University of Virginia Library

22. CHAPTER XXII.

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Without waiting to receive his thanks,
and in fact scarcely noticing Clifton at
all, Luther made a single bound forward,
and seizing the trembling Moody by the
throat, bore him violently to the earth.
Then hastily disarming him, he set his
foot upon his heaving breast and shouted:

“Villain, thy hour has come!”

By this time the Indians had recovered
somewhat from their astonishment, and
seeing their victim at liberty, and one of
their own party in such imminent danger,
began to rally and collect around the Necromancer,
with menacing gestures.

“Sons of the forest,” cried Luther, addressing
them in their own dialect,
“away, and leave the misereant to his
fate!”

“Kitcho-chobeka is great,” answered
Mugwa; “but why does he interfere
here?”

“The Great Spirit is offended,” rejoined
Luther solemnly, pointing upward.

“You have aided Watchemenetoc[1] in
his hellish work,” and he pointed downward
to Moody. “Begone! ere you behold
the Great Spirit's anger!”

The Indians, judging by their looks,
were now evidently alarmed, but not satisfied,
and loth to depart without further
proof of the Great Spirit's anger, through
His instrument, as they superstitiously
believed Luther to be.

“Let us have our prisoner and our
chief,” grumbled Mugwa, “and we
will go.”

“Touch one of them,” replied Luther,
fiercely, straightening his ugly form to its
full height, and rolling his restless eye
from one to the other with an angry expression:
“Touch one of them again,
and perdition go with you! Watchemenetoc
is not your chief; he is a devil
in human form. Away! begone!” and
he waved his hand majestically.

But still the Indians lingered; and
fearful they might, in spite, of their fears,
veriture upon a rescue, Luther suddenly
thrust his hand into his bosom, and drew
forth a ball, some three inches in diameter,
which he had previously prepared
for such an emergency.

This proceeding was noted by the savages
with deep interest, and they would
instantly have crowded around him, had
not their fours restrained them. As it
was, however, they approached within a
few feet, and got between Luther and the
fire, their eyes the while fixed intently on
the ball, which the Necromancer, to puzzle
them, now commenced turning rapidly
over and over in his hands. This was
exactly what he desired; and muttering
some unintelligible words, and looking
upward, as if appealing to Heaven, he
suddenly, and by a dexterous movement,
cast it beyond them, into the flames, at
the same time shouting:

“Behold and tremble, ye sons of the
forest, and revere the tongue of the Great
Spirit!”

The Indians, all amazement, followed
the ball with their eyes, and, as it touched
the fire, beheld first a red and then a blue
flame shoot upward with a hissing sound.
The words of the Necromancer now fell
with startling effect upon their ears, and
were scarcely concluded, ere a tremend
explosion took place, which shook the
ground beneath their feet, and scattered
the burning brands in every direction,
leaving the space lately occupied by the
fire black and smoking. The brands,
too, many of them, striking against the
almost naked bodies of the Indians, increased
their terror and confusion. Mugwa
and another savage were knocked
down, and all were more or less bruised
and injured by the explosion. Springing
to his feet, the chief of the Piquas uttered
a frightful yell of terror, and darted toward
the thicket, followed closely by his

yelling and no less terrified companions,
leaving the Necromancer master of the
ground.

Clifton, who had been an inactive spectator
of the whole, now sprang to Luther,
and grasping him by the hand, while
tears of joy filled his eyes, said, with
emotion:

“My more than friend, my kind benefactor,
how can I ever sufficiently thank
you for this timely interference and preservation
of my life?”

“Ernest Bellington,” answered Luther,
warmly pressing the hand of the
young officer, “you owe me no thanks,
nor do I need them. When I do a good
deed, I know it is registered there,” and
he slowly and impressively pointed upward;
“there—there—beyond that sky
of blue, where I humbly hope and pray
my spirit will one day wing its flight,
and find more good than evil recorded of
my doings while a tenant here below.
Here,” added Luther, pointing downward
to Moody, who as yet had made no effort
to rise; “Here is a painful task for me
to perform. I must yield him up to justice.
I have said, and I will do it, for I
always keep my word.”

“And he deserves it,” returned Clifton;
“for if ever there was a black-hearted
villain on earth, he is one. But Kate,
and my friends—I—”

Here he was interrupted by the report
of firearms; and wheeling suddenly in
the direction of his fettered comrades,
whom he expected to behold sinking under
the weapons of the savages, judge of
his astonishment, on seeing them already
in pursuit of the latter, armed to the
teeth.

“Good Heaven! what magic is this?”
he cried, turning to Luther, all amazement.

“Simply that before I liberated you, I
took all means of precaution to render my
work sure,” replied the other modestly.

Such was the fact; and an unusual
negligence on the part of the Indians,
had aided him most essentially. Feeling
perfectly secure, and not wishing uselessly
to encumber themselves, they had
placed most of the weapons taken from
the whites in a pile by themselves, near
the thicket. While they were intently
occupied in council, Luther had managed
to get possession of these, and afterward
distribute them among their owners, cautioning
them, ere he cut their cords, not
to stir, unless they were attacked, or
heard a signal from him. Then approaching
Kate in a noiseless manner,
just as she, regaining consciousness, was
looking about her in alarm, he whispered
a few words of hope and consolation in
her ear, and freed her also, with the same
injunction as to remaining stationary.
This done, he had regained the thicket,
and appeared before the savages in the
manner already shown.

Terrified at the feats of the Necromancer,
but maddened at the release of their
prisoner, no sooner had the Indians fairly
hid themselves in the thicket, than
thoughts of vengeance took possession
of their half crazy brains, and they
paused for consultation. Under the
excitement they were laboring, this
was very short, and resulted in their
decision to steal upon the bound prisoners,
tomahawk and scalp them, and return
to their homes. Led by the now
infuriated Mugwa, they made a sally for
the purpose, and were bearing kown upon
their supposed victims, when, suddenly,
to their unbounded astonishment,
dismay, and terror, each captive sprang
behind his tree, and sent the contents of
his rifle among them. This, to the Indians,
was a work of magic indeed; and
overpowered by amazement and terror,
they paused for a moment irresolute.
The next they turned and darted away,
uttering horrible yells, followed by the
whites. Three of their number had
been wounded, but not so as to prevent
their flight, and in a few seconds all had
gained the cover of the thicket. Into
this the whites were prudent enough not
to venture, but turned back, congratulating
themselves upon their fortunate
and timely escape. Their first move was
to reload their rifles, and thus be prepared
for a second attack, in case the savages
should desire to renew the contest—a
proceeding, however, which was looked
upon as highly improbable. They then
repaired to where Kate was standing, and

all in a body proceeded toward the Necromancer.

In their flight, the Indians had thrown
away most of the garments taken from
Clifton, who hastily recovering these
meantime, was now enabled to appear before
his friends, decently clad. Seeing
Kate approaching, he made one bound
forward, caught her in his arms, and
pressed her to his heart in silence. The
emotion of both was too deep for words.
His friends now crowded around him, and
seizing his hand, one after another, they
allowed their tearful eyes to say what their
tongues had not power to utter. It was a
solemn, but joyful meeting.

“Now,” exclaimed Danvers, who was
the first to break the silence, “let us attempt
to express our gratitude to this noble
being;” and he pointed toward Luther,
who was quietly standing a few paces distant,
holding the outcast Moody by a firm
grasp upon his arm.

“Ay, a thousand times bless him!” cried
Kate, rushing forward and kneeling at
the feet of the Necromancer.

“Up, girl!” said Luther, solemnly.
“Kneel to thy God, and not to frail mortality
like me.”

“But we must bless you, nevertheless,”
returned Danvers, grasping the hand unoccupied,
“as the instrument of the Almighty,
used in the preservation of our
lives.”

“Ay, ay!” cried several voices; and
each proceeded to express his thanks in
his own peculiar way.

“God bless you!” said one.

“May you live a thousand years!” said
another.

“Forever!” put in a third.

“May flowers ever lie in your path, and
the hand of innocence and virtue, and the
blessings of all who know you, smooth
the passage of your noble spirit to the vale
of eternal Eden!” added Kate, enthusiastically.

“Enough! enough!” rejoined Luther,
waving his hand and turning away his
head:

As he did this, his eye fell upon Moody,
who, pale as a corpse, stood trembling
and abashed, although not one of the party
had as yet appeared to notice his pres
ence. “Here,” he added, quickly, “take
him, or peradventure I repent and set him
free.”

A howl of indignation escaped two or
three of the party, as they sprang forward
and seized him roughly.

“Mercy!” cried the now terrified outcast,
who, since the appearance of Luther,
seemed to have become changed entirely,
from a reckless, boasting bully, to the
veriest poltroon on earth. “Mercy! I will
repent.”

“Yes, such mercy's you gave, you'll
git,” replied one.

“And that'll be a high tree and short
prayers,” said another.

“Hist! d'ye see anything?” whispered
David, at this moment, pointing toward
Ichabod, who, from some oversight, had
been neglected, and was still bound to his
tree, patiently waiting to be set at liberty.

“Why, good heavens! there is the gardener,
quite forgotten,” rejoined Clifton,
taking a step forward to release him.

“Hist!” said David again, detaining
Clifton with his hand.

The next instant his rifle was to his
eye, and before any one could comprehend
what it meant, the piece belched forth its
deadly contents. A cry of mortal agony
now rang upon the air, proceeding from
a cluster of bushes near which Ichabod
stood bound.

“You'll find him there all right,” said
David, coolly, as some two or three of the
party set off to learn the result of his shot.

On coming up to the place, they were
astonished at seeing an Indian lying life-less
upon his face. Turning him over,
they recognised the grim features of Unkee.
More blood-thirsty and daring than
his companions, he had stealthily ventured
hither to take the scalp of his prisoner;
but the quick ears and keen eyes of David
had been too much for him, and he had
met his fate in the manner shown.

Releasing Ichabod, the party now returned,
leaving the dead Indian to be devoured
by the beasts of the wilderness.
The manner of Luther, as they came up
to the others, arrested the attention of all.
He had turned his face toward the west,
placed his hands over his eyes, and now
stood swaying to and fro like some strong

oak shaken by the blast—or, like one
whose mind is racked by some powerful
thought. No one ventured to address
him, and all stood regarding him with
awe and silence. At length he removed
his hands slowly, and turned his face toward
the group. Each started as they
saw that countenance, over which, in so
short a time, had come a fearful change.
His dark features were pale, and seemed
bloodless; his eye rolled more rapidly
than usual in its socket; the lid quivered
more nervously, and the whole face was
uncommonly agitated, as if by some inward
struggle.

“It is over,” he said, at length, in a
deep, guttural voice, recovering himself,
and assuming his wonted composure.
“I see you are surprised, my friends, to
behold me thus. There is a cause for it—
but that cause you will never know. My
time has now come to bid you farewell.
Many of you—perhaps all—will never
behold me more.”

“Nay, nay,” cried Ernest and Kate,
both in a breath, springing forward, and
each grasping a hand of the Necromancer.
“Nay, do not leave us!—why should
you not go with us, and be provided for
the remainder of your days?”

“Ay, do accept their offer,” added
Danvers.

Luther shook his head sadly.

“My friends,” he said, “it cannot be.
I thank you none the less, however, for
your kind offer—but it cannot be. My
road lies yonder;” and he waved his hand
toward the west, as if to comprehend the
whole great forest, which then stretched
over a vast and unexplored territory.
“My task here, peradventure, is ended.
A restless something within, tells me I
must go—go—go—till I come to my last
haven of rest—the grave. Will you forget
me when I am gone?” he asked, with
some emotion.

“Never! never!” cried all together.

Luther remained mute a moment, and
then turning to Clifton, resumed:

“Remember what I told you concerning
the box! It is all important. When
she is thy wife (motioning his hand toward
Kate), then, and not before, know
its contents.”

“Ha!” exclaimed Clifton, “I had forgotten;
it is in the possession of Moody;”
and advancing at once to the outcast, who
was still held by the three young men, he
took it from him, adding, as he returned
to the side of Luther, “I shall remember.”

“Let it not pass from you again with
life,” said the Necromancer. “Now, my
friends, let me bid you a long adieu;”
and beginning with Danvers, he shook
each warmly by the hand—leaving Ernest
and Kate to the last—giving each a
warm “God bless you!” and receiving a
similar blesisng from lips that trembled,
and eyes that grew moist, in return.

When he had done, he strode up to
Moody, and said, in a deep, solemn voice:

“ `The way of the transgressor is hard.'
I had hoped this to be otherwise—but a
Higher Power has willed it so, and overruled
me. It is enough. With a sad
heart I consign thee to the fate thou deservest.
I have warned thee, and spared
thee, and given thee chances to repent—
but all in vain. Farewell! we may never
meet again—neither in this world, nor
that which lies beyond the tomb.”

“Oh! save me this time—this once,”
cried the cowardly villian, imploringly,
“and, by all I hold sacred, I swear to
you I will repent and reform.”

“Too late,” returned Luther, sternly.
“When last I saved thy life, I said I would
never interfere again. My word I never
break. Farewell, forever!” and he turned
away abruptly.

Approaching Ernest and Kate, he once
more grasped them by the hand, and said:

“ 'T is hard to leave you, but I must
do it.

“Farewell, till you behold me again,
either in time, or (he paused, and concluded
impressively) eternity.”

Without looking round, or saying more,
he now strode steadily to the thicket,
paused a moment, and then parting the
bushes with his hands, disappeared, from
many there present for the last time.

For something like a minute, the silence
was unbroken. All were mute and sad,

and stood like statues, with their eyes fixed
upon the spot where the Necromancer
was last seen.

“Come,” said Clifton, “time wears,
and we have a long journey before us.
We must, God willing, reach the settlement
to-night.”

“D'ye hear?” said one addressing
Moody. “We've got a short job with
you first.”

“What are you going to do?” asked
Clifton.

“Keep our oath,” replied one. “We've
sworn to hang this villian, if ever we
got him in our power agin. We've
got him now, and won't be apt to forget
it.”

“Had you not better take him to some
settlement—to Cincinnati—and have him
tried legally? I cannot favor the movement
of taking vengeance into our own
hands.”

“It's no use for you to trouble yourself
'bout the matter, lieutenant, axing your
pardon!” replied David. “He's got to
die, that's the short on't; and sooner nor
he 'scapes agin, I'll give him the contents
o this;” and he held up his long
rifle.

“Come, dearest,” said Clifton, who
saw it would be useless to parley louger
with men who had been so deeply wronged:
“Come, Kate, let us away; we must
leave him to his fate;” and taking her
hand, he set forward, followed by Danvers
only, the others remaining with
Moody.

As soon as the young officer and his
party were fairly out of sight, Grant turned
to Moody and said:

“Come, wretch, down and say your
prayers—if you've got any to say—and
make 'em short; for the rope's ready, and
the tree's waiting to blossom with your
carcass. We'll see you dead this time,
anyhow, whether you come to life agin
or not.”

Moody, instead of complying, began
to remonstrate and beg for his life, which
so enraged the party, that without waiting
to listen, they began to drag him for
ward to the thicket, where lay his dead
Indian companion.

“Here's company for you,” said Ichabod;
“and as you plotted together in this
world, it'll be as well for ye to jine him
straightway, and keep him company in
the next.”

It so chanced that a strong sapling was
growing exactly over the body of the
savage; and laying hold of this, three of
of the party without ceremony pulled the
top down to the ground, while the rest
employed themselves in putting one end
of a rope round the neck of the outcast,
and fastening the other to it. Then seeing
that all was fast and ready, one of the
party said to Moody, whose very teeth
were chattering with terror:

“Now you're about to reap the reward
of your crimes.”

“Mercy!” gasped the guilty one.

“Git it after death, then,” was the bitter
reply.

“Ready all! Let her go!”

At the word, the sapling sprang upward
nearly to its former place, jerking Moody
up with it by the neck, and there holding
him, choking and struggling in mid air.
For a few minutes the party remained,
watching the struggles and awful contortions
of visage of the victim to Lynch law,
until they gradually subsided, and one
long, violent spasm, succeeded by a
straightening of the limbs, and perfect
quiet—announced that the erring and
criminal Moody was still in death.

“Let's go!” said David, briefly, turning
away with a shudder of disgust.

No answer was returned; but as he
left the thicket, he found each of his companions
at his heels, eager to quit the
place of a sight so horrible.

In a short time the party overtook the
one in advance, when all pushed forward
in a body together. No questions were
asked concerning the fate of Moody, and
no remarks made—each satisfied, apparently,
to leave the outcast to his fate.

Without incident worthy of note, the
whole company reached the settlement
that night, and joined their anxious friends.