THE MYSTERY DEEPENS.
Jim McCabe had formed a villainous plot when he heard that the Morelands
were about to remove down the river, and, now that they were gone, he
proceeded at once to put it into execution. He had had this plot in
his mind when he told Isabel that she would be in his power before the
lapse of two days, and he vowed again and again to himself that his
scheme should be carried out to the letter. He was a desperate man
when aroused to a frenzy by repeated reverses, and, now that he had
been cast off in anger by the woman he had hoped to win by fair means,
he swore by all that was good and bad that she should be his in spite
of all opposition. He had committed worse deeds than this he had in
contemplation; therefore he did not hesitate to undertake it on the
score of conscientious scruples.
That night, as soon as the Moreland family had set out for the river,
McCabe went to his cabin, armed himself with a gun, pistol and knife,
secured about his person an ample supply of ammunition, and otherwise
equipped himself in a manner indicating a dangerous journey in view.
This done, which took considerable time, he left the fort without delay.
As he passed out he stopped at the gate long enough to inform the sentry
that he need not be expected back that night, as he would be gone two
days or more. The sentry indulged in a prolonged whistle of surprise, and
looked closely at the man, observing that his face was flushed redder
than usual and that his eyes shone with an unnatural light.
“Whar the nation be ye goin’?” he asked, suspiciously.
“No matter,” muttered the villain, and then he hurried on to avoid
further questioning, leaving the sentry to conjecture that “the blamed
cuss was up to some new piece o’ deviltry.”
“I wonder if I’ll succeed?” mused McCabe, as he hastened on through
the darkness. “If I can find Simon Girty before the game has reached a
place of refuge, success is certain; but the question is, will I find
him? Without his services I can see how the thing will result; but if
he is not to be found I shall undertake the task alone at all hazards,
rather than throw up my hand without an attempt to win. Christopher!
wouldn’t there be a big _furore_ at the fort should my intimacy with
that notorious renegade, Girty, be discovered? My life wouldn’t be worth
shucks. I would be thrown into confinement beyond a doubt, and then, when
the innocence of the place was wrapped in slumber, an infuriated mob
would take me out and string me up with a little less ceremony than was
awarded to Russell Trafford. By the way—”
Jim McCabe stopped suddenly, and stood stock-still. An idea struck him.
He trembled to think of such a thing, yet he was seized with a desire to
look once more on the grave of Russell Trafford before going away! To be
sure he had not effaced a previous occasion from his memory, when such
a desire led him to the most terrible fright he had ever received; but
this time the attraction was stronger than before, and he half-believed
that he might now gloat over the grave of his rival undisturbed. Isabel
Moreland had gone away, and she could not meet anybody there now, ghost
or mortal, so he deemed it probable that he would find the coast clear
to-night.
He acted upon the irresistible impulse, and that without any unnecessary
loss of time, for he had evidently begun a journey that would not admit
of procrastination. Turning aside from the course he had been pursuing,
he bent his footsteps toward the glade. He looked to the priming of
his gun, and began to exercise caution as he proceeded, for fear that
somebody was indeed there, who would be apprised of his approach unless
he stepped with care.
“Of course nobody is there,” he said to himself, “but it is best to be
careful. I wish I could forget that I ever saw any thing frightful in
that haunted place; but even rum has lost its power to drown the memory
of that awful night. I can no longer doubt that it was a spirit I saw,
for Kirby Kidd, and Wapawah, and Nick Robbins were there, and they saw
nothing. But how can I account for _her_ being there in the embrace of
that unearthly shadow? She, a living mortal, holding tryst with a—Well,
it is simply inexplicable, and it drives me to distraction to think of
it. Could it have been my imagination, after all, that made his face
resemble that one under the ground? My mind was full of Trafford, and it
is not very strange that I should fancy a resemblance. But no. I have
discarded that idea a hundred times already, because it isn’t possible
that I could be so deceived. True, every one else who has seen him
declares that he is a stranger, but they all admit that they did not
obtain a fair view of his face.”
While thus communing with himself, McCabe was moving along slowly and
cautiously, scarcely misplacing a twig, or rustling a leaf, in his
progress. But, no sooner had he finished his monologue than he suddenly
came to a dead halt, and bent forward in a listening attitude.
No wonder, for he distinctly heard the low hum of voices, rising and
falling in calm, smooth tones, as if engaged in friendly and familiar
conversation. The sound came from some point directly in front of
him—evidently from the glade!
The profligate began to tremble with fear. His first impulse was to take
to his heels, and make them do good service until he was far away from
that vicinity; but before he could follow this impulse he had recovered
his courage. Repenting his temporary weakness, he determined to be bold,
and then curiosity came to his assistance, and he resolved to find out
who the parties were who had preceded him. Surely they were not the same
he had seen there, for he knew that Isabel had gone away with her father
and mother. But he must see to know, and see he would.
Dropping down on his hands and knees, he advanced stealthily toward the
glade, as the panther approaches its prey. The voices grew more distinct
as he drew nearer to the speakers, and once or twice he paused to listen
as he fancied he detected the dulcet tones of a female voice. But he
could not be certain.
When he had gone so far that he could go no further without exposing
himself to the parties from whom he was hiding, he stopped and rose
slowly to his feet behind a large tree. He was gratified to find that he
had reached this place of concealment without being discovered, and he
now observed that it was an excellent point from which to view the whole
length of the glade. Peering around the tree slyly, he looked out into
the opening.
There, sure enough, were two human forms sitting side by side on the
grave! One of them was that of a woman, too, as he could plainly see,
and the other was a fine-looking man, bareheaded and dressed in a suit
of somber black. Her hands were in his, and they were looking into
each other’s eyes in a manner that could not be mistaken. They were
conversing pleasantly, but in such low tones that few of the words were
distinguishable. Jim McCabe leaned forward to give them a closer look.
The next instant his knees struck together, his eyes started half out of
their sockets, and he scarcely suppressed the cry that sprung to his lips.
The man and woman sitting on the grave were Russell Trafford and Isabel
Moreland!
It would be difficult to describe the feelings that harrowed the
villain’s breast as he made this discovery, but fear, amazement, and
indomitable rage were predominant. This time the appearance of the girl
there was more wonderful than that of the man, to him, for he deemed
it not nearly so strange for a spirit to walk the earth, as he did for
a human being to be present at two places at the same time; and he had
certainly seen Isabel go away with her parents that evening.
When his fear had subsided his blood began to boil with furious anger,
as on the first occasion. He not only found it impossible to control
himself, but he scarcely knew what he did.
“By the Eternal!” he shrieked, “’tis the second time I have been fated
to look on this scene, and if that man is not a ghost he shall be one in
less than a minute! Curse you, take that!”
McCabe threw up his rifle and leveled it at the couple on the grave. He
did not aim at the man particularly. In his fierce passion he cared but
little which one he shot.
There was a flash and a report, followed by a suppressed scream. Then Jim
McCabe leaped out from behind the tree, clubbed his gun and bounded out
into the open glade. He dashed through the cloud of smoke that had been
caused by the discharge of his piece, and in another moment was standing
beside the grave.
_Nobody was there!_ The baffled wretch glared about him like a madman.
Not a living thing was within range of his gleaming eyes! Not the
slightest sound of a footstep told him that they had fled from him.
What had become of them so quickly? Had his aim proved untrue? and
had they made good their escape in so short a space of time, and so
noiselessly that they could not be heard? These, and a score of similar
questions, flashed through the bewildered man’s mind, as he stood by the
grave, staring wildly around and listening in vain for the sound of a
retreating footstep. He knew he had seen them sitting there where he was
now standing; but how they had vanished so quickly was an unfathomable
mystery. He walked round the edge of the wood, looking behind trees, and
thrusting the barrel of his gun into the bushes, but discovered no trace
of those for whom he was searching. Then he stopped and pressed his hand
to his brow, with an effort to calm his excited brain.
“I must be doomed,” he thought. “I have heard of people seeing such
visions, but they always die shortly afterward.”
“Hallo, stranger! How dew you dew?” called out a sharp, nasal voice at
that juncture.
McCabe whirled round and placed himself on the defensive in a twinkling.
But he instantly lowered his weapon with a show of recognition, as he
found himself face to face with a singular-looking specimen of the
_genus_ _homo_, who wore a blue swallow-tail coat, and a tall white hat
with the nap brushed the wrong way. It was the Yankee clock-peddler, who
had been hanging about the settlement for the last week or two, and who,
it will be remembered, had previously introduced himself to McCabe, much
to that gentleman’s vexation.
“_You_ here?” he exclaimed, staring in wonder at the intruder, as the
latter grasped his hand in an iron gripe, and began to talk to him
familiarly.
“Wal, yas,” answered the Yankee, with a huge grin; “I calkilate this is
_me_, and ef it _is_ me I’m _here_. As Tabitha Simpson used tew say—”
“How came you here?” demanded McCabe, uneasily.
“Now I consider that a leetle tew steep, mister,” declared the
clock-peddler, gravely. “I’m Jonathan Boggs, all the way from Maine, and
I’m ’customed tew dewin’ jest as I darn please when I’m tew hum, and I
guess I mought venture tew foller up the rule out in these diggin’s. When
mother told me as how I shouldn’t go tew a corn-shuckin’ one night, I
swore I’d dew as I pleased about it, and I _did_—but I tuck the headache,
though, and concluded to stay hum. When I robbed neighbor Green’s
hen-roost, I found it convenient to slope, and I _sloped_, ’thout axin’
the advice or opinion of anybody; and you may tear every brass button off
o’ my coat ef I go back till they promise to let me alone. How came me
here? did you ask? I swan tew man—”
“Stop!” cried McCabe. “Tell me, how long have you been here?”
“’Bout five feet ten, ’cordin’ tew last measure; but maybe I am longer ’n
that now, seein’ I’ve growed some since I left Maine.”
“No, no!” said the other, impatiently; “you misunderstood me. What length
of time have you been here?”
“Been where?”
“Why, here, in the vicinity—this spot?”
“Wal,” drawled the Yankee, scratching his head, “I s’pect I been in this
vicinity several minutes, ef not longer.”
“Have you seen any thing while you were here?”
“See’d any thing? Wal, not a great deal. It’s rayther tew darkish, like,
tew see any thing, ain’t it, mister?”
“I—I don’t know. Did you _hear_ any thing, then?”
Jonathan Boggs took a step backward, hung his tall hat on the back part
of his head, thrust his hands into his pockets, and gave the inquisitive
man a most searching look.
“See here!” he exclaimed, “what dew you take me for?”
“Eh?”
“Are you pokin’ fun at me, or not?”
“Most assuredly not!”
“Then what’s the matter—say? You ax more foolish questions than a child
’ud think of, and I won’t stand it. I’m Jonathan Boggs of Maine, _I_ am,
and I’m a full-fledged game-chicken with an eye to biziness. I’m a hull
team, with an extra hoss for up-hill emergencies, and ef you think you
can out-pull me, hitch on behind and stretch yourself. I’m a reg’lar
screecher, and can whip my weight in famished bed-bugs, without the least
assistance from any quarter whatsumever, and drat my skin ef I cain’t
pump the cuss dry as says I can’t squint the bark off of a beech-limb!
I’ve got a powerful reach; I can pull a nigger’s hair at ten yards!”
How long the clock-peddler would have continued to enumerate his
wonderful qualifications, must forever remain unknown, as Jim McCabe soon
saw proper to interrupt him.
“For heaven’s sake desist,” he pleaded. “You are offended because I asked
you a question. I have an object, I assure you.”
The “down-east” specimen seemed to relent at this.
“Maybe I’m in the wrong,” he said, after a pause. “I believe you axed me
ef I’d heern any thing?”
“Yes.”
“Now that is a queer question, and no mistake. Heern any thing! Drat
it, man, d’ you s’pose I’m deef? How could I help hearin’ you when
you screeched out like a red Injun, and shot a salute over the last
restin’-place o’ the poor cuss as sleeps beneath this sod?”
“Did you hear that?”
“Did I? Why, chaw me up, I thought at first you was bangin’ away at me,
and I flew tew kiver in the jerk of a possum’s ear.”
“Where were you?”
“Where was I? When you let that dot-rotted gun o’ your’n go off I was
settin’ right thar on that grave—”
“_What!_”
Jim McCabe staggered back like a drunken man, with blanched face and
staring eyes!
“Lord, mister, what’s the matter?” asked the Yankee.
“Noth—nothing,” stammered the ruffian, with a mighty effort to compose
himself. “It’s—it’s nothing—at all. I—never mind—only a slight
ner—nervous attack. I believe you said you were sitting on the grave when
I discharged my piece?”
“That’s jest what I said.”
“And who was with you?”
“Me, and myself, and Jonathan Boggs. Nobody was with me.”
“You were alone, then?”
“Yas.”
“You _lie_!” almost screamed the profligate.
“Hey!” ejaculated the Yankee. “See here, mister, that ’ere’s a _mighty_
strong expression for a man o’ your heft tew spout forth tew a State o’
Maine wild-cat. I’ve a powerful itchin’ tew swipe you one across the bill
for that, you goll-darn, sneakin’, ignominious fag-end o’ creation, you!
By the jumpin’ Jemima! ef I didn’t know you was subject to crazy-spells,
I’m blowed ef I wouldn’t paint your cheeks for you. I lie, dew I? Oh,
wade intew me, and let me knock you intew a grease-spot. Lucky for you,
mister, that you ain’t smart, for ef you was I’d do like Tabitha Simpson
used tew say her brother done—”
But Jim McCabe waited to hear no more. Suddenly remembering that he was
wasting precious moments, and beginning to entertain a perfect horror
of that spot, he determined to be off without further loss of time.
Shouldering his gun, he strode past Boggs without a word, and walked
rapidly away.
“Hold on!” shouted Jonathan. “Where you gwine tew?”
“Go to the devil!” was the savage response.
“The same tew yew and yewr’n,” called out the imperturbable
clock-peddler. Jim McCabe made no reply to this, but plunged resolutely
into the gloomy forest, and resumed his night-journey toward the west.
His nerves were completely shattered, and he shook as if he were
afflicted with ague, but he set his face firmly against all obstacles,
and pushed steadily on.
“I wonder if I really am subject to spells of insanity?” he whispered,
shrugging his shoulders. “I didn’t think of that, till that fellow
mentioned it. He said _he_ was sitting on the grave when I shot, and I
could take my oath I saw Trafford and Miss Moreland there as plain as I
ever saw them in my life. Good God! what can it mean? Surely I could not
be insane without knowing it afterward, but how else can it be explained?
Oh, this will drive me mad if I don’t banish it from my mind. I almost
wish I had not committed that awful deed, but now that it is done, I
shall gain my purpose or die! Yes, by the stars in yonder sky, that
haughty girl shall be mine ere the setting of two more suns.”