"There's even-handed justice for ye, stranger?"
A stalwart backwoodsman in hunting garb of dressed skins was the
speaker, and the words were addressed to Kenneth, near to whom he had
stood during the brief trial of Bill Slack.
Dale had walked away in company with a brother lawyer, and Kenneth
was turning from the unpleasant scene with a thought of pity for the
weakness and wickedness of the unhappy criminal.
"Yes," he answered, "Squire Smith is a man of discriminating mind and
judgment, very impartial in his decisions, and prompt in seeing them
carried out. But what a happy world this might be if all were honest
and upright!"
"That's true; but we've got to take it as it is.
"Got quite a town here," pursued the hunter, moving along by
Kenneth's side as he walked up the street. "Last time I was round
here in these parts, there wasn't so much as an Injun wigwam to be
seen; nothin' but the thickest kind o' thick woods."
"I thought your face was quite new to me," said Kenneth. "May I ask
where you are from?"
"You kin ask, sir, and I haven't the least objection in life
to tellin'. I've been huntin' and trappin' all through this
Northwestern Territory, along the Ohio and the Little Miami, and away
up north by the great lakes; and even as far as the head waters of
the Mississippi. And I come back with a lot of furs and skins. Sold
'em mostly in Detroit."
"Ah!" exclaimed Kenneth, with interest. "You must have had an
adventurous life, and fallen in with many tribes of Indians."
"Humph! yes, young man; saw a good deal more of the ugly, treacherous
varmints than I cared to. I hain't no love for 'em, and no more have
they for me."
"You have had some encounters with them?"
"More'n a few, stranger. I've taken their scalps, and been mighty
near losin' my own; have been in their clutches several times, run
the gauntlet twice, and would have been burnt at the stake if I
hadn't made my escape. However, I haven't any more to tell than any
other man that's been huntin' and trappin' for ten or a dozen years."
Kenneth invited him into his office, set food and drink before him,
and by dint of adroit questioning drew from him a good deal of
information in regard to the various tribes among whom he had been.
"Have you ever met with any whites living with them?" he asked at
length.
"Yes, occasionally. There's Simon Gerty; I saw him, and he's a worse
savage than the redskins."
"But any others? Any women?"
"I met another man that was a prisoner, got away afterwards; and
saw children at different times, girls and boys, both, that they'd
stole away from their folks and adopted. And I saw a white woman a
few weeks ago, that's been with 'em for years, and is married to an
Injun; got a family of pappooses."
In reply to further questions he went on to describe the situation
of the Indian village where he had seen this woman, but could give
no description of her, except that she was very much tanned, dressed
like the squaws, and had scarcely a more civilized look than they.
"I hope she's no kin o' yours?" he remarked, looking keenly at his
questioner.
"No; I never had friend or relative taken by them," Kenneth answered,
"though our family were pioneers, and several of them lost their
lives by the Indians."
"Humph! then I reckon you hain't no love for 'em either?"
"Not so much as I ought to have, I'm afraid."
"How's that? Can't say as I see any call to love 'em at all."
"They are human creatures, and Christ died for them as well as for
the white man. Doubtless they are equally dear to Him," Kenneth
answered, with gentle gravity, fixing a kindly look upon his rough
companion.
"Well, now, that may be," the man returned thoughtfully. "Fact is,
I've never paid much attention to those things. Minister, are ye?"
"No; a doctor."
"Find much to do about here?"
"Not just now," Kenneth answered aloud, adding to himself, "Happily I
can very well be spared for a few days."
Upon the departure of the backwoodsman from the office, Zeb was
summoned and directed to saddle Romeo and have him at the door by the
time his master should return from a round of visits among his town
patients.
"I am going off on a hunt, Zeb, and shall want my gun, blanket and
some provisions; get me some parched corn, bread and a little salt,
and pack them in one end of my saddle-bags," was his final order.
"Yes, sah. You'll take me 'long, I s'pose?" interrogatively.
"No, Zeb, I'm going alone; I must leave you to take care of the
office and see who calls. I shall be away for two or three days, or
longer, and shall want to know when I return who have been wanting
the doctor, that I may go to them at once."
"'Tain't jes' the very bestest time ob yeah for a hunt," muttered
the boy, watching his master as he strode rapidly down the street.
"Wondah what sort ob game Massa Doctah's gwine arter."
By noon of that day Kenneth had put several miles of hill and valley
between him and Chillicothe.
He had gone, telling no one whither, or on what errand he was bound,
and those who saw him leaving the town took it for granted that he
had had a call to some sick person in the country.
His course was northwesterly, and for days he pressed on sturdily
in that direction, taking an hour's rest at noon, subsisting on
the provisions in his saddle-bags, and such small game as came in
his way, at night kindling a fire to keep off the wild beasts, and
sleeping on the ground, wrapped in his blanket, with his horse
picketed near by.
His way lay through pathless forests and over trackless prairies
where perhaps the foot of white man had never trod; the solitude was
utter and the compass his only guide; not a human creature did he
meet; but during the hours of darkness his ears were greeted with the
cry of the panther and the howl of the wolf, now far in the distance,
now close at hand.
But brave by nature and strong in faith, Kenneth committed himself
to the care of Him who neither slumbers nor sleeps, and there in the
wilderness rested as securely in the shadow of His wing, as though in
the midst of civilization and compassed by walls and bulwarks.
But in regard to the success or failure of the object of his journey
he was not equally calm and trustful. How is it that our faith is
apt to be so weak in respect to our Father's loving control of those
things which affect our happiness in this life, even when we trust to
Him unhesitatingly the far greater interests of eternity? Ah how slow
we are to believe that word, "We know that all things work together
for good to them that love God."
Such was Kenneth's experience at this time, earnestly striving, yet
with but partial success, to throw off the burden of care and anxiety
that oppressed him, now urging his steed forward with almost feverish
haste, himself half panting with eagerness and excitement, and anon
bringing it to a walk, while with head drooping and heavy sighs
bursting from his bosom he seemed half inclined to turn and retrace
his steps.
This hesitation, this shirking from the result of his quest, grew
upon him as he advanced; but at length, "What weakness is this?"
he cried aloud. "God helping me, I will throw it off and meet this
crisis with Christian courage. Should the very worst come, it cannot
peril that which I have committed to His hand. Blessed be His holy
name for that gracious word, 'I give unto them eternal life: and they
shall never perish, neither shall any pluck them out of my hand.'"
With the last words his voice rang out triumphantly on the silent
air. Romeo pricked up his ears at the sound and quickened his pace to
a rapid canter.
"Right, my brave fellow!" said his master, patting his neck; "on now
with spirit, we are not far from the end of this long jaunt."
They were crossing a prairie, a sea of waving grass bespangled with
flowers of many and gorgeous hues, beyond which lay a thick wood.
It was afternoon of the third day and the sun near its setting, as
they plunged into the wood. Here the light had already grown dim, and
soon darkness compelled a halt.
Kenneth dismounted, secured his horse in the usual way, gathered
dry branches and leaves, and with the aid of flint and steel had
presently a bright fire blazing.
A couple of birds which he had shot during the day, hung at his
saddle bow. These he quickly stripped of their feathers and prepared
for cooking, which he managed by suspending them before the fire,
each on the end of a pointed stick whose other end was thrust well
into the ground.
A bit of corn-bread from his saddle-bags, and water from a running
stream near by, filled up the complement of viands that formed his
simple repast.
He had but just begun it when a slight sound like the crackling of a
dry twig, near at hand, made him look up.
The flickering firelight showed him a tall dark form creeping
stealthily toward him, another and much smaller one close at its
heels.
He instinctively put out his hand for his gun, lying by his side,
then drew it back as he perceived that the approaching strangers were
a woman and child. The former was wrapped in an Indian blanket, and
carried a papoose on her back.
"Me friend," she said in broken English. "Me hungry; papoose hungry,"
pointing to the little one trotting at her side.
"Sit down and I will feed you," Kenneth answered, making room for her
near the fire.
She seated herself upon the roots of a tree, the child crouching at
her feet, laid the babe, which was sleeping soundly, across her lap,
and taking the food he offered shared it with the other child.
Something in her look and manner half startled Kenneth. He hastily
threw a pine knot upon the fire. It burst into a bright blaze,
throwing a strong light upon the face and figure of the stranger, and
Kenneth's heart throbbed as he looked keenly at her, at first beating
high with hope, then almost it stood still in disappointment and
despair.
"She is too young," he sighed to himself; then speaking aloud, "You
are a white woman," he said.
"Squaw," she answered, shaking her head.
"You have grown up among the Indians and perhaps forgotten your own
parents," he remarked, gazing earnestly upon her, "but your blood is
white; you have not an Indian feature; your eyes are blue, your hair
is red and curly."
She evidently but half comprehended what he was saying, gave him no
answer save an enquiring bewildered look.
He called to his aid the slight knowledge he had gained of the Indian
tongue, and at length succeeded in making himself understood.
At first she utterly denied that she belonged to the white race,
repeating her assertion that she was a squaw, but finally admitted
that he was right, acknowledging that she had a faint recollection
of being carried away by the Indians in her very early childhood.
He asked if she would not like to go back; at which she answered
very emphatically that she would not, she was the squaw of a young
Indian brave, and the mother of these his children; loved husband and
children dearly, and would on no account leave them.
She had strayed from her camp that day and lost her way in the woods,
but would find it again and go back to the Indian village, distant
not more than two or three miles, when the moon was up.
He ceased his persuasions, but regarded her with interest, thinking
how sad it was that the child of civilized, perhaps Christian,
parents should have become so entirely savage.
He asked if she knew of any other white woman among the Indians.
She did not.
He talked to her of God and of Christ, telling the sweet story of the
cross, but was doubtful how much of it she was able to grasp.
She listened with a half interested, half puzzled air, a gleam of
intelligence occasionally lighting up her somewhat stolid face.
But the silvery rays of the moon came stealing through the branches
overhead, and, rousing the older child, who had fallen asleep on the
ground at her feet, the woman arose, shouldered her still slumbering
babe, and wrapping her blanket about her, gave Kenneth a farewell
nod, and with the little one trotting at her heels as before, quickly
disappeared amid the deep shadows of the wood.
The object of Kenneth's journey had been accomplished; the tiny
flame of hope enkindled by the information gleaned from the hunter
had gone out in darkness, and naught remained for him but to take
up again his burden of secret grief and care, and go on with life's
duties with what courage and patience he might.
Weary with the day's travel, he yet made no movement toward
preparation for sleep. Long hours he sat over his fire in an attitude
of deep despondency, hands clasped about his knees, head bowed upon
his breast; then kneeling upon the ground he poured out his soul in
prayer.
"Lord, the cross is very heavy, the cup very bitter, yet how light
and sweet compared with what thou didst bear and drink for me!
Forgive, oh, forgive the sin of thy servant! Who am I that I dare
complain or murmur? Lord, hear the cry of thy servant! strengthen him
that he rest in the Lord and wait patiently for Him; though it be
till his feet stand upon the other shore."