as she threw a rich shawl over her head. “I won’t be gone long,
and you need not bar the gate till I return.”
Then she stepped across the room, and drew from beneath the pillow
of her couch a delicate silver-mounted pistol, lately received as a
present from the major’s hands. This she thrust into her bosom, drew
the shawl tighter around her head, for the wind was blowing quite
briskly without, and left the room.
Mitre St. Pierre and his half-breed wife exchanged mystified glances.
“What can the girl mean in taking the pistol?” questioned the trader,
in his native tongue. “She never took it to her love-meetings before.”
“Don’t know,” grunted the pale squaw; “must be going to shoot mark.”
“Shoot at mark in the dark?” said St. Pierre. “If it were light,
I’d think you right, old woman; but now something’s up. Mebbe she’s
goin’ to shoot the major? You know gals--at least they do in our
country--take moighty strange notions sometimes.”
The half-breed wife broke into a loud laugh, which she continued until
Mitre’s cheek assumed a scarlet hue, the sure precursor of a whirlwind
of passion.
“Gal not shoot scarlet soldier,” she said. “Gal love him; not shoot man
she loves; Indian gal don’t.”
Old St. Pierre dropped the conversation, rose to his feet and
deliberately took his rifle from the wall.
“Where goin’?” asked his wife.
“Fire-huntin’,” was the response, and the speaker picked up a bundle
of resinous sticks, prepared for the purpose, from one corner of the
apartment.
“Who carry fire?” asked the half-breed, who seemed to divine the
motives that prompted her husband’s sudden activity.
“I’ll carry it myself,” gruffly responded St. Pierre.
Effie usually accompanied him on his fire hunts, and bore the torch.
But now and then he would take it, while she dropped the noble prey.
“Let wife carry fire,” said the woman, burning with a desire to follow
her lord.
“That ’ud be a pretty caper,” responded old Mitre, “fur all of us to go
away and let the red thieves steal every thing we’ve got. Not another
word out of ye, woman; I’m goin’ alone, an’ if I see your eyes in the
woods, I’ll put a bloody spot atween them.”
Cowed by this threat the dusky wife relapsed into silence, and the
trader walked from the Post.
“I’m goin’ to see the endin’ o’ this love-talk,” he muttered, as he
hurried toward the river. “I’ve never listened to them yit; but I can’t
resist the temptation to listen now, for I tell ye somethin’s in the
wind, when a young gal goes out with a pistol to meet her lover.”
The twilight had faded now, the goddess of night had crept up from the
horizon, bathing the trysting-spot and adjacent stream in crystalline
light.
Mitre St. Pierre crept down the river-bank, toward the giant
cottonwood. The shadows that the great trees threw shielded him from
observation. The cottonwood stood some distance from its neighbors.
* * * * *
“So you are here at last, _mon ami_. I feared that you would not obey
my request.”
There was an unwonted tone to the British major’s voice, and his face
wore a deathly pallor in the moonlight.
Effie St. Pierre noted all this before she spoke.
“Pardon me for mistrusting, as I did, the authenticity of Omatla’s
message,” she said. “You spoke of being in trouble, which I could not
credit, as you left me so good-spirited this afternoon.”
“Ah, Effie, the clouds come sometimes when one thinks them far
away--when the sky is one blue field from horizon to horizon. Trouble
is oftentimes an unexpected as it is always an unwelcome guest.”
“You really are in trouble, then?”
“Yes,” and the major looked around to see if the dismissed messenger
lingered near.
But Omatla was speeding toward his village.
“To-day, girl--scarce two hours since--I had an altercation with Firman
Campbell. You know him--the commandant’s son. In the midst of his
cups--inflamed with liquor--he drank a disrespectful toast to you, and
I struck him.”
Effie St. Pierre was silent--divining what was coming.
“He staggered under the blow,” continued the Briton, “delivered with my
open hand, and when he recovered he came at me with a pistol. It was
self-defense, then, girl. I drew my weapon, and, to save my own life,
took his.”
A light cry of horror welled from Effie’s throat.
“Oh, why did you kill him, Rudolph?” she cried. “He was but a boy--his
father’s favorite, and the pet of the garrison. You could not have
disarmed him, and thus kept your hands cleansed of human blood?”
“The deed is done, now,” said the major, “and the ball that nestles in
his brain can not be recalled. Of course I was arrested and cast into
the garrison guard-house, to await my trial. Notwithstanding the fact
that I shot the stripling in self-defense, I will be condemned. I will
be tried by partial jurors; I feel it; I know it. It is through bribery
that I am here to-night, Effie--here to tell you that I love you.”
The trader’s _protege_ started back at the word, and the criminal
sprung forward and clutched her arm.
“Yes, yes, I love you, Effie St. Pierre, and I invite you to unite your
fortunes with mine. I have a noble home in England. The Runnions are of
noble lineage, and there, beyond the clutches of these avenging hounds,
we’ll enjoy the blessings that wealth affords. Come with me. Wayne is
advancing up the valley. So sure as he lives he will defeat the allied
tribes, and if I am caught here then he will deliver me over to the
court martial. In Canada, girl, I will be safe. I’ve strong relatives
there, and from one of her ports the vessel will bear us to England.
I’ll not burden time with a long love-story, now. You know that I love
you, and that is enough. Each succeeding moment is precious to me now.
Come, Effie, fly with me to a gorgeous home, far beyond these woods,
where man proves a famished wolf to his fellow-man.”
“What! unite my young life to a murderer?” cried Effie. “Never! Rudolph
Runnion, and, besides, I never _loved_ you.”
An oath parted the officer’s lips.
“I did not come here to be baffled,” he cried. “You shall become mine:
you shall, I say!”
“Back!” cried the young girl, and the pistol--his gift--flashed from
her bosom.
The Briton came to a sudden halt.
“Another step, Rudolph Runnion,” cried Effie, with determination, “and
the gallant boy you slew will be avenged.”
“Better death here than in yon fort,” hissed the criminal, as his hand
flew forward and knocked the pistol from Effie’s grasp. “I have you,
now, girl, and before I leave this accursed spot I’ll--”
The whip-like crack of a rifle rent the air; the major shrieked, reeled
to the water’s edge, grasped wildly at nothing, then disappeared among
the waves that formed the famous rapids of the Maumee.
Effie St. Pierre, stunned by the fatal bullet, staggered and fell
to the ground; but scarcely had she touched the earth when a figure
dropped from the branches overhead, and raised her in his arms.
The figure wore the habiliments of an Ottawa chief.