A PERILOUS PREDICAMENT.
“If I should agree to answer for the lad’s being on hand to-morrow
morning an hour afore sunup, would you let him go home till then?”
asked Woodranger, the calmest one of the three, continuing the subject
in his mind as if no interruption had occurred.
As a matter of fact, Gunwad had been puzzling himself over the best
method to adopt in order to keep his prisoner safely until he could
deliver him over to the proper authorities. Of a cowardly, treacherous
nature, he naturally had little confidence in others. He believed the
youthful captive to be a dangerous person, knowing well the valour of
the McNiels, though he would not have acknowledged to any one that he
feared him. Woodranger’s proposition offered a way out of his dilemma
without compromising himself, in case it should fail. Accordingly he
asked, with an eagerness the woodsman did not fail to observe:
“Would ye dare take the risk, Woodranger?”
“In season and out I have a knack o’ following my words like a
deerhound on the track o’ a stag.”
“I know it, Woodranger, so I hope ye won’t harbour enny feeling fer my
question. Ef ye say ye’ll hev the youngster on hand at Shepley’s at
sunrise, I shall let him be in yer hands. But, mind ye, I shall look to
ye fer my divvy in the reward if he’s not on hand.”
“I will walk along with you, lad,” said the Woodranger, without
replying to Gunwad, who remained watching them as they started away,
muttering under his breath:
“I s’pose it’s risky to let the youngster off in his care. Twenty-four
dollars ain’t to be picked up in these sand-banks every day, and I’m
sure of it if I get the leetle fool to Chelmsford. It’s a pity to let
sich a good fat deer go to waste, and I’ve a mind to help myself to as
much meat as I can carry off. It’s no harm, seeing the killing is done,
and I had no hand in it.”
Glancing back as they were losing sight of Rock Rimmon, the Woodranger
saw the deer reeve carrying out his intention, and laughed in his
silent way.
Norman was not only willing but glad to have the company of the
woodsman, whose fame he had heard so often mentioned by the settlers.
As soon as they were beyond the hearing of Gunwad, he thanked his
companion for his kindly intervention.
“I have nary desire for you to mention it, lad. But if you don’t mind,
you may tell me what you can of this deer killing. It may be only a
concait o’ mine, but my sarvices may be desirable afore you get out’n
this affair. In that case it might be well for me to know the full
particulars.”
“You are very kind, Mr.――Mr.――”
“You may call me Woodranger, as the rest do. Time may have been when
I had another name, but this one suits me best now. If you have been
in these parts very long, you may have heard of me, though I trust
not through any malicious person. I ’low none o’ us are above having
enemies. But I can see that you are anxious to get home, so tell me in
a few words all you can about the deer.”
“There is really little to tell, Mr. Woodranger. I was lying on the top
of Rock Rimmon when I heard Archer bark, and I felt sure he had started
a deer near Cedar Swamp. Soon after, I heard some one fire a gun. A
moment later I saw Christo, the friendly Indian, coming toward the
cliff, but at sight of me he turned and went the other way.”
“So it was, as I thought, Christo who shot the deer. I’m sorry for
that. The poor fellow has enough to answer for to pacify those who are
determined to persecute him, simply because he is a red man. As if it
was not enough to see the last foot o’ territory belonging to his race
stripped from his tribe, and the last o’ his people driven off like
leaves before an autumn wind.”
This speech, coming from one whom he had heard of as an Indian fighter,
seemed so strange to Norman that he exclaimed:
“So you are a friend to the Indians! I supposed you hated them.”
“We are all God’s critters, lad, and I hate not even the lowest. Though
it has been my fortune to be pitted ag’inst the dusky varmints in some
clus quarters, I never drew bead on an Injun with a wanton thought.
Mebbe on sich ’casions as Lovewell’s fight, where the blood of white
and red ran ankle deep, and that Injun fiend, bold Paugus―― Hark!
there’s the horn ag’in! Your kin must be anxious about you. Ha! how the
old bugle awakes old-time memories. But don’t let me hinder you. I will
meet you by the river to-morrer morning at sunrise, when we can start
for Chelmsford. By the way, I wish you wouldn’t say anything about
Christo until I think it best.”
Without further loss of time, Norman darted away from the Woodranger in
a course which soon brought him in sight of the river.
On the opposite bank of the stream the young refugee discovered his
grandfather, still holding to his lips the horn which was awakening the
wild-wood with its clear notes, as in years long since past it had
rung over the hills and vales of his native land. At sight of Norman the
aged bugler quickly removed his beloved instrument from his bearded
lips, and while the echoes of the horn died slowly away he watched the
approach of his grandson, who had pulled a canoe out from a bunch of
bushes on the river bank and began his laborious trip across the rapid
stream.
In the years of his vigorous manhood Robert MacDonald must have been a
typical Highlander of Bonnie Scotland. As he stood there on the bank of
the river, in the shifting light of the setting sun, his thin, whitened
locks tossed in the gentle breeze, and his spare form half supported by
a stout staff, he looked like one of the patriarchs of old appearing in
the midst of that wild-wood scene. If the passage of time had left deep
tracks across a brow once lofty and white as snow, if the lines about
the mouth had deepened into wrinkles and the loss of teeth allowed an
unpleasant compression of the lips, his clear blue eyes had lost little
if any of their old-time lustre. His face kindled with a new fire, as
he watched the approach of Norman.
“He’s a noble laddie, every inch o’ him!” he mused, falling deeper
into his native dialect as he continued: “Weel, alack an’ a day, why
should he no be a bonnie laddie wi’ the bluid o’ the MacDonalds an’
McNiels coorsin’ thro’ his veins. Shame upon the ane wha wud bring
dishonour tae sic a fair name. He has nane o’ his faither’s weakness.
He’s MacDonald, wi’ the best o’ the McNiel only. Hoo handy he is wi’
the skim-shell o’ a craft that looks ower licht tae waft a feather ower
the brawlin’ burn.”
“What can be the matter, grandfather, that you are so excited?” asked
Norman, as he ran the canoe upon the sandy bank and leaped out.
“It’s the wee lassie. She left me awhile since tae look for the geese,
an’ she hasna cum back. She’s been awa a lang time.”
“I would not worry, grandfather. You know the geese have an inclination
to get back to their kind at old Archie’s. But I will lose no time in
going to help Rilma fetch them home.”
“Dae sae, my braw laddie, for I’m awfu’ shilly the day. I canna tell
thee it was a catamount’s cry, but it did hae the soond tae my auld
ear. But dinna credit ower muckle an auld man’s ears, which dinna
hear sae clear as on the day the redcoats mowed doon the auld clan at
Glencoe.”
At the mention of the word “catamount” Norman felt a sudden fear. He
knew that a pair of the dreaded creatures had been seen in the vicinity
several times of late, and that the presence of the geese would be
likely to call them from their skulking-places in the dense forest
skirting the few log houses near by. So leaving his aged relative to
follow at his leisure, he bounded up the path leading to the house.
Thinking of his empty gun, he was anxious to get a new supply of powder
before putting himself in the pathway of any possible danger.
All of the dwellings of Tyng Township were of the most primitive
character. There being no sawmill on the river at that period, the
houses were built of hewn or unhewn logs, as the fancy or capacity
for work of the owner dictated. The MacDonald cottage was smaller
than the average, but the logs making its four walls had been hewn
on the inside. The building was low-storied, and had small openings
or loop-holes for windows, over which small mats of skins had been
arranged to stop the apertures whenever it was desired. Originally the
space of the building had been divided into only two apartments on the
lower floor, but one of these had been subdivided, so there were two
sleeping-rooms, one for Rilma and another for Mr. MacDonald, besides
the living room, on the first floor. Norman occupied the unfinished
loft for his bedchamber. Some of the houses of Tyng Township, or Old
Harrytown, as it was quite as frequently called, had no floor, but
in this hewn logs embedded in the sand and cemented along the seams
or cracks afforded a solid foundation. A stone chimney at one end
carried off the smoke from the wide-mouthed fireplace, which added a
cheerfulness as well as genial warmth in cold weather to the primitive
dwelling.
The furnishing of this typical frontier house was in keeping with its
surroundings. The kitchen, or room first entered, which served as
sitting-room, parlour, dining-room, and living apartment, was supplied
with a three-legged table, a relic of ancient days that had been the
gift of a neighbour, two old chairs which had been repaired from
some broken ones, while a rude bench answered for a third seat. In
one corner was an iron-bound chest, which had been the only piece of
furniture, if it deserved that name, that had been brought from their
native land. It held the plain wardrobes of the three. Hanging to the
sooty crane in the fireplace was an iron pot, while in a niche in the
rocky wall was a pewter pot, a frying-pan, and a skillet. In another
small opening cut higher in the side of the building reposed the scanty
supply of household utensils, a couple of pewter spoons, two wooden
spoons, three knives, a couple of broken cups, a pewter dipper, and
three wooden forks, with four rude plates made from two thicknesses of
birch bark. There was also a small earthen pot.
Over the fireplace, hung on pegs driven in the chinks of the logs, was
a long-barrelled musket of Scottish pattern, whose bruised stock and
dinted iron bespoke hard usage. This was the weapon Robert MacDonald
had carried in the desperate fight at Glencoe, when his clan had
been completely routed by the English. Near by hung a powder-horn,
grotesquely carved like an imp’s head, and in close companionship was
a bullet-pouch. Near it was another peg, the usual resting-place of
an even more highly prized relic than any of these ancient pieces of
property, namely, the bugle with which the old Highlander had called
home the truant Norman.
The room, though rudely furnished, bore every trace of neatness and
thrift, with an air of comfort in spite of its simple environments.
The rough places in the walls were concealed by wreaths of leaves and
ferns, and the table was bordered with a frill made of maple leaves
knit together by their stems. On a shelf, made of pins driven into
the wall, lay three books, one of them a volume of hymns, the second
a collection of Scottish songs and ballads, while the third was a
manuscript book of records of the Clan MacDonald, with some added notes
of the McNiels.
The door was made by four small poles fastened together at the corners
with wooden pins and strings cut from deer hide, the whole covered with
a bear skin carefully tanned and the fur closely trimmed.
In his anxiety to go in search of Rilma, Norman did not stop to
replenish his horn from the general supply of powder, but snatched
that of his grandfather from its peg, and, loading his gun as he went
along, left the house.
His home was near a small tributary of the Merrimack, which joined the
main stream a short distance below the falls. The house stood a short
distance back from what was considered the main road of the locality, a
regularly laid out highway running from Namaske to the adjoining town
of Nutfield or Londonderry, and following an old Indian trail. This
road also led, a short distance (half a mile) above the falls, past two
or three dwellings, to a more spacious log house which was the home
of another Scottish family by the name of Stark. Archibald Stark, the
head of this household, was a fine representative of his race, and he
and his beautiful wife, with their seven children, four boys and three
girls, were a typical frontier family, cheerful, rugged, hospitable,
and progressive.
As the geese which had caused Rilma to leave her home had been the gift
of Bertha Stark, the oldest daughter of the family, Norman hurried
toward the home of these people, never doubting but he should find
Rilma loitering there to continue some girlish gossip.
Soon after crossing the brook, however, his sharp eyes discovered fresh
footprints in the soft earth near the bank of the stream and along a
path leading to a small pond in the brook, where the water had been
held back by a dam of fallen brushwood. He was sure the tracks had been
made by Rilma.
“The geese have got away from her and gone to the Pool,” he concluded.
“I shall find her there. Better still, by waiting here I can head off
the foolish geese from going back to their old home, as they will be
pretty sure to do.”
He had barely come to this conclusion, when he was startled by a loud
squawk, quickly followed by a scream.
Something was wrong! He bounded along the narrow pathway toward the
scene, while the outcries continued with increasing volume.
Meanwhile Rilma, having been obliged to go quite to Mr. Stark’s house
to find her truants, was returning with them, as Norman had imagined,
when, on reaching the path leading to the little pond, the contrary
creatures darted toward the Pool with loud cries. She followed, but not
swift enough to stop the runaways.
The geese had gained the bank of the little pond, and she was following
a few yards behind them, when a dark form sprang from a thicket
bordering the pathway, and seized the foremost goose.
Thinking at first it was a dog attacking her geese, Rilma called out
sharply to the brute, as she bounded toward the spot. But a second
glance showed her not a dog but a big wildcat!
Nothing daunted by this startling discovery, the brave girl flourished
the stick she carried in her hand and ran to defend the poor goose.
So furiously did she rain her blows about the wildcat’s head that it
dropped its prey and sprang upon her! With one sweep of its paw it tore
the stout dress from her shoulder and left the marks of its cruel claws
in her flesh. But the squawking goose, fluttering about on the ground,
seemed a more tempting bait for the wildcat, which abandoned its attack
on Rilma and sprang again on the goose.
Flung to the ground by the fierce assault of the beast, Rilma quickly
regained her feet, and, seeing her favourite goose in deadly danger,
she again attempted its rescue, although the blood was flowing in a
stream from the wound in her shoulder. It was at this moment that
Norman appeared on the scene.
Rilma and the catamount were engaged in too close a combat for him to
shoot the creature without endangering her life, so he shouted for her
to retreat, as he rushed to her assistance. But it was now impossible
for her to do that. Having torn her dress nearly from her, and aroused
at the sight of the blood flowing so freely, the enraged beast was
in the act of fixing its terrible teeth in Rilma’s body, when Norman
pushed the muzzle of the gun into the wildcat’s mouth, and pulled the
trigger.
A dull report followed, and the catamount fell over dead. Norman was
about to bear Rilma, who was now unconscious from pain and fright, away
from the place, when a terrific snarl rang in his ears from over his
head! Looking up, he saw to his horror a second wildcat, mate to the
other, lying on the branch of an overhanging tree, and in the act of
springing upon him!