TWO WELL-MATCHED VILLAINS.
To a spot about ten miles distant from the settlement we now ask the
attention of the indulgent reader.
It is the morning following the night whose events we have just
described; the sun has risen in a cloudless sky, and Nature seems
exerting herself to make existence in this world desirable. It is a
lovely morning, made refreshing by a steady breeze, and the trees ring
with the lays of a thousand feathered warblers singing glad welcome to
the orb of day.
At a place where the wood is thickest a man is moving along with
stealthy, cat-like steps, dodging from tree to tree in a very curious
manner. He is a man of medium proportions, wearing the buck-skin garb
of a hunter, and armed with the weapons usually carried by the early
pioneers and wood-rangers. From beneath a coon-skin cap, lank locks of
red hair fall just to his shoulders, and a coarse beard of the same hue
disfigures, rather than adorns, his face. There is an ugly patch on his
left check, and his right eye is completely hidden by a rough bandage
that is tied around his head, all giving him a decidedly unprepossessing,
if not repulsive, look.
After this, it is perhaps superfluous to add that the hunter’s name is
Nick Robbins. As such he has doubtless been recognized, although it
is observable that there is much more expression on his visage than
usual. In fact, through the unhandsome exterior, beams a look of fine
intelligence that might lead one to suppose the backwoodsman has received
a thorough education at some time of his life.
Nick Robbins is approaching a deep ravine that lies a short distance
away. He moves toward it step by step, with studied circumspection, his
quick eye flashing from right to left occasionally, but the greater part
of the time fastened upon the ravine in front. He creeps along with
that caution usually exercised by hunters when stealing upon the game,
or scouts when nearing an enemy’s camp, and yet he is the only person
or living thing in sight. It is evident, however, from his manner and
actions, that he is not only intent on reaching a certain point ahead,
but is extremely fearful that his footsteps will betray him to somebody
or something before he can reach it.
“Strange that he should go there,” mutters the hunter. “Bad as he is,
I should never have supposed that he was leagued with the Indians. He
entered that ravine as he would have entered his own house, and I know
there is a bivouac of savages there. Very well, I shall soon know what
it means if I am not discovered, and who knows but at the same time I
may obtain proofs of the fellow’s guilt in that other affair? Of course
I am already satisfied in my own mind that he is the guilty party, but
despite the length of time that I have been a spy upon his movements, and
an eavesdropper to his conversations, I have not as yet heard a direct
affirmation that such is the truth. But something seems to tell me that
the crisis is at hand, and that to-morrow’s sun will reveal wonders to
many of our friends. I must now find out what new scheme this villain has
hatched.”
Nick Robbins has, by this time, proceeded so far that a confused sound of
voices strike upon his ear, coming from the ravine in front. He crouches
down on all-fours, and crawls forward with redoubled caution. He sights a
wide, smooth ledge of rock, or plateau, that extends out over the gully,
and toward this he worms himself, taking great care that he moves no
stone in his progress.
He reaches the level platform of rock. He draws himself up to the edge
of it, and looks down. Finding that he has chosen the proper point for
observation, he lies flat upon his breast and begins to contemplate the
scene below him with no slight degree of interest.
A tiny stream ripples through the ravine. On one side of it is a large
camp-fire, around which a band of Indians is congregated, sitting or
reclining in various attitudes, some breakfasting and some smoking, while
others are doing nothing. They number about thirty souls in all, and a
single glance at them discovers more than one evidence of the fact that
they are, or recently have been, on the war-path. This fact is shown by
their scantiness of dress and abundance of paint, they being incumbered
with no other garments than leggins and moccasins, and their bodies and
faces being plentifully bedaubed with red and yellow ocher. It is further
shown by the manner in which they are armed, as they all carry the deadly
fire-arms of the white man, instead of the customary bow and arrow;
whereas they would prefer the latter weapon on a hunting expedition. But
the horrid truth is most loudly proclaimed by the scalps which hang at
their girdles, and which have doubtless been torn from the heads of the
slaughtered pale-faces.
The gaze of Robbins does not long linger on this savage band. There are
others there who claim his attention. At some distance from the main body
of Indians, and directly under the rocky ledge on which he is lying, two
men stand conversing.
Of these two men, one is no less a personage than the despicable
profligate, Jim McCabe! The hunter evinces little surprise, but much
interest, as his eyes alight on this man, for he saw him enter the
ravine, and now only seeks an explanation of the fellow’s strange
actions. McCabe’s companion is obviously the chief, or leader, of the
war-party. His title to this distinction is revealed by his bearing, and
the superiority of his dress and adornments. To tell the color of his
skin it would be necessary to remove the thick covering of paint from his
face and body, but that he is _not_ an Indian, our spy begins to suspect
after the first look! A closer survey convinces him of this fact. There
are no high cheek-bones there—no sharp Roman nose—no stoical stoniness
of features—nor even that style of standing characteristic of his savage
followers. Besides this, he speaks the English language as fluently as
Jim McCabe himself. In all probability he is a white man—one of those
degraded, crime-hardened wretches, who forswear their own race forever,
that they may plunder and murder to their heart’s content, beyond the
restrictions of the law.
“You are not looking well, my boy,” are the first words the hunter
distinguishes after taking his position on the rock, and it is the white
chief who gives utterance to them.
“Am I not?” carelessly answers McCabe, who really has grown pale and
haggard since his adventure of last night. “I am not aware of any feeling
that may account for the look.”
“For all that, you don’t look as healthy as when I saw you last. Maybe
you’ve done something bad, that preys on your mind too much for your own
good? Ha, ha! Or, likely, your friends have detected you in some of your
devilments, and in consequence you have just escaped from confinement
that was not extremely beneficial to your health? Which is it?”
“Neither the one nor the other. Nothing like that you hint at has
occurred. I am still safe among those who think me their friend, and the
secret of my friendship with you and your red lambs, I have securely
locked in my own breast.”
“And you will have occasion, sir, to thank your lucky stars that you are
on the good side of me and my red lambs, if we take it into our heads to
fall upon your place. But why don’t you explain your presence here? Seems
to me you’ve wandered quite a distance from your home.”
“I should have wandered further, had I not met you,” said McCabe. “But,
before I give you the desired explanation, I wish you to tell me how it
happens that _you_ are here? I started out last night with the hope of
finding you before night should come again, but my hope grew less at
every step, and by dawn it had amounted almost to despair. I know where
your village is, but sober second thought told me I couldn’t reach it in
time to gain the object I have in view. How lucky that chance has thrown
me in your way at this early hour. Surely the devil is on my side.”
“If not, you are on his side,” remarks the renegade, with a low laugh.
“But you wish to know why I am here? My story is quickly told. Over there
in the interior, a few miles from this point, there are three houses
standing all alone, known by the name of the ‘Three Inns.’ Maybe you’ve
seen or heard of them. Well, we waded into them last night, I and this
handful of braves, and these are the result.”
The outlaw coolly points to a couple of gory scalps at his waist, and
then to a number of others carried in a like manner by the Indians. Even
Jim McCabe averts his eyes with a shudder.
“Now, your business with me?” inquires the chief.
“I will explain in a few words,” says McCabe. “Last evening a family
left our settlement, and started down the river under cover of the
darkness—removing, you see, to the first fort below. The family consists
only of the old gentleman, his wife and daughter.”
“Their name?” interrupts the chief.
“Is Moreland. Mr. Moreland has long been one of the leading spirits of
our place,” answers the other.
“You say they are removing to the first fort below?” is the next inquiry.
“Yes.”
“Without an escort?”
“Oh, not by any means. They are accompanied by a round dozen of armed
men. But what of that? You outnumber them two to one, and as your
braves have had a taste of blood, I am sure it has only sharpened their
appetites. Fact is, the Morelands haven’t completed their journey yet.
They have went into camp on an island in the center of the river, where
they intend spending the day. The island lies nearly opposite to this
spot. It is a long, narrow strip of land, thickly wooded on each side
with willow trees, and barren and rocky in the middle.”
“I know which one you allude to,” interposes the chief, “and know exactly
where it lies. So the boating party has stopped there, eh? and your
object in all this palaver is to have me go over there and stir them up?”
“That is it, precisely,” replies McCabe, rubbing his hands. “They say
the island affords pretty fair means for defense, but I am sure success
will attend you if you fall upon them when they are not suspecting such a
thing. Don’t spare them. Attack and butcher the whole set—_except one_.”
“And that one?”
“She is the daughter—Isabel Moreland. Don’t harm her, but bring her to
me, if you can possibly capture her. She is as beautiful as an oriole,
and I want her for a wife. I have attempted to make her mine in a
legitimate manner, but she has rejected me with scorn, and I must resort
to violence or lose her.”
“Want a wife, do you? Surely, then, you will not think of returning to
the whites with your unwilling bride?”
“No; that would be walking into the lion’s jaws after capturing one of
its cubs. Help me to get this lady, and then I will join the Indians, and
make their wigwams my future home!”
“Good. But I can’t make the attack in the daytime.”
“I haven’t asked you to.”
“Yet you say the party will this evening continue their voyage.”
“I will arrange that. They think I’m their friend, you know, and I will
go over to the island some time during the day, and make up a story that
will induce them to remain an hour after dark, thus giving you ample time
to make the attack.”
The renegade reflects a moment.
“Yes, that will do,” he mutters. “Prevail on them to tarry there an hour
after dark, and the game is ours. Should they leave the island before we
reach it, they stand a good chance of escape, for they have good boats
and strong oarsmen, and can outstrip our canoes in a chase. But, do your
part and I’ll do mine. Those fellows,” he adds, glancing at his band of
warriors, “will hail with joy this chance of adding more to the number of
scalps they have already taken. Yes, sir, this thing shall be done, as
certain as my name is _Simon Girty_!”