THE ISLAND FIGHT.
“Isn’t it time for them to make the attack?” said Jim McCabe, who was all
impatience now that the time was drawing near.
“No,” replied Robbins; “it hain’t been dark more’n an hour.”
“What of that? You know Simon Girty is not the man to be tardy on
occasions like this.”
“Know that,” replied Robbins, “but neither is he the man to hurry when
success depends on deliberation.”
“Very true,” drawled the profligate, musingly, “and yet my only fear is
that they will find the island deserted.”
“Ef that’s yer only fear ye may jest dispense with it to onc’t, ’cause
the birds ain’t thunk o’ flyin’ yit,” said Robbins, confidently, and then
with a smile that the darkness concealed, he added to himself: “Ah, my
fine fellow, if you knew all you would have yet another fear, that would
be a source of more trouble than this.”
But, not knowing all, McCabe had no other fear, and even the one that
had taken possession of him was partially dispelled by the words of his
companion. He had learned to trust the hunter so completely that nothing
short of ocular proof could have convinced him of his deceptiveness.
The two men stood on the bank of the river, watching and waiting, while
Mike Terry still sat on the same stone near by, watching and waiting too.
Jim McCabe was impatient and restless.
“Girty is slow,” he exclaimed. “I wish he would hurry. I wonder if he
thinks he has the whole night in which to do this job?”
He paused for a reply, but, receiving none, continued:
“I wish the thing was over, and I had my future wife in my arms. Confound
the luck! I believe the man has drawn his men off without even attempting
the massacre. If I but had the Indians under my command for a short time,
I’d spread desolation over the face of the waters. I wonder what time it
is?”
Still the hunter did not reply, but stood like a statue, gazing out on
the river, his eyes gleaming like coals of fire.
“Robbins, what time is it?” cried McCabe in a higher key, determined to
make him answer.
“How do I know?” was the gruff response. “D’ye s’pose I’ve got a
time-piece? an’ ef I had one, d’ye s’pose I could see it? I advise ye to
keep yer meat-trap shet ef yer don’t want to git yerself in trouble. Yer
talks as if thar’s nobody ’thin a mile of us.”
This rebuff had the desired effect. The restless ruffian became quiet
without another word, and for awhile the profoundest silence reigned over
the trio.
Presently Nick Robbins seized his companion’s arm, and whispered:
“Hist! Didn’t ye hear that?”
“What?” asked McCabe, excitedly.
“Why, a plash in the water out yander,” said Robbins, pointing. “_I_
heerd it, sure’s shootin’.”
“So did I,” said Mike Terry, who had sprung to his feet at the sound.
“An’ it wur caused by nothin’ else but a keerless stroke of a paddle,”
continued Robbins, emphatically. “The Injuns are on the river, an’ on
thar way to the island, that’s sartin.”
“Do you think so?” asked McCabe, hurriedly.
“Don’t think nothin’ ’bout it—I _know_ it.”
“Good! Then the crisis will come immediately. Ugh! won’t it be a terrible
slaughter? The whites little dream that death is so near to them, and
momentarily drawing nearer.”
“An’ the Injuns little dream what is in store for _them_,” thought the
hunter, but the thought was not expressed. He added aloud: “Yas, thar’s
goin’ to be hullsale destruction in less’n a minute, an’ the victims have
no idea what’s goin’ to happen.”
“Be the saints! I’m wishin’ there wasn’t goin’ to be any bloodshed, at
all,” said the Irish boy, clasping his hands.
“Robbins,” whispered McCabe, close to the ranger’s ear, and his voice
was husky and unsteady, “Robbins, they have surely had time to reach the
island, if it was them you heard. Why don’t they begin the slaughter? Do
you think—_Good Lord!_”
While he was speaking he had been looking out toward the island,
straining eyes and ears to catch some sight or sound. The cause of the
exclamation with which he interrupted himself, was a bright sheet of
fire that suddenly flashed out through the darkness, followed quickly
by the simultaneous reports of several rifles! Then there rose shriek
upon shriek of mortal agony—groans deep and fearful—wild, piercing
death-yells—mingled with the appalling war-cry of the assailants; all
sounding hideous in the extreme, in the silent hours of the night! But,
amid these noises, not a single white man’s voice could be heard.
“What does it mean?” gasped McCabe, clutching the hunter’s shoulder.
“Surely, surely, they are not being defeated by the whites, and yet it
sounds more like a defeat than a victory!”
“Keep cool,” admonished the backwoodsman, shaking off the grasp of the
excited man; “jest keep cool, an’ I’ll tell yer what _I_ thinks. The
Injuns _are_ gittin’ licked, sure’s shootin’, though it’s the qu’arest
thing I ever heern tell on. That first volley was from the guns o’ the
pale-faces, an’ it’s plain to me ’ut the reds are gittin’ the wust o’
thar little game. It’s sing’lar, I allow, but the whites have been put on
thar guard somehow or other, ’cause—”
The sentence was destined to remain unfinished, for at that moment
another fiery jet flamed up in the impending gloom, followed by another
crash of fire-arms, as a second volley was poured into the assailants
from those on the island. It must have been as destructive as the first,
for there were more shrieks, and groans, and yells, and this time there
was a plunging and floundering in the water, as if one or more canoes had
been overturned.
The trio on the shore stood and listened in silence. Nick Robbins
pretended to be as much astonished as his companion, though in reality
he was secretly exulting over the success of his counterplot. The rage,
fear, surprise and disappointment that took possession of Jim McCabe,
were so overwhelming in their ebullition that he could not speak, and,
like one struck dumb, he stood and stared, his labored respiration the
only sound he made. That the Indians were being repulsed with heavy loss
there was not the least room for doubt, and that this unexpected result
was caused by previous preparations on the part of the whites to meet the
attack, was equally plain to the ruffian’s mind. He did not blame Robbins
with this—he could not believe him capable of such treachery! He realized
how fully Robbins had established himself in his favor and confidence,
and felt as though he would be willing to stake his life that the man
was truly his friend, and the friend of the Indians. And yet his scheme
was certainly a failure. Isabel Moreland, whom he had thought almost in
his power, was not to be his after all. He ground his teeth, and his
eyes gleamed like those of a wild beast, but he could not find words to
express his feelings, so he was silent.
The carnage on the river was kept up for a few short moments. Shots were
fired at irregular intervals by both sides, our trio noting every flash
and crack of the guns, and listening keenly for the result. From the
uncertain foundation of what they heard—or, rather, did _not_ hear—they
deduced the opinion that none of the whites were hurt, while they knew
that among the savages there was a fearful destruction of life. The
whoops, and screams, and groans were continued, but they gradually grew
weaker and weaker, until at last not a sound could be heard save the
steady gurgle and swash of the mighty Ohio, as it swept onward in its
unceasing flow toward the great “Father of Waters.” The fight was at an
end, and silence once more brooded over the river.
No sooner had the sounds of the brief conflict ceased, than Nick Robbins
made a singular movement. Suddenly throwing out both of his arms, he
seized Jim McCabe and Mike Terry by their clothing, and began to drag
them back by main force from the water’s edge! A short distance from the
bank he stopped, and exclaimed:
“Down on yer faces—quick!”
“Wha—wha—what’s the matter?” stammered McCabe, as he felt himself going
down to the ground without the least exertion on his part.
“’Sh!” cautioned the hunter. “Don’t speak a word—don’t move! Thar’s a
boat comin’ this way, an’ it’s almost hyur! Listen! Don’t ye hear it?”
Yes, McCabe and the Irish boy both heard it now, and very distinctly,
too. It was the measured dip of a paddle in the water, and it was
apparently drawing nigh with great rapidity. Indeed, the canoe—for a
canoe it certainly was—had approached almost within sight before even
Nick Robbins had discovered its proximity!
In a moment they heard the boat strike the shore. Then they fairly held
their breath as they waited for the occupants to land. Soon two dark
forms sprung upon the bank—only two, and they wore the plumes and scanty
apparel of Indians!
One of them, however, as he stood revealed in the dim starlight, was
instantly known to be a white man. More—he was recognized as that
fiendish outlaw, Simon Girty!
“Hell and furies!” growled the renegade, stamping his foot, “this has
been a pretty night’s work. I don’t believe more than half of my braves
effected their escape. In fact, I’m sure they didn’t. Curse that man,
McCabe! If I had him here I’d wring his neck, for I believe he has played
me false!”
This was all that was heard. The next moment Simon Girty and the Indian
had plunged into the woods, and were gone.