THE YOUNG CAPTAIN’S CAPTURE.
The sun was within about an hour of setting behind the western ridges
of the Green Mountains, as a tall, heavily-built man, with strong,
sullen face, sat at the door of a log cabin, within a few miles of the
settlement of Derryfield, looking across a lonely valley.
The attire of this individual was that of a farmer, and a little patch,
of about half an acre, behind his cabin, showed by its ripening corn,
that his occupation was not wholly a fiction. Still, a certain air of
neglect about cabin and owner, and the presence of a long rifle that
lay across his knees, announced that his farming was at least eked out
by hunting, if not subordinated thereto.
Although only a few miles from a settlement, the scene around the
seated man was completely wild and lonely, so much so that the people
had christened the owner the “Mountain Hermit.” His solitary habits and
sullen manner repelled strangers from forming his acquaintance, and
even his name was unknown to any one in the country side.
He had first made his appearance there about three years before, had
built his own cabin in that solitary place, and resided there ever
since. The only occasions he was ever seen away, were when some hunter
caught sight of him in the woods on the same errand as himself, and
it remained a mystery where he procured powder and lead, for he never
entered Derryfield to buy any.
Since the advance of Burgoyne’s army, people ceased to watch him.
It was well known that hordes of Indians were prowling about in the
vicinity of every settlement, and no one dared to venture away alone.
Still, the Mountain Hermit remained in his cabin, as if insensible to
danger, although “Indian sign” had been seen more than once near his
little clearing.
On the evening in question he sat gazing at the sunset and
soliloquizing, according to the habit of most lonely men.
“Let them come,” he muttered. “They cannot do as much harm to the
Puritanical hounds as I wish them. Let them scalp the women if they
please. There will be so many rebel brats the less, to grow up into
boors. Let them abuse me. I can stand the name of renegade, if I get my
revenge. Let us see their Washington, that they boast so much of, help
them out of this scrape.”
As he spoke, his frown grew dark and gloomy, and he rose to his feet.
His manner was fretful and impatient.
“Why don’t the fools come?” he muttered. “When there is no danger, who
so bold as an Indian? Let them once get a good scare, and you cannot
drive them into battle. It is beyond the chief’s time--no--there he
comes. After all, the brutes keep faith.”
At the moment he uttered the last words, the stately form of an Indian
chief stepped into the clearing, as if he had issued from the ground,
and calmly advanced toward the recluse.
The new-comer was a Mohawk on the war-path, from his paint and other
peculiarities. He carried a short rifle over his arm, and saluted the
hermit with grave courtesy.
The white man opened the conversation with an air of authority to which
the Indian submitted quietly.
“Bearskin is ready? Where are his warriors?”
The chief waved his hand toward the exit of the valley.
“My brothers are in wait by the white road that leads to the town. They
await the Night Hawk’s orders.”
“Good. It is new moon. When the moon sinks, I will be there. Let them
stop every one that passes by the road; but no firing. Let the arrow do
its work silently. Is the town well watched all round?”
“Not a creature will escape. My warriors are like the web of the
spider, the white men are like the flies. We shall suck their blood
before morning, and the squaws will be tired of counting the scalps.”
“It is good,” said the Mountain Hermit, with a grim smile. “Let
Bearskin watch well. Has any one come along the road to-day?”
The Indian answered not for a moment. His quick ear had caught a sound
to which the other was insensible, and he stood with his head bent on
one side listening intently.
“One comes now,” said the white man, quickly. “Do not kill him on the
road, or the sight may deter others. Drag him into the forest, and keep
him till I come.”
The Indian nodded silently, and plunged into the forest in a direction
that promised to take him toward the road that crossed the foot of the
valley almost within sight of the clearing.
The recluse remained a moment listening, and presently caught the
sounds which the quicker senses of the chief had first announced. A
horseman was evidently galloping along the road toward him, and the
clatter of spur and scabbard told the nature of the traveler without
words.
The recluse cast his rifle into the hollow of his arm, and struck
across the valley to a point where he could intersect the road in its
many curves at a much nearer point. He was a little curious to see who
the advancing dragoon might be.
There was still plenty of light, although the sun was fast nearing the
mountain tops, and the long strides of the Mountain Hermit took him
across the stretch of woods that barred him from the road in a very
short time.
As he neared it, the sound of horse-hoofs and the clatter of a
saber-scabbard were plainly audible, skirting the mountain-side beyond.
At the point which the recluse had reached, the road came round a spur,
over the dividing ridge, and dived into the valley beyond. Waiting a
few moments, till the sound of hoofs was close by, the Mountain Hermit
stalked boldly into the road, just as the young hussar captain dashed
around the corner.
At the sight of the stranger’s figure, Adrian Schuyler abruptly halted,
throwing his horse on its haunches close to the other, while the sharp
click of his pistol-lock enforced the stern command, “Halt!”
The stranger quietly turned, and faced the hussar with a sullen frown,
asking:
“Who are you to halt a peaceable farmer? I’ve as much right as you, and
more, in this place.”
“Perhaps so,” said the hussar, coolly: “but in war-time we of the
light cavalry take liberties that we support with our weapons. Who are
you?”
“A peaceable farmer, as I said before,” answered the other, with a
sullen scowl. “Who are you?”
“An officer on duty, my man, who doesn’t care to be trifled with. There
are too many Indians and spies loose in these mountains for me to trust
strangers. If you’re a peaceable farmer, you’re as sulky a looking one
as I have seen. How far is it to Derryfield?”
“Four miles,” said the sullen stranger, gruffly. Then he turned away as
if the colloquy was terminated, but the hussar was not going to let him
off so easy.
“Halt!” he again cried, in his sharp tones, covering the other with his
pistol. “Move another step, and it’s your last.”
The stranger obeyed the order with his usual sullen air, but the
hussar’s voice showed that he was in earnest.
“Look here, Mr. Officer,” began the stranger, in a tone of injury, “I
don’t see what you have against me to treat me in this way. Let me
alone, or by the Lord, we’ll see if my rifle ain’t as good as your
pistol.”
The hussar was close to him, as he spoke, and he was already beginning
to handle his long rifle, when Adrian’s horse, obedient to his master’s
will, made a sudden leap, which brought the soldier’s left hand to the
shoulder of the recluse.
In a moment the muzzle of the pistol was at the sullen stranger’s ear,
as Adrian sternly ordered him:
“Fire in the air, quick, or _I_ fire here. Not a word. Fire!”
The sullen man cast one savage look up at the hussar’s face, but the
menace he met there was so unyielding that he obeyed the order.
The harmless rifle-bullet whistled skywards, and the sharp report waked
the echoes for miles around, as the now disarmed man stood glaring
defiantly up at the hussar.
“Now drop your gun,” said Adrian, sternly.
The stranger obeyed, still with the same scowl.
“It’s my impression,” pursued the officer, grimly, “that you’re a
spy of some sort, or you’d have treated a patriot officer with more
courtesy. Unbuckle your belt, and drop it. I see you have a knife
still. No fooling, sir. I shall be fully justified in shooting you if
you hesitate.”
The stranger, without a word, did as he was told, still looking up
at the hussar with the same defiant scowl as ever. The soldier,
still keeping his strange captive under his eye, dived into the gay
saber-tasche that dangled beside his sword, and produced therefrom a
pair of delicate steel handcuffs.
“Hold up your hands,” he said, quietly, “I’m going to take you into
Derryfield, dead or alive.”
Still the stranger spoke not a word. His face wore the same expression
of bitter rage, without a trace of fear, though he stood there disarmed
and helpless. He held up his hands, and allowed Schuyler to handcuff
him, without a struggle. Then, as the officer passed a cord between his
manacled wrists, and fastened it to his saddle-bow, he uttered a short
laugh of bitter mockery.
The captain did not deign to notice it.
“Go on,” he said, spurring up his horse, “and run your best, or you’ll
find yourself dragged.”
He set off at a slow trot, the prisoner running alongside, with
surprising power, and took the road to Derryfield.