University of Virginia Library

18. CHAPTER XVIII.

With the battle at the Black-Vulture's town, the
interest of our story ceases; and there it may be
said to have its end. The deliverance of the cousins,
the one from captivity and death, the other
from a fate to her more dreadful than death; the
restoration of the will of their uncle; and the fall of
the daring and unprincipled villain, to whose machinations
they owed all their calamities, had
changed the current of their fortunes, which was
now to flow in a channel where the eye could no
longer trace obstructions. The last peal of thunder
had dissipated the clouds of adversity, and the
star of their destiny shone out with all its original
lustre. The future was no longer one of
mere hope; it presented all the certainty of happiness
of which human existence is capable.

Such being the case, and our story having actually
arrived at its end, it would be a superfluous
and unprofitable task to pursue it further, were it
not that other individuals, whose interests were so
long intermingled with those of the cousins, have
a claim upon our notice.—And first, before speaking
of the most important of all, the warlike man
of peace, the man-slaying hater of blood, the redoubtable
Nathan Slaughter,—let us bestow a word
upon honest Pardon Dodge, whose sudden re-appearance
on the stage of life so greatly astonished
the young Virginian.

This resuscitation, however, as explained by
Dodge himself, was, after all, no such wonderful
matter. Swept from his horse by the violence of
the flood, in the memorable flight from the ruin, a
happy accident had flung him upon the raft of
timber, that bordered the fatal chute; where, not
doubting that, from the fury of the current, all
his companions had perished, and that he was left
to contend alone against the savages, he immediately
sought a concealment among the logs, in
which he remained during the remainder of the
night and the greater part of the following day, until
pretty well assured the Indians were no longer in
his vicinity. Then, scaling the cliffy banks of the
river, and creeping through the woods, it was his
good fortune at last to stumble upon the clearings
around Bruce's Station, at which he arrived soon
after the defeated Regulators had effected their return.
Here,—having now lost his horse, arms,
every thing but life, having battled away also in
the midnight siege some of those terrors that made
Indians and border life so hateful to his imagination,
and being perhaps seduced by the hope of repairing
his losses and revenging the injuries he had
suffered, he was easily persuaded to follow Colonel
Bruce, and the army of Kentuckians, to the Indian
territory, where Fate, through his arm, struck a
blow so dreadfully yet retributively just, at the
head of the long-prospering villain, the unprincipled
and unremorseful Braxley.

It was mentioned, that when Nathan first burst
upon the astonished Bruce, where he lay with his
vanguard, encamped in the woods, his appearance
and demeanour were rather those of a truculent
madman, than of the simple-minded, inoffensive
creature he had so long appeared to the eyes of
all who knew him. His Indian garments and decorations

contributed somewhat to this effect; but
the man, it was soon seen, was more changed in
spirit than in outward attire. The bundle of scalps
in his hand, the single one, yet reeking with blood,
at his belt, and the axe of Wenonga, gory to the
helve, and grasped with a hand not less blood-stained,
were not more remarkable evidences of
transformation than were manifested in his countenance,
deportment, and expressions. His eye
beamed with a wild excitement, with exultation
mingled with fury: his step was fierce, active,
firm, and elastic, like that of a warrior leaping
through the measures of the war-dance; and
when he spoke, his words were of battle and
bloodshed. He flourished the axe of Wenonga,
pointed grimly toward the village, and while recounting
the number of warriors who lay therein
waiting to be knocked on the head, he seemed,
judging his thoughts from his gestures, to be employed
in imagination in despatching them with
his own hands.

When the march, after a hasty consultation,
was agreed upon and resumed, he, although on
foot, maintained a position at the head of the
army, guiding it along with a readiness and precision
which argued extraordinary familiarity
with all the approaches to the village; and when
the assault was actually commenced, he was still
among the foremost, as the reader has seen, to
enter the village and the square. To cut the
bonds of the Virginian, and utter a fervent expression
of delight at his rescue, was not enough
to end the ferment in Nathan's mind. Leaving
the Virginian immediately to the protection of the
younger Bruce, he rushed after the flying Indians,
among whom he remained fighting wherever the
conflict was hottest, until there remained no more

enemies to encounter, achieving such exploits as
filled all who beheld him with admiration and
amazement.

Nor did the fervour of his fury end altogether
even with the battle. He was among the most
zealous in destroying the Indian village, applying
the fire with his own hands to at least a dozen different
wigwams, shouting with the most savage
exultation, as each burst into flames.

It was not indeed until the work of destruction
was completed, the retreat commenced, and the
army once more buried in the woods, that the demon
which had thus taken possession of his spirit,
seemed inclined to relax its hold, and restore him
once more to his wits. It was then, however, that
the remarks which all had now leisure to make
on his extraordinary transformation, the mingled
jests and commendations of which he found himself
the theme, began to make an impression on
his mind, and gradually wake him as from a
dream that had long mastered and distracted his
faculties. The fire of military enthusiasm flashed
no more from his eyes, his step lost its bold spring
and confidence, he eyed those who so liberally
heaped praise on his lately acquired courage and
heroic actions, with uneasiness, embarrassment,
and dismay; and cast his troubled eyes around,
as if in search of some friend capable of giving
counsel and comfort in such case made and provided.
His looks fell upon little Peter, who had
kept ever at his side from the moment of his escape
from the village, and now trotted along with
the deferential humility which became him, while
surrounded by so gallant and numerous an assemblage;
but even little Peter could not relieve him
from the weight of eulogy heaped on his head, nor
from the prickings of the conscience, while every

word of praise and every encomiastic huzza seemed
stirring up his breast.

In this exigency, he caught sight of the Virginian,—mounted
once more upon his own trusty
Briareus, which the younger Bruce had brought
with him to the field of battle,—and remembered
on the sudden that he had not yet made him acquainted
with the important discovery of the will,
which he had so unexpectedly made in the village.
The young soldier was riding side by side with his
cousin, for whom a palfry had been easily provided
from the Indian pound, and indulging with her
many a joyous feeling that their deliverance was
so well suited to inspire; but his eye gleamed with
double satisfaction, as he marked the approach of
his trusty associate and deliverer.

“We owe you life, fortune, every thing,” he
cried, extending his hand; “and be assured neither
Edith nor myself will forget it—But how is this,
Nathan?” he added, with a smile, as he perceived
the bundle of scalps, which Nathan, in the confusion
or absence of his mind, yet dangled in his
hands,—“you were not used so freely to display
the proofs of your prowess!”

“Friend,” said Nathan, giving one look, ghastly
with sorrow and perturbation, to the shaking ringlets,
another to the youth, “thee looks upon locks
that was once on the heads of my children!”—He
thrust the bundle into his bosom, and pointed with
a look of inexpressible triumph to that of Wenonga,
hanging to his belt. “And here,” he muttered, “is
the scalp of him that slew them!—It is enough,
friend: thee has had my story,—thee will not censure
me.—But, friend,” he added, hastily, as if
anxious to revert to another subject; “I have a
thing to say to thee, which it concerns thee, and
the fair maid, thee cousin, to know. There was a

will, friend,—a true and lawful last will and testament
of thee deceased uncle, in which theeself and
thee cousin was made the sole heirs of the same.
Truly, friend, I did take it from the breast of the
villain that plotted thee ruin; but, truly, it was taken
from me again, I know not how.”

“I have it safe,” said Roland, displaying it for
a moment, with great satisfaction, to Nathan's
eyes. “It makes me master of wealth, which
you, Nathan, shall be the first to share. You must
leave this wild life of the border, go with me to
Virginia,—

“I, friend!” exclaimed Nathan, with a melancholy
shake of the head; “thee would not have
me back in the Settlements, to scandalize them
that is of my faith? No, friend; my lot is cast
in the woods, and thee must not ask me again to
leave them. And friend, thee must not think I
have served thee for the lucre of money or gain:
for, truly, these things is now to me as nothing.
The meat that feeds me, the skins that cover, the
leaves that make my bed, are all in the forest
around me, to be mine when I want them; and
what more can I desire? Yet, friend, if thee
thinks theeself obliged by whatever I have done
for thee, I would ask of thee one favour, that thee
can grant.”

“An hundred!” said the Virginian, warmly.

“Nay, friend,” muttered Nathan, with both a
warning and beseeching look, “all that I ask is,
that thee shall say nothing of me that should scandalize
and disparage the faith to which I was
born.”

“I understand you,” said Roland, “and will remember
your wish.”

“And now, friend,” continued Nathan, “do thee
take theeself to the haunts of thee fellows, the habitations

of them that is honest and peaceful,—
thee, and the good maiden, thee cousin; for, truly,
it is not well, neither for thee nor for her,—and
especially for her, that is feeble and fearful,—to
dwell nigh to where murdering Injuns abound.”

“Yet go with us, good Nathan,” said Edith,
adding her voice to the entreaties of her kinsman:
“there shall be none to abuse or find fault
with you.”

“Thee is a good maid,” said Nathan, surveying
her with an interest that became mournful as
he spoke. “When thee goes back to thee father's
house, thee will find them that will gladden at thee
coming,—and hearts will yearn with joy over thee
young and lovely looks. Thee will smile upon
them, and they will be happy.—Such,” he added,
with deep emotion, “such might have been my
fate, had the Injun axe spared me but a single
child. But it is not so; there is none left to
look upon me with smiles and rejoicing,—none to
welcome me from the field and the forest with the
voice of love—no, truly, truly,--there is not one,
—not one.” And as he spoke, his voice faltered,
his lip quivered, and his whole countenance betrayed
the workings of a bereaved and mourning
spirit.

“Think not of this,” said Roland, deeply affected,
as well as his cousin, by this unexpected
display of feeling in the rude wanderer; “the gratitude
of those you have so well served, shall be
to you in place of a child's affection. We will
never forget our obligations. Come with us, Nathan,—come
with us.”

But Nathan, ashamed of the weakness which he
could not resist, had turned away to conceal his
emotion; and stalking silently off, with the everfaithful

Peter at his heels, was soon hidden from
their eyes.

“I will find some way yet to bring him round,”
said Roland. “A braver heart, a truer friend,
never served man in time of need. I shall never
enjoy ease of mind, if I find not some way to reward
him; and some way I will.”

But the Virginian never saw his wild comrade
again. Neither Nathan's habits nor inclinations
carried him often into the society of his fellowmen,
where reproaches and abuse were sure to
meet him. Insult and contumely were, indeed, no
longer to be dreaded by the unresisting wanderer,
after the extraordinary proofs of courage
which he had that day given. But, apparently,
he now found as little to relish in encomiums passed
on his valour as in the invectives to which he
had been formerly exposed. He stole away,
therefore, into the woods, abandoning the army
altogether, and was no more seen during the
march.

But Roland did not doubt he should behold him
again at Bruce's Station, where he soon found
himself, with his kinswoman, in safety; and
where,—now happily able to return to the land
of his birth and the home of his ancestors,—he
remained during a space of two or three weeks,
waiting the arrival of a strong band of Virginia
rangers, who, (their term of military service on
the frontier having expired,) were on the eve of
returning to Virginia, and with whom he designed
seeking protection for his own little party. During
all this period he impatiently awaited the re-appearance
of Nathan, but in vain; and as he was
informed, and indeed, from Nathan's own admissions,
knew, that the latter had no fixed place of
abode, he saw that it was equally vain to attempt

hunting him up in the forest. In short, he was
compelled to depart on his homeward journey,—a
journey happily accomplished in safety,—without
again seeing him; but not until he had left with
the commander of the Station a goodly store
of such articles of comfort and necessity as he
thought would prove acceptable to his solitary
friend.

Nor did he depart without making others of his
late associates acquainted with his bounty. The
pledge he had given the dying renegade, he offered
to redeem to the daughter, by bearing her with
him to Virginia, and providing her a secure
home, under the protection of his cousin; and
Telie preferring rather to remain in the family of
colonel Bruce, who seemed to entertain for her a
truly parental affection, he took such steps as
speedily converted the poor dependent orphan into
a person of almost wealth and consequence. His
bounty-grants and land-warrants he left in the
hands of Bruce, with instructions to locate them to
the best advantage in favour of the girl, to whom
he assigned them with the proper legal formalities;
a few hundred acres, however, being conveyed to
captain Ralph, and the worthy Dodge,—of whom
the latter had given over all thought of returning
to the Bay-state, having, as he said, `got his hand
in to killing Injuns, and not caring a four-pence
ha'penny for the whole everlasting set of them.'

Thus settling up his accounts of gratitude, he
joyously, and with Edith still more joyous at his
side, turned his face towards the East and Virginia,—towards
Fell-hallow and home; to enjoy
a fortune of happiness, to which the memory of
the few weeks of anguish and gloom passed in the
desert, only served to impart additional zest.

Nor did he, even in the tranquil life of enjoyment

which he was now enabled to lead, lose his
interest in the individuals who had shared his perils
and sufferings. His inquiries, made wherever, and
whenever, intelligence could be obtained, were
continued for many years, until, in fact, the District
and Wilderness of Kentucky existed no more,
but were both merged in a State, too great and
powerful to be longer exposed to the inroads of
savages. The information which he was able to
glean in relation to the several parties, was, however,
uncertain and defective, the means of intelligence
being, at that early period, far from satisfactory:
but such as it was, we hasten to lay it
before the reader.

The worthy colonel Bruce continued to live and
flourish with his Station, which soon grew into a
town of considerable note. The colonel himself,
when last heard from, was no longer a colonel,
his good stars, his military services, and perhaps
the fervent prayers of his wife, having transformed
him, one happy day, into a gallant Brigadier. His
son Dick trode in the footsteps, and grew into the
likeness of his brother Tom, being as brave and
good-humoured, and far more fortunate; and Roland
heard, a few years after his own departure
from Kentucky, with much satisfaction, that the
youth was busily occupied, during such intervals
of peace as the Indians allowed, in clearing and
cultivating the lands bestowed on Telie Doe, whom
he had, though scarce yet out of his teens, taken
to wife.

No very certain information was ever obtained
in regard to the fate of Pardon Dodge; but there
was every reason to suppose he remained in Kentucky,
fighting Indians to the last, having got so
accustomed to that species of pastime, as to feel
easy while practising it. We are the more inclined

to think that such was the case, as the name
is not yet extinct on the frontier, and one individual
bearing it, has very recently, in one of the
fiercest, though briefest of Indian wars, covered
it with immortal lustre.

Of Ralph Stackpole, the invader of Indian
horse-pounds, it was Captain Forrester's fortune
to obtain more minute, though, we are sorry to
say, scarce more satisfactory intelligence. The
luck, good and bad together, which had distinguished
Roaring Ralph in all his relations with
Roland, never, it seems, entirely deserted him.
His improvident, harum-scarum habits had very
soon deprived him of all the advantages that
might have resulted from the soldier's munificent
gift, and left him a landless, good-for-nothing,
yet contented, vagabond as before. With poverty,
returned sundry peculiar propensities, which he
had manifested in former days; so that Ralph
again lost savour in the nostrils of his acquaintance;
and the last time that Forrester heard of
him, he had got into a difficulty, in some respects
similar to that in the woods of Salt River, from
which Roland, at Edith's intercession, had saved
him. In a word, he was one day arraigned before
a county-court in Kentucky, on a charge of horse-stealing,
and matters went hard against him, his
many offences in that line having steeled the
hearts of all against him, and the proofs of guilt
in this particular instance, being both strong and
manifold. Many an angry and unpitying eye was
bent upon the unfortunate fellow, when his counsel
rose to attempt a defence;—which he did in
the following terms: “Gentlemen of the Jury,”
said the man of law,—“here is a man, Captain
Ralph Stackpole, indicted before you on the charge
of stealing a horse; and the affa'r is pretty considerably

proved on him.”—Here there was a
murmur heard throughout the court, evincing
much approbation of the counsel's frankness.
“Gentlemen of the Jury,” continued the orator,
elevating his voice, “what I have to say in reply,
is, first, that that man thar', Captain Ralph Stackpole,
did, in the year seventeen seventy-nine,
when this good State of Kentucky, and particularly
those parts adjacent to Bear's Grass and the
mouth thereof, where now stands the town of
Louisville, were overrun with yelping Injun-savages,—did,
I say, gentlemen, meet two Injun-savages
in the woods on Bear's Grass, and take
their scalps, single-handed—a feat, gentlemen of
the jury, that an't to be performed every day,
even in Kentucky!”—Here there was considerable
tumult in the court, and several persons began
to swear.—“Secondly, gentlemen of the jury,”
exclaimed the attorney at law, with a still louder
voice, “what I have to say secondly, gentlemen of
the jury, is, that this same identical prisoner at
the bar, Captain Ralph Stackpole, did, on another
occasion, in the year seventeen eighty-two, meet
another Injun-savage in the woods,—a savage
armed with rifle, knife, and tomahawk,—and met
him with—you suppose, gentlemen, with gun, axe,
and scalper, in like manner?—No, gentlemen of
the jury!—with his fists, and” (with a voice of
thunder) “licked him to death in the natural way!
—Gentlemen of the jury, pass upon the prisoner,
—guilty, or not guilty?” The attorney resumed
his seat: his arguments were irresistible. The
jurors started up in their box, and roared out, to a
man, “Not guilty!” From that moment, it may
be supposed, Roaring Ralph could steal horses at
his pleasure. Nevertheless, it seems, he immediately
lost his appetite for horse-flesh; and leaving
the land altogether, he betook himself to a more
congenial element, launched his broad-horn on the
narrow bosom of the Salt, and was soon afterwards
transformed into a Mississippi alligator; in
which amphibious condition, we presume, he roared
on till the day of his death.

As for the valiant Nathan Slaughter—the last
of the list of worthies, after whom the young Virginian
so often inquired—less was discovered in
relation to his fate than that of the others. A
month, or more perhaps, after Roland's departure,
he re-appeared at Bruce's Station, where he was
twice or thrice again seen. But—whether it was
that, as we have once before hinted, he found the
cheers and hearty hurrahs, in token of respect for
his valiant deeds at Wenonga's town, with which
Bruce's people received him, more embarrassing
and offensive than the flings and sarcasms with
which they used in former days to greet his appearance,
or whether he had some still more stirring
reason for deserting the neighbourhood, it is
certain that he, in a short time, left the vicinity of
Salt River altogether, going no man knew whither.
He went, and with him his still inseparable
friend, little dog Peter.

From that moment, the Jibbenainosay ceased to
frequent his accustomed haunts in the forest;
the phantom Nick of the Woods was never more
beheld stalking through the gloom; nor was his
fearful cross ever again seen traced on the breast
of a slaughtered Indian.