University of Virginia Library

10. CHAPTER X.

The night was brilliantly clear, the stars shining
with an excess of lustre, with which Nathan
would perhaps, at that moment, have gladly dispensed,
since it was by no means favourable to the
achievement he was now so daringly attempting-Fortunately,
however, the Indian village lay, for
the most part, in the shadow of the hill, itself covered
with majestic maples and tulip-trees, that rose in
dark and solemn masses above it, and thus offered
the concealment denied in the more open parts of
the valley. With Ralph still at his side, he crept
round the projecting corner of the hill, and,
shrouded in its gloom, drew nigh the village,
wherein might be still occasionally heard the halloo
of a drunken savage, followed by an uproareous
chorus of barking and howling curs.

Whether it was that these sounds, or some
gloomy forebodings of his own, awoke the anxieties
of Nathan, he did not deign to reveal; but,
by and by, having arrived within but a few paces
of a wretched pile of skins and boughs, the dwelling
of some equally wretched and improvident
barbarian, he came to a sudden halt, and withdrawing
the captain of horse-thieves aside from
the path, addressed him in the following terms:

“Thee says, friend, thee has taken horses from
this very village, and that thee knows it well?”

“As well,” replied Ralph, “as I know the stepmothers
on my own thumbs and fingers,—I do,

'tarnal death to me,—that is to say, all the parts
injacent and outjacent, circumsurrounding the
hoss-stamp; for thar's the place of my visiting.
The way to fetch it, old Bloody, is jist to fetch
round this h'yar old skin-pot, whar thar's a whole
bee's-nest of young papooses, the size of bulltoads,—from
that, up, (I know it, 'cause how, I
heerd 'em squallin'; and thar war some one a lickin'
'em:) or, if you don't favour taking it so close to
the skirmudgeons, then you must claw up the
knob h'yar, and then take and take the shoot, till
you fetch right among the hosses, whar you h'ar
them whinnying down the holler; and thar—”

“Friend,” said Nathan, cutting him short, “it
is on thee doings, more than on them of any
others, that the hopes of the maid Edith—”

“Call her anngelliferous madam,” said Ralph,
“for I can't stand any feller being familiar with
her,—I can't, no how.”

“Well, friend,” said Nathan, “it is on thee doings
that her escaping the Shawnee villains this
night depends. If thee does well, it may be we
shall both discover and carry her safe away from
captivation: if thee acts as a foolish imprudent
man,—and, truly, friend, I have my fears of thee,
—thee will both fail to help her theeself, and prevent
others doing it, who, it may be, has the
power.”

“Old Bloody,” said the captain of horse-thieves,
with something like a gulp of emotion, “you
ar'n't respectable to a feller's feelings. But I'll
stand any thing from you, 'cause how, you down'd
my house in a fa'r tussle, and you holped the captain
thar that holped me out of trouble. If you 're
atter ginning me a bit of wisdom, and all on madam's
account, I'm jist the gentleman that h'ars

you. State the case, and h'yar stands I confawmable.”

“Well, friend,” said Nathan, “what I have to
advise thee is, that thee stops where thee is, leaving
the rest of this matter entirely to me; seeing
that, as thee knows nothing of this Injun village,
excepting the horse-pound thereof, it will not be
safe for thee to enter. Do thee rest where thee
is, and I will spy out the place of the maiden's
concealing.”

“Old feller,” said Captain Ralph, “you won't
pretend you knows more of the place than me?
You don't go for to say you ever stole a hoss
here?”

“Do thee be content, friend,” said Nathan, “to
know there is not a cabin in all the village that is
unbeknown to me: do thee be content with that.
Thee must not go near the pound, until thee knows
for certain the maid thee calls madam can be
saved. Truly, friend, it may be, we cannot help
her to-night, but may do so to-morrow night.”

“I see what you 're up to,” said Ralph: “and
thar's no denying it war a natteral piece of nonsense
to steal a hoss, afo' madam war ready to
ride him. And so, old Nathan, if it ar' your qualified
opinion I'll sarve madam better by snuggin'
under a log, than by snuffin' atter her among the
cabins, I'm jist the gentleman to knock under, accordin'
to reason.”

This declaration seemed greatly to relieve the
uneasiness of Nathan, who recommending him to
be as good as his word, and ensconce among
some logs lying near the path, awaiting the event
of his own visit to the heart of the village, immediately
took his leave; though not with the timid
and skulking step of a spy. Wrapping his blanket
about his shoulders, and assuming the gait of

a savage, he stalked boldly forwards; jingling
under his mantle the bundle of hawk's-bells which
he carried in his hand, as if actually to invite the
observation of such barbarians as were yet moving
through the village.

But this stretch of audacity, as the listening
horse-thief was at first inclined to esteem it, was
soon seen to have been adopted with a wise fore-knowledge
of its effects in removing one of the
first and greatest difficulties in the wanderer's
way. At the first cabin was a troop of yelling
curs, that seemed somewhat disturbed by the
stranger's approach, and disposed to contest his
right of passing scot-free; but a jerk of the bells
settled the difficulty in a moment; and the animals,
mute and crest-fallen, slunk hastily away, as
if expecting the crash of a tomahawk about their
ears, in the usual summary Indian way, to punish
their presumption in baying a warrior.

“A right-down natteral, fine conceit!” muttered
Captain Ralph, approvingly: “the next time I
come a-grabbin' hosses, if I don't fetch a bushel
of the jinglers, I wish I may be kicked! Them
thar Injun dogs is always the devil.”

In the meanwhile, Nathan, though proceeding
with such apparent boldness, and relying upon his
disguise as all-sufficient to avert suspicion, was by
no means inclined to court any such dangers as
could be really avoided. If the light of a fire still
burning in a wigwam, and watched by wakeful
habitants, shone too brightly from its door, he
crept by with the greatest circumspection; and he
gave as wide a berth as possible to every noisy
straggler who yet roamed through the village.

There was indeed necessity for every precaution.
It was evident, that the village was by no
means so destitute of defence as he had imagined,—that

the warriors of Wenonga had not generally
obeyed the call that carried the army of
the tribes to Kentucky, but had remained in inglorious
case and sloth in their own cabins. There
was no other way, at least, of accounting for the
dozen or more male vagabonds, whom he found at
intervals stretched, here, before a fire where they
had been carousing in the open air, and, there,
lying asleep across the path, just where the demon
of good cheer had dropped them. Making his
own inferences from their appearance, and passing
them with care, sometimes even, where their
slumbers seemed unsound, crawling by on his
face, he succeeded at last in reaching the central
part of the village; where the presence of several
cabins of logs, humble enough in themselves,
but far superior to the ordinary hovels of an Indian
village, indicated the abiding place of the
superiors of the clan, or of those apostate white-men,
renegades from the States, traitors to their
country and to civilization, who were, at that
day, in so many instances, found uniting their fortunes
with the Indians, following, and even leading
them, in their bloody incursions upon the frontiers.
To one of those cabins Nathan made his
way with stealthy step; and peeping through a
chink in the logs, beheld a proof that here a renegade
had cast his lot, in the appearance of some
half a dozen naked children, of fairer hue than
the savages, yet not so pale as those of his own
race, sleeping on mats round a fire, at which sat,
nodding and dozing, the dark-eyed Indian mother.

One brief, earnest look Nathan gave to this
spectacle; then, stealing away, he bent his steps
towards a neighbouring cabin, which he approached
with even greater precautions than before.
This was a hovel of logs, like the other, but of

still better construction, having the uncommon
convenience of a chimney, built of sticks and
mud, through whose low wide top ascended volumes
of smoke, made ruddy by the glare of the
flames below. A cranny here also afforded the
means of spying into the doings within; and Nathan,
who approached it with the precision of one
not unfamiliar with the premises, was not tardy to
avail himself of its advantages. Bare naked walls
of logs, the interstices rudely stuffed with moss
and clay,—a few uncouth wooden stools,—a
rough table,—a bed of skins,—and implements of
war and the chase hung in various places about
the room, all illuminated more brilliantly by the
fire on the hearth than by the miserable tallow
candle, stuck in a lamp of humid clay, that glimmered
on the table,—were not the only objects to
attract the wanderer's eye. Sitting by the fire
were two men, both white; though the blanket
and calico shirt of one, and the red shawl which
he was just in the act of removing from his
brows, as Nathan peeped through the chink, with
an uncommon darkness of skin and hair, might
have well made him pass for an Indian. His
figure was very tall, well proportioned, and athletic;
his visage manly, and even handsome; though
the wrinkles of forty winters furrowed deeply in
his brows, and perhaps a certain repelling gleam,
the light of smothered passions, shining from the
eyes below, might have left that merit questionable
with the beholder.

The other was a smaller man, whom Roland,
had he been present, would have recognised as
the supposed half-breed, who, at the partition of
spoils, after the capture of his party and the defeat
of the young Kentuckians, had given him a
prisoner into the hands of the three Piankeshaws,

—in a word, the renegade father of Telie Doe.
Nor was his companion less familiar to Nathan,
who beheld in his sombre countenance the features
of that identical stranger, seen with Doe at the
fire among the assailants at the memorable ruin,
whose appearance had awakened the first suspicion
that there was more in the attack than proceeded
from ordinary causes. This was a discovery
well fitted to increase the interest, and
sharpen the curiosity, of the man of peace: who
peering in upon the pair from the chink, gave all
his faculties to the duty of listening and observing.
The visage of Doe, dark and sullen at the
best, was now peculiarly moody; and he sat gazing
into the fire, apparently regardless of his
companion, who, as he drew the shawl from
his head, and threw it aside, muttered something
into Doe's ears, but in a voice too low for Nathan
to distinguish what he said. The whisper was
repeated once and again, but without seeming to
produce any impression upon Doe's ears; at
which the other growing impatient, gave, to Nathan's
great satisfaction, a louder voice to his discourse:

“Hark you, Jack,—Atkinson,—Doe,—Shanogenaw,—Rattlesnake,—or
whatever you may be
pleased to call yourself,” he cried, striking the
muser on the shoulder, “are you mad, drunk, or
asleep? Get up, man, and tell me, since you will
tell me nothing else, what the devil you are dreaming
about?”

“Why, curse it,” said the other, starting up
somewhat in anger, but draining, before he spoke,
a deep draught from an earthen pitcher that stood
on the table,—“I was thinking, if you must know,
about the youngster, and the dog's death we have

driven him to—Christian work for Christian men,
eh!”

“The fate of war!” exclaimed the renegade's
companion, with great composure; “we have
won the battle, boy,—the defeated must bear the
consequences.”

“Ondoubtedly,” said Doe,—“up to the rack,
fodder or no fodder; that's the word; there's no
'scaping them consequences; they must be taken
as they come,—gantelope, fire-roasting, and all.
But, I say, Dick—saving your pardon for being
familiar,” he added, “there's the small matter to
be thought on in the case,—and that is, it was
not Injuns, but rale right-down Christian men that
brought the younker to the tug. It's a bad business
for white-men, and it makes me feel oncomfortable.”

“Pooh,” said the other, with an air of contemptuous
commiseration,” you are growing sentimental.
This comes of listening to that confounded
whimpering Telie.”

“No words agin the gal!” cried Doe, sternly;
“you may say what you like of me, for I'm a rascal
that desarves it; but I'll stand no barking
agin the gal.”

“Why, she's a good girl and a pretty girl,—too
good and too pretty to have so crusty a father,—
and I have nothing against her, but her taking on
so about the younker, and so playing the devil
with the wits and good-looks of my own bargain.”

“A dear bargain she is like to prove to all of
us,” said Doe, drowing his anger, or remorse, in
another draught from the pitcher. “She has cost
us eleven men already: it is well the bulk of
the whelps was Wabash and Maumee dogs; or
you would have seen her killed and scalped, for
all of your guns and whiskey,—you would,

there's no two ways about it. Howsomever, four
of 'em was dogs of our own, and two of them
was picked off by the Jibbenainosay. I tell you
what, Dick, I'm not the man to skear at a raw-head-and-bloody-bones;
but I do think the coming
of this here cursed Jibbenainosay among us,
jist as we was nabbing the gal and the sodger,
was as much as to say there was no good could
come of it: and so the Injuns thought too—you
saw how hard it was to bring 'em up to the
scratch, when they found he had been knifing a
feller right among 'em? I do believe the crittur's
Old Nick himself!”

“So don't I,” said the other; “for it is quite unnatural
to suppose the devil would ever take part
against his own children.”

“Perhaps,” said Doe, “you don't believe in the
crittur?”

“Good Jack, honest Jack,” replied his companion,
“I am no such ass.”

“Them that don't believe in hell, will natterly
go agin the devil,” muttered the renegade, with
strong signs of disapprobation; and then added
earnestly,—“Look you, Squire, your'e a man
that knows more of things than me, and the likes
of me.—You saw that 'ere Injun, dead, in the
woods under the tree, where the five scouters had
left him a living man?”

“Ay,” said the man of the turban; “but he
had been wounded by the horsemen you so madly
suffered to pass the ambush at the ford, and was
obliged to stop from loss of blood and faintness.
What so natural as to suppose the younker fell
upon him, (we saw the tracks of the whole party
where the body lay,) and slashed him in your
devil's style, to take advantage of the superstitious
fears of the Indians?”

“There's nothing like being a lawyer, sartain!”
grumbled Doe. “But the warrior right among
us, there at the ruin?—you seed him yourself,—
marked right in the thick of us! I reckon you
won't say the sodger, that we had there trapped
up fast in the cabin, put the cross on that Injun
too?”

“Nothing more likely,” said the skeptic;—“a
stratagem a bold man might easily execute in the
dark.”

“Well, Squire,” said Doe, waxing impatient,
“you may jist as well work it out according to
law that this same sodger younker, that never
seed Kentucky afore in his life, has been butchering
Shawnees there, ay, and in this d—d town
too, for ten years agone. Ay, Dick, it's true, jist
as I tell you: there has been a dozen or more Injun
warriors struck and scalped in our very wigwams
here, in the dead of the night, and nothing,
in the morning, but the mark of the Jibbenainosay
to tell who was the butcher. There's not a
cussed warrior of them all that does n't go to his
bed at night in fear; for none knows when the
Jibbenainosay,—the Howl of the Shawnees,—
may be upon him. You must know, there was
some bloody piece of business done in times past
(Injuns is the boys for them things!)—the murdering
of a knot of innocent people—by some of the
tribe, with the old villain Wenonga at the head of
'em. Ever since that, the Jibbenainosay has been
murdering among them; and they hold that it's
a judgment on the tribe, as ondoubtedly it is.
And now, you see, that's jist the reason why the
old chief has turned such a vagabond: for the
tribe is rifled at him, because of his bringing sich
a devil on them, and they wont follow him to batfle
no more, except some sich riff-raff, vagabond

rascals as them we picked up for this here rascality,
no how. And so, you see, it has a sort of
set the old feller mad: he thinks of nothing but
the Jibbenainosay,—(that is, when he's sober;
though, cuss him, I believe it's all one when he's
drunk, too,)—of hunting him up and killing him;
for he's jist a feller to fight the devil, there's no
two ways about it. It was because I told him we
was going to the woods on Salt, where the crittur
abounds, and where he might get wind of him,
that he smashed his rum-keg, and agreed to go
with us.”

“Well, well,” said Doe's associate, “this is idle
talk. We have won the victory, and must enjoy
it. I must see the prize.”

“What good can come of it?” demanded Doe,
moodily: “the gal's half dead and whole crazy,
—or so Telie says. And as for your gitting any
good-will out of her, cuss me if I believe it. And
Telie says—”

“That Telie will spoil all! I told you to keep
the girl away from her.”

“Well, and didn't I act accordin'? I told her
I'd murder her, if she went near her agin—a
full-blooded, rale-grit rascal to talk so to my own
daughter, an't I? But I should like to know
where's the good of keeping the gal from her,
since it's all she has for comfort?”

“And that is the very reason she must be kept
away,” said the stranger with a look malignly expressive
of self-approving cunning: “there must
be no hope, no thought of security, no consciousness
of sympathy, to make me more trouble than
I have had already. She must know where she
is, and what she is, a prisoner among wild savages;
a little fright, a little despair, and the
work is over. You understand me, eh? There

is a way of bringing the devil himself to terms;
and as for a woman, she is not much more unmanageable.
One week of terrors, real and
imagined, does the work; and then, my jolly Jack,
you have won your wages.”

“And I have desarved 'em,” said Doe, striking
his fist upon the table with violence; “for I have
made myself jist the d—dest rascal that was
ever made of a white man. Lying, and cheating,
and perjuring, and murdering—it's nothing better
nor murder, that giving up the younker that never
did harm to me or mine, to the Piankeshaws,—for
they 'll burn him, they will, d—n 'em! there's no
two ways about it.—There's what I've done for
you; and if you were to give me half the plunder,
I reckon 'twould do no more than indamnify me
for my rascality. And so here's the end on't;—
you've made me a rascal, and you shall pay for
it.”

“It is the only thing the world ever does pay
for,” said the stranger, with edifying coolness;
“and so don't be afflicted. To be a rascal is to be
a man of sense,—provided you are a rascal in a
sensible way,—that is, a profitable one.”

“Ay,” said Doe, “that is the doctrine you have
been preaching ever since I knowed you; and you
have made a fortun' by it. But as for me, though
I've toed the track after your own leading, I'm
jist as poor as ever, and ten times more despisable,
—I am, d—n me; for I'm a white Injun, and
there's nothing more despisable. But here's the
case,” he added, working himself into a rage,—
“I won't be a rascal for nothing,—I'm sworn to it:
and this is a job you must pay for to the full vally,
or you're none the better on it.”

“It will make your fortune,” said his companion
in iniquity: “there was bad luck about us before;

but all is now safe—The girl will make us secure.”

“I don't see into it a bit,” said Doe, morosely:
“you were secure enough without her. The story
of the other gal you know of gave you the grab on
the lands and vall'ables; and I don't see what's the
good to come of this here other one, no how.”

“Then have you less brains, my jolly Jack, than
I have given you credit for,” said the other. “The
story you speak of, is somewhat too flimsy to serve
us long. We must have a better claim to the
lands than can come of possession in trust for an
heir not to be produced, till we can find the way
to Abraham's bosom. We have now obtained it:
the younker, thanks to your Piankeshaw cut-throats,
is on the path to Paradise; the girl is left alone, sole
claimant, and heiress at law. In a word, Jack, I
design to marry her;—ay, faith, will-she will-she,
I will marry her: and thereby, besides gratifying
certain private whims and humours not worth
mentioning, I will put the last finish to the scheme,
and step into the estate with a clear conscience.”

“But the will, the cussed old will?” cried Doe.
“You've got up a cry about it, and there's them
that won't let it drop so easy. What's an heir at
law agin a will? You take the gal back, and the
cry is, `Where's the true gal, the major's daughter?'
I reckon, you'll find you're jist got yourself
into a trap of your own making!”

“In that case,” said the stranger, with a grin,
“we must e'en act like honest men, and find (after
much hunting and rummaging, mind you!) the
major's last will.”

“But you burned it!” exclaimed Doe: “you told
me so yourself.”

“I told you so, Jack; but that was a little bit of
innocent deception, to make you easy. I told you

so; but I kept it, to guard against accidents. And
here it is, Jack,” added the speaker, drawing from
amid the folds of his blanket a roll of parchment,
which he proceeded very deliberately to spread
upon the table: “The very difficulty you mention
occurred to me: I saw it would not do to raise the
devil, without retaining the power to lay him.
Here then is the will, that settles the affair to your
liking. The girl and the younker are co-heirs together;
but the latter dying intestate, you understand,
the whole falls into the lap of the former.
Are you easy now, honest Jack? Will this satisfy
you all is safe?”

“It's jist the thing to an iota,” ejaculated Doe,
in whom the sight of the parchment seemed to
awaken cupidity and exultation together: “there's
no standing agin it in any court in Virginnee!”

“Right my boy,” said his associate. “But where
is the girl? I must see her.”

“In the cabin with Wenonga's squaw, right
over agin the Council-house,” replied Doe; adding
with animation, “but I'm agin your going nigh her,
till we settle up accounts jist as honestly as any
two sich d—d rascals can. I say, by G—, I must
know how the book stands, and how I'm to finger
the snacks: for snacks is the word, or the bargain's
no go.”

“Well,—we can talk of this on the morrow.”

“To-night's the time,” said Doe: “there's nothing
like having an honest understanding of
matters afore-hand. I'm not going to be cheated,
—not meaning no offence in saying so; and I've
jist made up my mind to keep the gal out of your
way, till we've settled things to our liking.”

“Spoken like a sensible rogue,” said the stranger,
with a voice all frankness and approval, but
with a lowering look of impatience, which Nathan,

who had watched the proceedings of the pair with
equal amazement and interest, could observe from
the chink, though it was concealed from Doe by
the position of the speaker, who had risen from
his stool, as if to depart, but who now sat down
again, to satisfy the fears of his partner in villany.
To this he immediately addressed himself, but in
tones lower than before, so that Nathan could no
longer distinguish his words.

But Nathan had heard enough. The conversation,
as far as he had distinguished it, chimed
strangely in with all his own and Roland's suspicions;
there was, indeed, not a word uttered that
did not confirm them. The confessions of the
stranger, vague and mysterious as they seemed,
tallied in all respects with Roland's account of the
villanous designs imputed to the hated Braxley;
and it was no little additional proof of his identity,
that, in addressing Doe, whom he styled throughout
as Jack, he had, once at least, called him by
the name of Atkinson,—a refugee, whose connection
with the conspiracy in Roland's story Nathan
had not forgotten. It was not, indeed, surprising
that Abel Doe should possess another name; since
it was a common practice among renegades like
himself, from some sentiment of shame or other
obvious reasons, to assume an alias and nom de
guerre, under which they acquired their notoriety:
the only wonder was, that he should prove to be
that person whose agency in the abduction of
Edith would, of all other men in the world, go furthest
to sustain the belief of Braxley being the
principal contriver of the outrage.

Such thoughts as these may have wandered
through Nathan's mind; but he took little time to
con them over. He had made a discovery at that
moment of more stirring importance and interest.

Allowing that Edith Forrester was the prisoner of
whom the disguised stranger and his sordid confederate
spoke, and there was little reason to doubt
it, he had learned, out of their own mouths, the
place of her concealment, to discover which was
the object of his daring visit to the village. Her
prison-house was the wigwam of Wenonga, the
chief,—if chief he could still be called, whom the
displeasure of his tribe had robbed of almost every
vestige of authority; and thither Nathan, to whom
the vile bargaining of the white-men no longer
offered interest, supposing he could even have
overheard it, instantly determined to make his
way.

But how was Nathan to know the cabin of the
chief from the dozen other hovels that surrounded
the Council-house? That was a question which
perhaps Nathan did not ask himself: for creeping
softly from Doe's hut, and turning into the street,
(if such could be called the irregular winding
space that separated the two lines of cabins composing
the village,) he stole forward, with nothing
of the hesitation or doubt which might have been
expected from one unfamiliar with the village.