The renegade a historical romance of border life |
| 1. |
| 2. |
| 3. |
| 4. |
| 5. |
| 6. |
| 7. | CHAPTER VII. |
| 8. |
| 9. |
| 10. |
| 11. |
| 12. |
| 13. |
| 14. |
| 15. |
| 16. |
| 17. |
| 18. |
| 19. |
| 20. |
 | CHAPTER VII. The renegade |  |
7. CHAPTER VII.
THE OLD WOODSMAN AND HIS DOG—THE WEDDING PARTY—THE FRIGHT—THE
MESSENGER—THE ALARMING INTELLIGENCE—THE PREPARATIONS FOR PURSUIT.
The sun was perhaps an hour above the mountain tops, when a solitary
hunter, in the direction of the cane-brake, might have been seen shaping his
course toward the hill whereon Algernon and Ella had so lately paused to
contemplate the dawning day. Upon his shoulder rested a long rifle, and a
dog of the Newfoundland species sometimes followed in his steps or trotted
along by his side. In a few minutes he reached the place referred to, when
the snuffling of his canine companion causing him to look down, his attention
instantly became fixed upon the foot-prints of the horses which had
passed there the day before, and particularly on the two that had repassed
there so lately.
“What is it, Cæsar?” said he, addressing the brute. “Nothing wrong
here I reckon.” Cæsar, as if conscious of his master's language, raised his
head, and looking down into the ravine, appeared to snuff the air; then
darting forward, he was quickly lost among the branching cedars. Scarcely
thirty seconds elapsed, ere a long, low howl came up from the valley; and
starting like one suddenly surprised by some disagreeable occurrence, the
hunter, with a cheek slightly blanched, hurried down the crooked path,
muttering as he went, “Thar's something wrong, for sartin—for Cæsar
never lies.”
In less than a minute the hunter came in sight of his dog, which he found
standing with his hind feet on the ground and his fore-paws resting upon the
carcass of a horse, that had apparently been dead but a short time. As Cæ
sar perceived his master approach, he uttered another of those peculiar long,
low, mournful howls, which the superstitious not unfrequently interpret
as omens of evil.
“Good heavens!” exclaimed the hunter, as he came up, “thar's been
foul play here, Cæsar, foul play for sartin. D'ye think, dog, it war Indians
as done it.”
The brute looked up into the speaker's face, with one of those expressions
of intelligence or sagacity, which seem to speak what the tongue has
not power to utter, and then wagging his tail, gave a sharp fierce bark.
“Right, dog!” continued the other, as stooping to the ground he began
to examine with great care the prints left there by human feet. “Right,
dog, they're the rale varmints and no mistake. Ef all folks war as sensible
and knowing as you, thar wouldn't be many fools about I reckon.”
Having finished his examination on the ground, the hunter again turned
to look at the carcass of the horse, which was lying on its, left side, some
two feet from the path, and had apparently fallen dead from a shot in
concealed under the branching cedars—but no other accoutrements were
visible. The ground around was trodden as if by a scuffle, and the limbs of
the trees were broken in many places, while in two or three others could be
seen spots of blood, not even yet dry—none of which informants of the recent
struggle escaped the keen observation of the woodsman. Suddenly
the dog, which had been watching his master's motions intently, put his
nose to the ground, darted along the path further into the ravine, and presently
resounded another of those mournful howls.
“Ha! another diskivery!” exclaimed the hunter, as he started after
his companion. About thirty yards further on, he came upon the carcass
of another horse, which had been killed by a ball in the right side, and
the blow of some weapon, probably a tomahawk, on the head. By its side
also lay a lady's saddle, stripped like the former of its trappings. This
the woodsman now proceeded to examine attentively, for something
like a minute, during which time a troubled expression played over his
dark, sunburnt features.
“I'm either mightily mistaken,” said he at length, with a grave look, “or
that thar horse and saddle is the property of Ben Younker; and I reckon
it's the same critter as is rid by Elia Barnwell. God forbid, sweet lady,
that it be thou as has met with this terrible misfortune!—but ef it be,
by the Power that made me, I swar to follow on thy trail, and ef I meet
any of thy captors, then Betsey I'll just call on yoa for a backwoods
sentiment.”
As he concluded, the hunter turned with a look of affection towards his
rifle, which he firmly grasped with a nervous motion. At this moment,
the dog, which had been busying himself by running to and fro with his
nose to the ground, suddenly paused, and laying back his ears, uttered a
low, fierce growl. The hunter cast toward him a quick glance, and dropping
upon his knees, applied his ear to the earth, where he remained some
fifteen seconds; then rising to his feet, he made a motion with his hand, and
together with Cæsar withdrew into the thicket.
For some time no sound was heard to justify this precaution of the woodsman;
but at length a slight jarring of the ground became apparent, followed
by a noise at some distance, resembling the clatter of horses' feet, which,
gradually growing louder as the cause drew nearer, soon become sufficiently
so to put all doubts on the matter at rest. In less than five minutes from
the disappearance of the hunter, some eight or ten horses, bearing as many
riders, approached the hill from the direction of Wilson's and began to descend
into the ravine. The party, composed of both sexes, was in high
glee—some jesting, some singing, and some laughing uproariously. Nothing
occurred to interrupt their merriment, until they began to lose themselves
among the cedars of the hollow, when the foremost horse suddenly gave a
snort and bounded to one side—a movement which his companion, close behind,
imitated—while the rider of the latter, a female, uttered a loud, piercing
scream of fright. In a moment the whole party was in confusion—some
turning their horses to the right about and riding back towards Wilson's, at
headlong speed—and some pausing in fear, undecided what to do. The two
foremost horses now became very refractory, rearing and plunging in a manner
that threatened to unseat their riders every moment. Of the two, the one
ridden by the lady was the most ungovernable; and in spite of her efforts
to sooth or hold him, he seized the bit in his teeth, and rearing on his hind
legs, plunged madly forward until he came to where the other carcass was
lying, when giving another snort of fear, he again reared, and turning aside
ted. Fortunately the beast shaped his course to where the hunter was
concealed, who, with a sudden spring as he was rushing past, seized upon
the bridle near the bit, and succeeded after a struggle in mastering and
leading him back to the path.
By this time the companion of the lady had come up, and seeing her condition,
was dismounting to render her assistance, when his eye falling upon
the stranger, he started and placed his hand quickly to his belt, as if in search
of some weapon of defence. The hunter saw the movement, and said with
a gesture of command:
“Hold! young man; don't do any thing rash!”
“Who are you, sir?”
“A friend.”
“Your name!” continued the other, as he sprang to the ground.
“Names don't matter, stranger, in cases sech as this. I said I war a friend.”
“By what may I know you as such?”
“My deeds!” returned the other, laconically. “Think you, stranger, ef
I wanted to harm ye, I couldn't have done it without you seeing me?” and
as he spoke, he glanced significantly towards his rifle.
“True,” returned the other; “but what's the meaning of this?” and he
pointed toward the dead horse.
“It means Indians, as nigh as I can come at it,” replied the hunter. “But
look to the living afore the dead!” And the woodsman in turn pointed toward
the lady.
“Right!” said the other; and springing to her side, he raised her in his
arms. She was not injured, other than slightly stunned by the fall, and she
quickly regained her senses. At first she was somewhat alarmed; but perceiving
who supported her, and nothing in the mild, noble, benevolent countenance
of the stranger—who was still holding her horse by the bridle—of
a sinister nature, she anxiously inquired what had happened.
“I can only guess by what I see,” answered the hunter, “that some o'
your company have been less fortunate than you. Didn't two o' them set
out in advance?”
“Gracious heavens!” cried the young man supporting the lady; “it is
Ella Barnwell and the stranger Reynolds!”
“Then they must be quickly trailed!” rejoined the hunter briefly. “Go,
young man, take your lady back agin, and raise an armed party for pursuit.
Be quick in your operations, and I'll wait and join you here. Leave your
horses thar, for we must take it afoot; and besides, gather as much provision
as you can all easily carry, for Heaven only knows whar or when
our journey 'll end.”
“But do you think they're still living?”
“I hope so.”
“Then let us return, Henry,” said the lady, “as quick as possible, so
that a party for pursuit may be collected before the wedding guests have all
separated.”
“I fear it will be difficult, Mary, but we must try it,” replied the young
man, as he assisted her to mount. Then turning to the stranger, he added:
“But won't you accompany us, sir?”
“No, it can do no good; besides I'm afoot, and would only cause delay,
and thar's been too much o' that already.”
“At least, sir, favor me with your name.”
“The first white hunter o' old Kaintuck,” answered the other, stroking
the neck of the fiery beast on which the lady was now sitting.
“What!” exclaimed the other, in a tone of surprise: “Boone! Colonel
Danicl Boone?”
“Why, I'm sometimes called colonel,” returned the hunter dryly, still
stroking the horse's neck; “but Daniel's the older title, and a little the most
familiar one besides.”
“I crave pardon for my former rudeness, colonel,” said the other, advancing
and offering his hand; “but you were a stranger to me you know.”
“Well, well, it's all right—I'd have done exactly so myself,” answered
Boone, grasping the young man's hand with a cordiality that showed no
offence had been taken. “And now—a—how do you call yourself?”
“Henry Millbanks.”
“Now, Master Millbanks, pray be speedy; for while we talk our friends
may die, and it goes agin nater to think on't,” said Boone, anxiously.
As he spoke, he led forward the lady's horse past the other carcass, while
Henry, springing upon his own beast, followed after. Having seen them
safely out of the ravine, the noble hunter turned back to wait the arrival
of the expected assistance. He had just gained the center of the thicket,
when he was slightly startled again by the growl of his dog, and the tramp
of what appeared to be another horse, coming from the direction of Younker's.
Hastily secreting himself, he awaited in silence the approach of the
new comer, whom he soon discerned to be an old acquaintance, who was
riding at a fast gallop, bearing some heavy weight in his arms. As he came
up to the carcass of Ella's horse, he slackened his speed, looked at it earnestly,
then gazed cautiously around, and was about to spur his beast onward
again, when the sound of Boone's voice reached his ear, requesting him to
pause; and at the same time, to his astonishment, Boone himself emerged
into the path before him.
“Ha! Colonel Boone,” said the horseman quickly, “I'm glad to meet ye;
for now's a time when every true man's wanted.”
“What's the news, David Billings?” inquired Boone, anxiously, as he
noticed a troubled, earnest expression in the countenance of the other.
“Bad!” answered Billings, emphatically. “The Injens have been down
upon us agin in a shocking manner.”
“God forbid thar be many victims!” ejaculated Boone, unconsciously
tightening the grasp on his rifle.
“Too many—too many!” rejoined Billings, shaking his head sadly.
“Thar's my neighbor Millbanks' family—”
“Well, well!” cried Boone, impatiently, as the other seemed to hesitate.
“Have all been murdered, and his house burnt to ashes.”
“All?” echoed Boone.
“All but young Harry, who's fortunately away to a wedding at Wilson's.”
“Why the one you speak of war just now here,” said Boone, with a start;
“and I sent him back to raise a party to trail the red varmints, who've been
operating as you see yonder. Good heavens! what awful news for poor
Harry, who seems so likely a lad.”
“Yes, likely you may well say,” returned the other; “and so war the
whole family—God ha' mercy on 'em! But what's been done here?”
“Why I suppose Ella Barnwell—Younker's niece, you know—and a likely
young stranger who war along with her, called Reynolds, have been captured.”
“Ha! well it's supposed Younker and his wife are captives too, or else
that thar bones lie white among the ashes of thar own ruins.”
“Good God!” cried Boone. “Any more, David?”
“Yes, thar's Absalom Switcher and his wife, and a young gal of twelve;
(Stokes himself being away, and his son Seth at the wedding, as was
a son o'Switcher's also) have all bin foully murdered—besides Johnny
Long's family, Peter Pierson's, and a young child of Fred Mason's, that
happened to be at Pierson's house, and one or two others whose names I
disremember.”
“But when did this happen, David?”
“Last night,” replied the other. “It's suspected that the Injens ha' bin
waiting round here, and took advantage of this wedding, when the greater
part on 'em war away. It's thought too that thar war a white spy out, who
gin 'em information, and led 'em on—as a villainous looking chap war seed
about the vicinity not long ago.”
“Do they suspicion who war the spy?” asked Boone.
“Why some thinks as how it war that thar accussed renegade, Simon
Girty.”
“Wretch!” muttered Boone, grasping his rifle almost fiercely; “I'd like
to have old Bess, here, hold a short conflab with him. But what have you
got thar in your arms, that seems so heavy. David?”
“Rifles, colonel. I've bin riding round and collecting on 'em for this
mad party of Younker's, who went off without any precaution; and I'm now
on my way to deliver 'em, that they may start instanter arter the cussed
red skins, and punish 'em according to the Mosaic law.”
“Spur on then, David, and you may prehaps overtake some o'them; and
all that you do, arm and send 'em here as quick as possible—for I'm dreadful
impatient to be off.”
The colloquy between the two thus concluded, the horseman—a strongly
built, hard-favored, muscular man of forty—set spurs to his horse; and
bounding onward toward Wilson's (distant some five miles—the ravine
being about half way between the residence of the groom and bride), he was
quickly lost to the sight of the other, who quietly seated himself to await
the reinforcement.
In the course of half an hour, Boone was joined by some three or four of
the wedding party, who had been overtaken by Billings, learned the news,
accepted a rifle each, bidden their fair companions adieu, and sent them and
the horses back to the house of the bride, while they moved forward to meet
danger, rescue the living, and seek revenge.
In the course of an hour and a half, Billings himself returned, accompanied
by some seven or eight stout hearts, among whom were young Switcher,
Stokes, Millbanks, and lastly, Isaac Younker, who had been roused from
the nuptial bed to hear of the terrible calamity that had befallen his friends.
Isaac; on the present occasion, did not disgrace his training, the land which
gave him birth, nor the country he now inhabited. When the messenger
came with the direful news, although somewhat late in the morning, Isaac
had been found in his bed, closely folded in the arms of the god of sleep. On
being awakened and told of what had taken place, he slowly rose up into a
sitting posture, rubbed his eyes, stared searchingly at his informant, gathered
himself upon his feet, threw on his wedding garments, and made all
haste to descend below, where he at once sought out his new wife, Peggy,
who had risen an hour before, and grasping her by the hand, in a voice
slightly tremulous, but with a firm, determined expression in his features,
said:
“Peggy, dear, I 'spect you've heard the whole on't. Father, mother,
Ella and Reynolds—all gone, and our house in ashes. I'm going to follow,
Peggy. Good bye—God bless you! Ef I don't never come back, Peggy”—
clean sarcumvented, skinned, and eat up by them thar ripscallious Injens;”
and turning upon his heel, as his tender hearted spouse burst into tears, he
seized upon some provisions that had graced the last night's entertainment,
gave Black Betty a long and cordial salute with his lips, shook hands with
his wife's father and mother, kissed Peggy once again, pulled his cap over
his eyes, and, without another word, set forth with rapid strides on the
eastern path leading to the rendezvous of Daniel Boone.
On the faces of those now assembled, who had lost their best and dearest
friends, could be seen the intense workings of the strong passions of grief
and revenge, while their fingers clutched their faithful rifles with a nervous
power. The greatest change was apparent in the features of Henry Millbanks.
He was a fine-favored, good-looking youth of eighteen, with light
hair and a florid complexion. The natural expression of his handsome
countenance was an easy, dignified smile, which was rendered extremely
fascinating by a broad, noble forehead, and a clear, expressive, gray eye;
but now the floridity had given place to a pale, almost shallow hue, the forehead
was wrinkled with grief, the lips were compressed, and the smile had
been succeeded by a look of great fierceness, aided by the eye, which was
more than usual sunken and bloodshot.
But little was said by any of the party; for all felt the chilling gloom of
the present, so strongly contrasted with the bright hours and merry jests
which had so lately been apportioned to each. Boone called to Cæsar and
bade him seek the Indian trail; a task which the noble brute flew to execute;
and in a few minutes the whole company were on their way, with the
exception of Billings, who, by the unanimous request of all, returned to
Wilson's, to cheer, console and protect the females, and, if thought advisable,
to conduct them to Bryan's Station—a strong fort a few miles distant—
where they might remain in comparative security.
| CHAPTER VII. The renegade | |