CHAPTER II. MOOROOINE. 16
CHAPTER III. TWO LESS. 24
CHAPTER IV. THE HUMAN BIRD. 31
CHAPTER V. THE GORGE DECOY. 37
CHAPTER VI. BEAUTY IN BONDS. 42
CHAPTER VII. THE HEART OF LOVE. 47
CHAPTER VIII. A BLOODY TROPHY. 52
CHAPTER IX. A SUDDEN REPRIEVE. 58
CHAPTER X. THE FORLORN HOPE. 62
CHAPTER XI. NOOKECHIN. 68
CHAPTER XII. AGAIN! 75
CHAPTER XIII. IN THE TOILS. 83
CHAPTER XIV. A NOVEL EXPEDIENT. 88
CHAPTER I.
WHITE VS. RED.
“Crack! crack!” rung out the reports of two rifles over the calm bosom
of the lake, and two canoes, about fifty rods apart, seemed to leap
from the water as they sped forward.
The course of both canoes was toward the western shores of the bay
forming the north-western portion of Lake Erie. The one behind was
manned by five Indian warriors, two of whom had just fired upon the
boat ahead, which contained two persons--a white man and an Indian.
The bullets, however, had no other effect than to cut the water at the
distance of several yards to the right of the pursued men.
“S’pose you take rifle now, Scarred Eagle?” said the Indian to his
white companion.
“No, not yit, Goodbrand,” said the other. “Thar’s little danger of the
devils hittin’ us yit, but they want to make us lose time. Five oars
ag’in’ two is gre’t odds, with a mile still afore us. Pull for y’ur
life?”
The speaker was a man past forty years of age, with proportions
denoting great strength and agility. Evidently, he had been through
many rough scenes of border-life, for nearly every part of his body
visible showed the marks of wounds. The most conspicuous of these
was upon his face, one side of which was an entire scar. From this
circumstance, he was called “Scarred Eagle” by the Indians, who had
long since learned both to fear and respect him. But his face, though
disfigured, was not wanting in expression. In fact, there was something
of dignity in his bearing. No stranger would meet the clear gray eye,
and note the bold, frank style of the man’s speech, without feeling
that he was in the presence of one of nature’s noblemen, indeed. His
dress was after the prevailing style of bordermen; and we note but one
peculiarity. The hunting-frock was decorated on the breast by a design
in bead-work representing a man in the act of silently bearing a white
female prisoner from the midst of some sleeping Indians.
The Indian who assisted in propelling the canoe was not so tall as his
white friend, though dressed nearly like him. He was a noble-looking
savage, and had learned to speak the English tongue with considerable
fluency.
A few words will explain the meaning of the situation in which we find
these two men.
Both belonged to a body of scouts hovering near the besieged garrison
at Detroit. They had, in the present instance, been scouting alone on
the neck of land between Erie and St. Clair lakes. Being discovered by
a party of Indians, they had retreated to the lake, and embarked in the
canoe which had brought them from the opposite side of the bay already
mentioned. But the Indians had found a canoe and started in pursuit
before our friends were half a mile away. And at the moment we have
introduced them, this distance had been lessened, so that hardly fifty
rods now separated them.
Scarred Eagle and his Indian friend were not wanting in skill in the
management of their craft. They knew the pursuers were fast gaining on
them; yet they hoped to avoid a close struggle on the water, over which
the gloom of night was fast settling. It was yet nearly a mile to the
shore, however, and the shots which came every few seconds from their
enemies, began to whizz alarmingly near.
“It’s time ter pay back, Goodbrand,” said Scarred Eagle, at length.
“I hate ter begin, ’cos it’ll hinder our speed an’ give them bloody
rascals an advantage.”
“S’pose you no do now, _have_ to bimeby,” returned the Indian. “Mebbe
kill some now; den not so many to fight if come up.”
“Thet’s a good plan enough, allowin’ I kin dew it, Goodbrand. But
they’ll dodge down likely, jest as we do. Howsumever, I’ll try it. Ha!
down with ye ag’in!”
The warning was not a moment too soon; for as they dodged down into the
canoe-bottom, two or three reports rung out, and this time the bullets
spun directly over them.
“Ay, Goodbrand; now keep ’er stidy’s ye kin, while I see what kin be
done.”
Scarred Eagle, while thus speaking, dropped the paddle and snatched up
his rifle, which was leveled and discharged with surprising quickness.
A cry of pain answered the report of the weapon, and one of the
pursuers fell back, never to use oar again! Goodbrand gave utterance to
a shout of triumph.
“Ha, Scarred Eagle, dey find out _who_ shoot now, mebbe,” he said,
though without relaxing for a moment his exertions at the paddle.
“Thar’s _one_ less, sartin,” replied Scarred Eagle, “but they’ve gained
fast on us fur the last minit. We’ll keep frum close quarters as long
as we kin.”
Before the pursuers had fully recovered from their confusion, the white
marksman had reloaded his rifle. He kept a sharp watch upon those
behind, while his Indian friend, with bared bosom and arms, was reeking
with sweat, as he strained every muscle to his work.
Scarce thirty rods now separated the canoes, and the pursuers were,
every one, using a paddle. Scarred Eagle again jerked his rifle to
a poise; but, quick as was the movement, the Indians crouched down,
leaving but little of their bodies exposed, though still managing to
propel their canoe.
The white man, still keeping watch upon the enemy, snatched up a paddle
and assisted his Indian friend. But he was not permitted to do so long.
One of their foes rose suddenly and fired, the ball grazing Goodbrand’s
shoulder as he stooped, and for the first time during the chase, four
ringing war-whoops from those behind echoed over the lake-waters.
“No--no--not yit, Goodbrand!” cried Scarred Eagle, as he saw the Indian
about to draw in his paddle. “Save y’ur shot till it comes closer
quarters. ’Tain’t more’n a quarter of a mile furder to shore--we must
leasten it all we kin.”
The white man spoke hurriedly, though no trepidation could have been
noticed in his voice. He himself, taking advantage of the few seconds
allowed, was working with giant strength at the paddle. But, as before,
the Indians, upon noticing his work, determined to stop it and draw his
fire. Two of them fired together this time, and one of the balls plowed
a slight furrow across the top of Goodbrand’s head!
Hardly had the echoes of the reports ceased when Scarred Eagle sprung
up and leveled his rifle. Its report was followed by jeering cries
from the pursuers, who redoubled their exertions at the oars.
“That _’ar_ was wasted through your whirlin’ round an’ rockin’ the
canoe so sudden, Goodbrand,” said Scarred Eagle, with chagrin in his
tone. “Ah!” he immediately added, as his quick glance fell upon his
friend’s head, “struck, war ye? Wal, it’s no use puttin’ things off
longer. Take y’ur rifle.”
The other did so, suffering the canoe to float idly on the water, while
his white companion was hurriedly reloading. But the latter had not
time to finish the work. Not more than forty yards now separated the
canoes, and the occupants of the hindmost had also ceased their labors,
preparing for the struggle. Two of them suddenly rose, and _three_
reports rung out simultaneously. The shot of Goodbrand told with good
effect, for one of his enemies fell back into the lake. He himself was
merely grazed; but his white friend, Scarred Eagle, uttered a deep
groan and fell headlong beneath the waters of the lake!
The Indian, Goodbrand, could not repress an exclamation of sorrow. He
was as deeply attached to Scarred Eagle as though the latter had been
an own brother. But now, the career of his friend seemed ended.
The faithful fellow was almost on the point of throwing himself into
the lake after his friend. But the exultant yells of his enemies roused
in him that instinct of revenge so characteristic of his race. He had
no chance to reload his rifle, for the other canoe was now but a few
yards distant, and he knew three Miami warriors were ready to shoot him
the moment he should rise.
Goodbrand himself was a Miami Indian. He had been converted years
before, by the Moravian missionaries, and had only departed from their
teachings in that he took up the hatchet of war, in behalf of the white
race whom he loved. For this reason he was an outcast from his tribe,
and had no hopes of other than a cruel death, in the event of falling
alive into their hands.
As the canoe of the others came nearer, Goodbrand grasped knife and
hatchet in either hand, fully determined not to be taken alive.
He had not been more than a few seconds thus prepared, when the
appalling war-whoops of his enemies were suddenly hushed, and groans
burst out, quickly followed by a splashing in the water. Quickly he
raised his head and saw, not more than twenty feet away, the canoe of
his pursuers _bottom upward_, while two of its late occupants were
disappearing beneath the water! Another moment, and the form of Scarred
Eagle rose from the water, surging toward him!
“Push up, Goodbrand, push up,” said Scarred Eagle, in a panting voice.
And in less time than what we occupy in describing it, the Indian had
assisted his friend into the canoe.
For a few moments the latter could hardly speak, and Goodbrand,
comprehending the work he had done, merely uttered an exclamation of
joy as his keen eyes watched for the reappearance of their foes.
“I knifed two on ’em the minit I riz up side o’ thar skiff, Goodbrand,”
said Scarred Eagle, with a shiver in his voice. “_Them_ won’t mislest
us more, but t’other one’s hangin’ ter the canoe yender.”
Already had his Indian friend seen this, and seizing the paddle began
to sweep up toward the drifting canoe. But suddenly, Scarred Eagle
interposed.
“Let the poor devil go, Goodbrand,” he said. “He kain’t dew us any
hurt, an’ it seems like a cruel advantage to take by sich as we.”
“Good!” assented the other. “It shall be as my brother says, ’cos he
wise head as well as quick hand. He has saved us both. He is an Eagle
that can fly under water, as well as over the land.”
“I seen ’twas best course, considerin’ the fix we war in,” replied the
other as he began to wring the water from his clothes. “It come to me
all of a sudden like. Ah--thar’s the cretur’ in sight,” he added, as
the head and shoulders of the remaining enemy appeared on the opposite
side of the receding canoe.
“It is Nookechin--one of my cousins,” exclaimed Goodbrand in surprise.
“I’m glad no to kill him, though kill me, mebbe.”
“An’ I’m glad tu hear ye say it, Goodbrand,” answered Scarred Eagle.
“It shows you’ve a Christian heart, an’ that the Moravians hevn’t
labored on ye in vain.”
“Workechin likes not to war upon his own race, and only does so when
necessary to defend his white friends,” replied the other, assuming for
the moment his Indian name. “He believes in the white God and white
ways; and wishes his own tribe would believe likewise. They would be
more happy then. Nookechin,” he added, elevating his voice, and using
his native tongue, “you see we spare your life. I hope never to have
occasion to meet you nor any other of my kin or tribe in battle, for I
would not harm them. Does Nookechin hear?”
“It is well,” answered the other. “I shall not forget this kindness
from my cousin. I will never fight against him till I do him as good a
turn.” And, as if fully confident of the good intentions of the others,
he righted the canoe and sprung into it. Then, grasping a paddle which
floated near, he made a gesture of good-will toward his late enemies,
and began to push rapidly toward the northern shore.
“What now, Scarred Eagle?” asked Goodbrand, as he peered toward the
western shore now barely discernible through the gloom. “Mebbe our
friends hear us fight--mebbe Injuns hear too.”
“Y’ur right,” said the other. “Lay ’er off sou’-west a trifle an’ we’ll
try ter steal ashore under kiver of the darkness.”
Goodbrand obeyed, taking a course that would land them some distance
below the point from which they had embarked. Though prudent himself,
he instinctively deferred to the judgment of his white friend. And
there were but few along the border who did not place more confidence
in the opinions of Scarred Eagle than in their own.
The latter, while his friend pushed forward the canoe, reloaded his
trusty rifle, which he had left in the canoe with his powder-horn, at
the time he feigned death. This accomplished, he directed his gaze
toward the shore.
“Easy, Goodbrand, easy,” he whispered, at length. “It’s gittin’ dark,
but not fast enough for our purpose onless we move slower. That’s
right--it’s better.”
His Indian friend had ceased to paddle, and the canoe floated
noiselessly on the water. For a quarter of an hour neither of them
spoke except in low whispers. About two hundred yards away loomed up
the great forest, stretching away from the shore. Not a sound came from
its depths yet they knew lurkers might lie along shore, thirsting for
their blood.
“It’s jest possible that we mout land safe, Goodbrand; but ’twon’t dew
to trust the appearance of things hereaway,” remarked Scarred Eagle.
“Some o’ the chaps orter be expectin’ us, even ef they hain’t heard our
rifles, which it is posserble they hain’t.”
“S’pose you give signal,” said the Indian.
“We’ll steal up a little closer fust. Thar’s hardly an outline of the
shore to be seen now.”
Goodbrand began to push the canoe forward. Suddenly a single peculiar
note came from the forest.
“About with it, quick!” whispered Scarred Eagle. “It’s Ben Mace’s
signal, an’ warns of danger.”
As he spoke he seized another paddle, and in a moment the canoe was
gliding back from shore. Then came three or four rifle-reports, and the
bullets whistled uncomfortably near.
“Now, Goodbrand, we’ve got ter calkerlate clus,” remarked Scarred
Eagle, as soon as they were out of danger. “We’ve got ter land
_somewhar_. Whether furder up or down’s the question. We’ll be watched
for, cluser’n Saul watched for David, an’ must use all the wits
Proverdence has gin us.”
“Scarred Eagle speaks well,” replied the Indian. “S’pose we go up. The
Miami warriors are cunning. They cum from fort-way an’ will watch above
here ’cos they’ve heerd us fight. Den we better go, hurry down.”
“Ye’ve come to the marrer of the thing, Goodbrand, an’ that’s what I
like,” responded the other, after a moment’s thought. “Now, won’t our
enemies not reelly expict we’ll take the very course you speak of? It
strikes me they will. They’ll reason the thing ’bout ’s you, who ar’
ecquainted with their wiles.”
“I see--yis,” said Goodbrand, to whom this species of strategy was
apparently new. “Den, if say go up, we go.”
“We must keep well out an’ dip light,” remarked Scarred Eagle, as
he seized a paddle. “It’s sartin Mace is ’round, an’ the rest orter
be--some on ’em. All on ’em wouldn’t have stayed at the bivo’ac. But
land we must; otherwise this night-wind ’ll benumb every narve in my
body.”
For half an hour they continued to pull northward. As the darkness
deepened, they drew gradually nearer shore, and soon their canoe
touched a jut of land.
At this moment, a succession of sounds, muffled by distance and
intervening forests, came to their ears. Any but the experienced ears
of a scout, would have failed to understand the significance of these
sounds. But our friends knew they were the echoes of rifle-reports.
“Ay, Goodbrand,” said Scarred Eagle, in a whisper, as both glanced
around through the gloom. “The rest o’ the chaps ar’ in trouble, an’
we’re in fur it. Come!”
Both stepped noiselessly ashore, drew their canoe under the
densely-wooded bank, and then began to steal forward through the gloom.