It is one of those pleasant summer days, a few months after the
occurrence of the events recorded in our last chapter, that we take a
glance at the settlement which figures so conspicuously in our
narrative, and which latterly had enjoyed comparative quiet.
Captain Parks, on his return from the adventure related in our last
chapter, had given his opinion that the whole Shawnee tribe, and Bill
especially, were a set of unmitigated scoundrels, and that it would
never do to repose the least confidence in them.
Late in the evening of the beautiful summer’s day of which we speak,
Kingman and Irene passed through the block-house and arm-in-arm made
their way slowly toward the river.
The girlish beauty of Irene had ripened into all the fascinating charms
of womanhood. There was a deeper blueness in her mild, affectionate eye,
though it could still sparkle with its wonted fire, and a meeker, more
subdued expression of the countenance.
“What a magnificent night,” remarked Kingman.
“Too beautiful to sleep,” returned Irene.
“For what, then, is it made?”
“For meditation and devotion.”
“And love!” added Kingman, pressing the girl impulsively to him. “It is
now three years since I first asked you to be my bonny wife, Irene. You
did not refuse me, but thought you were too young, and I waited another
year before I asked you. You made the same answer the second time, and I
have now waited two long years without making the slightest reference to
it. We are both older, and I trust I am wiser now. Irene, will you be my
wife?”
“I guess I am too old now.”
Kingman looked down into the face resting upon his shoulder, for he did
not know the meaning of the words—but it was not dark enough to conceal
the roguish twinkle of her eyes.
“Don’t you think I am getting too old?” she asked, reaching up and
brushing the hair from his forehead.
“Well, you are rather old, that’s a fact—older than I ever knew you to
be before—‘but better late than never,’ you know.”
“Then it matters little how late it is—so suppose we wait a few years
longer yet.”
“An unsupposable case, my dear.”
“But not an impossible one.”
“I hope so. My gracious! I have waited three years already.”
“But we will be wiser and older then.”
“We will be older, I suppose, but little wiser.”
“And wiser, too, I am sure. We can try it and see, at all events.”
“Irene, will you not promise me now?” asked Kingman, in an earnest tone.
“Perhaps so. Ask and see.”
“Well, then, will you be my wife?”
“Yes.”
“Within a year?”
“Yes.”
“Within six months?”
“Yes.”
“Within three months?”
“No, sir.”
“When will you, Irene?”
“Next spring.”
“In February?”
“February is not in the spring; no, sir, not then.”
“Do name the time; I suppose it will be the last day of the season.”
“No, George. I will become your wife on the first of May—in the month of
roses and flowers.”
Kingman drew the trembling girl closer to him, and pressed a pure kiss
on her burning cheek. They sat and conversed far into the night, their
voices just loud enough to reach only the ears for which they were
intended.
“Should we not return?” at length asked Irene.
“I see no need of hurrying. Why do you ask?”
“It is somewhat late; and, besides,” she added, in a lower tone, “I
believe I have heard something wrong.”
“Not frightened, Irene, are you?”
“Yes: for I fear we are in danger.”
“In danger from whom, I should like to know.”
“From Indians and wild animals.”
“From Indians! do you suppose there could be found a savage, Irene, who
would harm a hair of your head?”
Kingman had hardly ceased speaking when he heard a rustling, and started
to his feet. He reached forward to his rifle, which he had leaned
against a tree not three feet away. It was gone!
“By heavens! we are in danger. Keep quiet, dearest,” he whispered.
The next instant they heard the deep, suppressed laughter of some one.
Both were confounded. Wonder for a moment held them silent, then, as
Kingman looked up he saw a form standing in the entrance.
“Frighten you any?” asked the well-known voice of Abe Moffat.
“Rather,” laughed Kingman. “Have you got my rifle?”
“I picked one up that was leaning against a tree here.”
“How did you get it without my knowing it?”
“Just reached over and hauled it up without saying a word. You needn’t
blush so, Irene; I didn’t hear George ask you to be his bonny wife; I
didn’t hear you promise him you would; but, George, if you value your
little angel, you’d better get out of this as soon as convenient.”
“What mean you?” asked both, eagerly.
“O nothing! only the devil is to pay among the Shawnees again.”
“How did you know we were here?”
“I seen you go, and I can tell you, as I just now told you, you must do
this courting at home, or in some safer place than this.”
Kingman concluded that the advice of the ranger was good, and arose at
once.
Whether the storm of war would not have reached our settlement or not it
is difficult to tell. But the smouldering fire among the frontier was
fanned into a raging flame by the perpetration of one of the greatest
outrages that ever disgraced the American history. In March, 1782,
Colonel Daniel Williamson and his command inhumanly massacred over a
hundred of the peaceful Moravian Indians. These had long been such warm
friends to the whites that they had incurred the displeasure of their
own people thereby, and their murder was therefore entirely unprovoked
and without the shadow of excuse.
Colonel Williamson sowed the wind and others reaped the whirlwind.