A MYSTERY OF THE FOREST.
Much as Kingdom and Jerome wondered what interest this well dressed
stranger had in Ichabod Nesbit, they were too polite to ask any
questions, unless they were first spoken to; but their thoughts turned
naturally to the frayed and old piece of writing which John had seen in
the possession of the men at the Eagle tavern. They recalled how
interested those men had been in learning just where Ichabod Nesbit was
killed, and that Duff and Dexter had said they were on their way West.
Yet, much as they tried, neither of the boys could suggest a reason for
the interest in the death of the dead robber which seemed to have so
suddenly risen. They discussed the subject at much length, sitting alone
in the moonlight that evening, on the heavy shafts of their wagon,
beside the barn, when they had seen to it that their horse was fed and
their dog had a comfortable place for the night on a blanket beneath the
cart, insuring the perfect safety of the vehicle and its contents.
The lads had not seen Tall Todd after supper, but as they were going
into the house to go to bed, he met them near the door and urged them
most seriously to give up their plan to go on into the wilderness alone.
Todd was a good natured, kindly man and undoubtedly meant well by his
friends, but by habit he spoke in an extravagant manner, and the young
men believed that many of the alarming statements he made were
exaggerated—either by himself, quite unintentionally, owing to his
manner of speaking, or by those from whom he had heard them. They
thought most seriously, however, of the report given by the quiet,
elderly man, Eli Hopp, concerning the mysterious murders which had taken
place along the extreme frontier, and prudence bade them investigate
before venturing into the almost trackless forest alone. They probably
would have remained in Pittsburg several days or more for this purpose,
but for a remark made by the proprietor of the public house at which
they remained over night, next morning.
“Tall Todd says you chaps have decided to stay here awhile and maybe
wait for some party goin’ down river, to go along with.”
The words fired Kingdom’s pride. He was usually a cool, thoughtful lad;
and though he showed no resentment or injured self-esteem in his tones,
now, he answered instantly:
“No, he must be mistaken. We not only did not say that, but we are
leaving to-day to go on to the cabin we built on the Cuyahoga river.”
“We have corn and other crops to harvest, if there is anything left of
them. We had quite a farm, you know, when we left there last spring,”
put in John Jerome jocularly.
The landlord’s face grew serious and he began telling of the Indian
disturbances all along the border; but Kingdom adroitly turned the
conversation in such a way that he was able without seeming
over-curious, to inquire about the well dressed stranger who had sat at
table with them the night before and had been so disturbed by mention of
the name of Ichabod Nesbit.
“By vum, partner, you’ve stumped me,” the man replied. “That fellow came
along here on horseback day before yesterday, engaged his keep, carried
his saddle bags to a little room I let him have, as though they was both
full of gold—he watched them that close—and this morning he paid his
reckoning, got on his horse and away he went, saddle bags and all. Tall
Todd couldn’t get anything out of him, so I knew ’twan’t any use my
tryin’, though he did tell me what he didn’t tell Todd, and that was,
that his name was Theodore Hatch and that he was a surveyor. But bless
you! I don’t believe that. I think he’s a British spy, that’s what I
think!”
“Pretty dangerous for him to be around here, if he is,” said young
Jerome, bristling up as though he would personally assault the gentleman
the next time they met.
“The woods are full of British from Detroit,” the landlord went on.
“Talk about the war being over, what are the pestiferous Red-coats
always setting the Indians against our settlers so, for? We will have to
set about licking them out of their boots again, the way they are
behaving! But what most of all makes me think this Mr. Theodore Hatch is
a Britisher is that he rode off down the river right toward bad Injun
country alone. He wouldn’t dare do it, if he wasn’t a Britisher and
friendly with the Redskins. And what did he have in them saddle bags, do
you suppose? He had gold for the Mingoes and the Delawares and the
Wyandots and every red mother’s son of the savages, he had. Now that’s
what I think!”
The two boys did not mention the stranger’s agitation of the night
before, but they could not understand how a British spy could have any
interest in Ichabod Nesbit, and as they talked the subject over by
themselves, they concluded that on that point the landlord was probably
mistaken.
It was true, nevertheless, that then and for many years afterward there
were agents of the British government going among the Indians, rousing
them to deeds of violence against the American settlers. British
soldiers helped in the defeat of General St. Clair by the Indians that
very fall of 1791,—only a month later than that day when Kingdom and
Jerome, some time after their talk with the landlord, said goodbye to
him and to Tall Todd and others they knew, and set forth again upon
their journey on into the western wilds.
Todd was still loud in his declarations that it was nothing less than
murder to permit the boys to continue into the wilderness, but their
determination overbalanced all his objections and, though cautioning
them repeatedly, other men really admired their pluck, as they watched
the two friends drive slowly away.
“We will reach the Cuyahoga river within two weeks if we have good luck,
Ree,” said John. “That will give us all the time we need to get our corn
harvested, if there is any of it left, and to get our little house all
in good shape for winter before cold weather comes.”
“I think we will be able to gather some nuts, there are plenty of
hickory-nuts and butternuts, too, along the river and back among the
hills.”
So with the most hopeful conversation the boys passed the time. Had they
fully realized the dangers which would surround them they could not have
been so care-free. They knew that they must keep their wits about them
and their eyes open wide, and this they did; but they were far from
expecting the adventures which were in store for them.
The roads east of Pittsburg had been scarcely worthy of the name, but
west of that frontier settlement there were practically none. Neb—short
for Nebuchadnezzar—the big black horse the lads drove, had all he could
do in many instances to pull the well loaded cart up the little hills
which were encountered, and through the swampy places which must now and
then be crossed. The trail followed was the same as that taken by the
boys upon their previous journey West, the preceding fall, and the work
done at that time in opening a roadway where it was impossible otherwise
for the cart to pass, stood them in good stead now. But at best their
progress was slow, and Colonel Boquet, whose famous Indian expedition
many years earlier, traveled in part the same course as that these two
sons of Connecticut were now taking, moved as fast as they did, though
he made but from seven to ten miles a day.
For several miles, soon after leaving Pittsburg, the trail the boys
followed kept them close to the Ohio river. There they discovered the
tracks of a horse which had preceded them. Rightly they guessed that the
hoof prints were those of the steed of the mysterious stranger who had
called himself Theodore Hatch.
“I wish we could overtake him,” said John, speaking of the tracks they
saw.
“It is strange that he should be going into this country alone and with
practically no baggage,” said Kingdom. “I can’t make out what he’s up
to, unless it be true that he is a British agent. Of course it might be
that he is a missionary going to the Moravian villages, but he did not
look much like one.”
“I should say not. He looked like a soldier, I thought—an army officer
dressed up as a Quaker.”
The prospect that the boys might fall in with the mysterious stranger
seemed to increase daily. Though he undoubtedly traveled faster than
they, it was apparent that he was pursuing the same general course as
themselves and much the same trail. They saw places where he had
encamped for the night, and often during the day the tracks of his
horse. Still there was nothing to indicate the man’s identity.
It was late in the afternoon of the sixth day after leaving Pittsburg.
The young travelers had found level land and comparatively easy
traveling that day, and having gone a long distance, were casting about
for a camping place.
“I’ll forge ahead and see if there is running water in the little valley
yonder,” said John. “If there is, we need go no further.”
Hastening forward, he came to the edge of the hill sloping down to the
shallow gully of which he had spoken. He heard the trickle and splash of
a stream of water, and in another moment would have turned to go back,
but his quick eye caught the outlines of a horse’s flank among some low
bushes near the brook, and he paused.
Carefully he watched but the animal did not stir. Ree was not more than
a hundred yards away, and hurrying to him, John told of the discovery.
“It must be our Britisher,” said Kingdom, thoughtfully, “so few of the
Indians have horses. But we will soon find out. Come on.”
Leaving their cart where it was, for Neb could be trusted not to run
away, the boys walked with as great a show of unconcern as possible down
into the valley. They took pains to speak to each other in tones
moderately loud, as though they were looking only for a place to camp,
hoping to attract the stranger’s attention. But their approach seemed
entirely unnoticed. They could see only the flanks and back of the horse
which was standing among the low bushes, and were somewhat surprised to
notice that the animal was saddled. So perfectly still did the creature
stand, too, they were puzzled more and more.
Suddenly the horse raised its head, looked backward with great,
sorrowful eyes for a moment, then with a low, pitiful whinny turned and
trotted toward the boys.
“Something’s wrong here,” said Kingdom, beneath his breath. “My
goodness, I hope—”
The sentence was cut short by John speaking to the dapple gray that had
now come close up to them, plainly doing its best to talk.
“Show us what it is—what’s the matter, old fellow?” said Jerome, patting
the horse’s forehead.
Kingdom did not wait for an answer to his companion’s question, but
stepped quickly forward among the underbrush. He pushed his way through
to a small, clear space beside the stream, and as he reached it a little
cry of surprise and dismay escaped him. Then swift as a deer he leaped
to the center of the open space, and in another instant was kneeling
beside the body of—Theodore Hatch, the Quaker.
The man lay face upward upon the leafy ground, the pallor of death upon
his cheeks, the scalp cut from his head. Beside his body the ground was
ploughed deep by the hoofs of the horse, showing clearly how the
faithful beast had watched and waited for a word from the master who
could not speak. A few feet distant were the dead ashes of a tiny fire,
and a small coffee dipper burned black still setting among them, its
contents long since evaporated.
“Oh, Ree!”
John Jerome could say no more as, followed by their faithful dog and the
stranger’s horse, he hastened through the brush to his friend’s side and
at a glance saw what was there.
“He’s alive—sure as the world, the body is still almost warm!” cried Ree
in an undertone, and seizing the blackened dipper, filled it at the
brook and bathed the stranger’s death-like face.
“See if there is brandy or anything in his saddle bags, John,” he next
commanded. “Oh, if we can save him!”
Instead of taking the chance of finding nothing to the purpose among the
stranger’s baggage, John dashed away across the valley and up the hill
to their cart. He knew there were restoratives in a small medicine chest
they carried beneath the seat of that vehicle, and in a minute or two he
had selected what he wanted and returned. He found that Ree had loosened
the stranger’s collar and placed his own coat beneath his head.
“Where is the wound, Ree?” he asked in a whisper.
“I haven’t looked,” Kingdom answered, drawing open the stranger’s mouth
and putting between his lips a tiny quantity of the stimulant Jerome had
brought. “Help rub his hands.”
As both boys pressed and chafed the stricken man’s fingers, palms and
wrists, they felt a feeble warmth in them—so feeble, indeed, that they
feared their task was hopeless. But they worked on and on, again
administering a portion of the stimulant. At the end of twenty minutes
they could see that freer circulation of blood had been established and
were hopeful.
A very little later the stranger’s eyelids fluttered and opened. His
horse, which had watched, with almost human intelligence, everything
that had been done, gave a soft, low whinny of gladness.