“Now I know what was the matter with him before!” cried Boone, as he
knelt by Lark’s side.
“One of these fits, eh?”
“Yes.”
Slowly Lark’s scattered senses came back to him. With a vacant look he
gazed into the faces of the two men who knelt by his side.
“By hookey, you’ve had a rough time of it,” said Boone.
“I have been out of my head, then?”
“Yes, mad as a March hare,” replied the borderer.
“Just look at the strips of deer-skin,” said Kenton, pointing to the
severed pieces lying at the foot of the oak. “You bu’st ’em just as if
they had been paper.”
“I feel weak enough now,” said Lark, sadly.
“No wonder!” exclaimed Boone, “you’ve used up all your strength.
Jerusalem! I thought you’d pull the oak over. I shouldn’t like to have
a tussle with you when you’re in one of them queer fits like you had
just now.”
Aided by his companions, Lark rose slowly to his feet.
“I say, Abe, have you any idea what it is that makes you act so queer?”
Kenton asked.
“Yes; do you see this scar?” and Lark pointed to the terrible, livid
mark that disfigured his face.
“Of course,” Kenton replied.
“The wound that made that scar is the cause of it; that is, I think it
is. The wound affected my head. I have never been the same man since.”
“It’s a mighty strange thing,” said Boone, wonderingly.
“Yes; I’ve had these spells before. I can always tell when they are
coming on. I have a strange, burning sensation in my head; everything
before my eyes is tinged with red; the blood races like wildfire
through my veins, then all my senses leave me. I can remember nothing.”
“How did you receive the wound?” Boone asked.
“In an Indian fight. After it was given me I lay for days between life
and death. I escaped death, but the dark cloud of madness follows me.”
“Well, it’s the queerest story that I ever did hear tell of,” said
Boone, sagely.
“How do you feel now?” asked Kenton.
“Oh, much better,” replied Lark.
“Strong enough for to go on?”
“Yes.”
“Let’s be making tracks, then.”
Carefully and cautiously the three proceeded through the thicket.
No hostile Indians barred their course, and by the time the sun reached
the meridian, the three entered the stockade that fenced Point Pleasant.
Warm was the greeting that they received from the settlers, but many a
sun-bronzed cheek grew pale, and many a stout heart beat quick when the
scouts told the story of Ke-ne-ha-ha’s expedition.
It was sad news indeed to the hardy borderers when they learned that
the great Shawnee chieftain had dug up the war-hatchet, and would soon
bring his painted warriors--hot for slaughter--to the banks of the Ohio.
Then, too, for the first time, Boone heard the story of the strange
disappearance of General Treveling’s daughter, Virginia.
The rage of the old Indian-fighter knew no bounds when he heard that
the renegade, Girty, had abducted the girl.
“The eternal villain!” he cried, in wrath, “let me draw ‘bead’ on him
once, and he’ll never carry off any other white gal to give to the
painted devils that he calls his brothers.”
The party headed by Jake Jackson, who had been in search of traces
of the missing girl, had returned to Point Pleasant just before the
arrival of the three scouts. Their search had been fruitless; no traces
of the missing girl had they discovered.
“I’ll tell you what it is, General,” said Boone to the aged father,
whose sad countenance showed plainly his deep grief, “thar ain’t any
use of looking for the gal, or that ’tarnal villain either, in the
timber ’bout hyer. He’s made tracks long ago for the Injun settlement
by the banks of the Scioto, Chillicothe, as the red heathens call it.”
“But, colonel, can nothing be done to rescue her?” asked the aged
father, in despair.
“Why, General, you see it’s a bad time for to do any thing. Within
twenty-four hours the Injuns will be around us thick as bees round a
hive. We’ll have our hands full to attend to the savages and keep their
paws off our top-knots. I feel right bad for you, General, but you know
our first duty is to the helpless she-critters and young ’uns hyer. We
can’t let ’em be massacred right afore our eyes, you know. We’ve got to
whip the red devils fust; then we’ll do what we can toward saving your
little gal.”
“You are right, Boone,” said the old soldier, sadly; “the safety of the
whole settlement can not be put in peril for the sake of my private
grief. I must bow in submission to the will of Heaven, though my
affliction is sore.”
“General, I feel for you, but duty you know is duty,” said Boone,
slowly.
“Heaven forbid that I should say a single word to swerve you from the
path of duty. I am too old a soldier to counsel you to do wrong,” said
the old man, quickly.
“Besides, General, I think about the best blow that we can strike for
your daughter’s rescue is to whip the red heathens that are coming
ag’in’ us. When we drive ’em back, then we can follow them up, and
perhaps be able to snake the little gal out of their hands.” Boone
was trying by his words to lift the weight of sorrow that pressed so
heavily upon the heart of the old soldier.
The father shook his head sorrowfully. He had little hope of ever
seeing his daughter again.
He knew the nature of the red-men well. If defeated in their attack on
the station, they would be apt in their rage to avenge their defeat by
giving any helpless prisoner that might be in their hands to the fiery
torture of death at the stake. No wonder that the father’s heart was
sad.
“How many men have come in, Jake?” questioned the old hunter.
“We’ve got nigh onto two hundred, all told,” replied the sturdy
Indian-fighter.
“Well, we ought to be able to whip a thousand of the red-skins, easy,”
said Boone, in a confident tone. “Do you expect any more, Jake?”
“Not above half a dozen, kurnel; we’ve drawn ’bout all our men in now,”
Jackson replied.
“Set the women to running bullets, and get plenty of water inside the
stockade. The red heathens may make a siege of it,” said Boone.
“Everything has been fixed, kurnel.”
“That’s pert. Now, Jake, I guess we three had better take a little
rest. We’ve been everlastingly tramping through the timber. Throw out
some scouts up the river to watch for the red devils. After I’ve had an
hour’s nap I’ll take to the woods myself.”
Then Boone went to his cabin; he was followed by Kenton and Lark.
“I wonder what’s the matter with the stranger; did you notice how pale
he looked?” Jackson said, referring to Lark.
“Wal--yes, I did,” replied one of the settlers, who stood by Jackson’s
side. “I reckon they’ve had a putty tough tramp onto it. Maybe, though,
some on us will look white afore we git through with Ke-ne-ha-ha and
his Shawnees.”
Many an anxious face in the little group of men that surrounded Jackson
testified to the truth of the speaker’s guess.
In the cabin the three scouts stretched themselves upon the bear-skins
spread upon the floor, and soon were in the land of dreams.
The hour’s nap of Boone had lasted some four hours, and the shades of
evening were beginning to gather thick about the settlement when the
old borderer awoke.
Boone rubbed his eyes and indulged in a prolonged yawn.
“Jerusalem! my eyes feel as if they were full of sticks,” he muttered.
Then Boone cast his eyes through the little window that lit up the
cabin, to the sky.
“It’s late, too, by hookey!” he cried. “It’s time for us to be on the
look-out, for the red devils will probably try to cross the Ohio some
time after dark.”
Then Boone laid his hand upon Kenton’s shoulder.
The scout awoke instantly. His slumber was like the sleep of a cat.
“Time for our scout, Kenton,” Boone said.
“All right; I’m on hand, kurnel. Shall I wake Lark?” Kenton asked.
The third one of the scouts was still buried in heavy slumbers.
“Yes; he’ll be mad if we go without him, or at least, I know I would
be,” said Boone, with a chuckle. The stout hearted borderer welcomed
danger as he would an early friend.
“All right; I’ll wake him, then.”
Kenton laid his hand upon Lark’s shoulder, but the sleeper stirred not.
“Shake him a little,” suggested Boone.
Kenton did so, but the sleeping man never stirred.
“He’s laying himself right down to it, ain’t he?” said Boone, with a
dry humor in his voice.
“Hadn’t we better go without him?” asked Kenton.
“Try once more. He’s the soundest sleeper that I ever did see,” Boone
said.
Again Kenton shook the sleeping man, and this time violently, but the
effort was useless; Lark never moved.
Kenton bent over and examined him.
“He ain’t a-breathin’ right,” the scout said, in some little alarm.
“Has he got another fit?” asked Boone, quickly.
“Well, it looks like it. His teeth are clenched together, and he’s
breathing like a quarter-horse.”
Boone knelt by Kenton’s side and bent over Lark.
A moment’s examination convinced Boone that there was something the
matter with his companion.
Lark’s breath came thick and hard.
“Another spell, by thunder!” muttered Boone, as, with Kenton, he bent
over the unconscious man.
Then, suddenly, as though moved by some secret spring, Lark’s eyes
opened. He stared into the faces of the two that bent over him, but his
eyes were like eyes of glass; there was no life therein.
Like men in a trance, Boone and Kenton gazed into the white face and
the great, staring eyes.
There was something in the face that seemed to chill the very blood
coursing in their veins.
For a moment Lark stared with meaningless eyes at the two, and they,
fixed as statues, horrified, they knew not at what, returned the look.
Then, with a sudden start, and apparently with the strength of a giant
playing in his muscles, Lark sprung to his feet.
As he rose, he came in violent contact with Boone and Kenton, and the
sudden shock hurled them to the floor as though they had been two
children.
When he had gained his feet, Lark cast a rapid glance around him,
passed his hand mechanically across his forehead, and then, with a
stealthy step, like unto a wild beast crawling in upon its prey, he
left the cabin.
For a moment Boone and Kenton, seated upon the floor where they had
fallen, looked at each other in speechless astonishment.
“If he ain’t mad, I’m a catfish!” cried Kenton.
“Let’s foller him; he may do some one a mischief!” exclaimed Boone.
Then, with eager haste, they followed Lark.