University of Virginia Library

9. CHAPTER IX.

The course of Stackpole was through the
woods, in a direction immediately opposite to that
by which Roland had ridden to his assistance.

“He is going to the Lower Ford,” said Telie,
anxiously. “It is not too late for us to follow
him. If there are Indians in the wood, it is the
only way to escape them!”

“And why should we believe there are Indians
in the wood?” demanded Roland; “because that
half-mad rogue, made still madder by his terrors,
saw something which his fancy converted into the
imaginary Nick of the Woods? You must give
me a better reason than that, my good Telie, if
you would have me desert the road.—I have no
faith in your Jibbenainosays.”

But a better reason than her disinclination to
travel it, and her fears lest, if Indians were
abroad, they would be found lying in ambush at
the upper and more frequented pass of the river,
the girl had none to give; and, in consequence,
Roland, (though secretly wondering at her pertinacity,
and still connecting it in thought with his
oft-remembered dream,) expressing some impatience
at the delays they had already experienced,
led the way back to the buffalo-road, resolved to
prosecute it with vigour. But Fate had prepared
for him other and more serious obstructions.

He had scarce regained the path, before he became
sensible, from the tracks freshly printed in
the damp earth, that a horseman, coming from the

very river towards which he was bending his
way, had passed by, whilst he was engaged in the
wood liberating the horse-thief. This was a circumstance
that both pleased and annoyed him.
It was so far agreeable, as it seemed to offer the
best proof that the road was open, with none of
those dreadful savages about it, who had so long
haunted the brain of Telie Doe. But what chiefly
concerned the young soldier was the knowledge
that he had lost an opportunity of inquiring after
his friends, and ascertaining whether they had really
pitched their camp on the banks of the river;
a circumstance which he now rather hoped than
dared to be certain of, the tempest not seeming
to have been so violent in that quarter, as, of a
necessity, to bring the company to a halt. If they
had not encamped in the expected place, but, on
the contrary, had continued their course to the
appointed Station, he saw nothing before him but
the gloomy prospect of concluding his journey
over an unknown road, after night-fall, or returning
to the Station he had left, also by night; for
much time had been lost by the various delays,
and the day was now declining fast.

These considerations threw a damp over his
spirits, but taught him the necessity of activity;
and he was, accordingly, urging his little party
forward with such speed as he could, when there
was suddenly heard at a distance on the rear the
sound of fire-arms, as if five or six pieces were
discharged together, followed by cries not less
wild and alarming than those uttered by the despairing
horse-thief.

These bringing the party to a stand, the quick
ears of the soldier detected the rattling of hoofs
on the road behind, and presently there came
rushing towards them with furious speed a solitary

horseman, his head bare, his locks streaming
in the wind, and his whole appearance betraying
the extremity of confusion and terror; which was
the more remarkable, as he was well mounted,
and armed with the usual rifle, knife, and hatchet
of the back-woodsman. He looked as if flying
from pursuing foes, his eyes being cast backwards,
and that so eagerly, that he failed to notice the
party of wondering strangers drawn up before
him on the road, until saluted by a halloo from
Roland; at which he checked his steed, looking
for an instant ten times more confounded and
frightened than before.

“You tarnation critturs!” he at last bawled,
with the accents of one driven to desperation, “if
there a'n't no dodging you, then there a'n't. Here's
for you, you everlasting varmints—due your darndest!”

With that, he clubbed his rifle, and advanced
towards the party in what seemed a paroxysm of
insane fury, brandishing the weapon and rolling
his eyes with a ferocity that could have only
arisen from his being in that happy frame of mind
which is properly termed “frighted out of fear.”

“How, you villain!” said Roland, in amazement,
“do you take us for wild Indians?”

“What, by the holy hokey, and a'n't you?”
cried the stranger, his rage giving way to the
most lively transports; “Christian men!” he exclaimed
in admiration, “and one of 'em a niggur,
and two of 'em wimming! oh hokey! You're
Capting Forrester, and I've heerd on you! Thought
there was nothing in the wood but Injuns, blast
their ugly picturs! and blast him, Sy Jones as
was, that brought me among em! And now I'm
talking of 'em, Capting, don't stop to ax questions,
but run,—cut and run, Capting, for there's an

everlasting sight of 'em behind me!—six of 'em,
Capting, or my name a'n't Pardon Dodge,—six of
em,—all except one, and him I shot, the blasted
crittur! for, you see, they followed me behind,
and they cut me off before; and there was no
dodging 'em,—(Dodge's my name, and dodging's
my natur',)—without gitting lost in the
woods; and it was either losing myself or my
scalp; and so that riz my ebenezer, and I banged
the first of 'em all to smash,—if I did'nt, then it
a'n't no matter!”

“What, in heaven's name,” said Roland, overcome
by the man's volubility and alarm together,
—“what means all this? Are there Indians behind
us?”

“Five of 'em, and the dead feller,—shocking
long-legged crittur he was; jumped out of a bush,
and seized me by the bridle—hokey! how he
skeared me!—Gun went off of her own accord, and
shot him into bits as small as fourpence-ha'pennies.
Then there was a squeaking and squalling, and
the hull of 'em let fly at me; and then I cut on the
back track, and they took and took atter; and, I
calculate, if we wait here a quarter of a minute
longer, they will be on us jist like devils and roaring
lions.—But where shall we run? You can't
gin us a hint how to make way through the woods?
—Shocking bad woods to be lost in! Bad place
here for talking, Capting,—right 'twixt two fires,
—six Injuns behind (and one of 'em dead,) and an
almighty passel before,—the Ford's full on 'em!”

“What!” said Roland, “did you pass the Ford?
and is not Colonel Johnson, with his emigrants,
there?”

“Not a man on 'em; saw 'em streaking through
the mud, half way to Jackson's. Everlasting lying
critturs, them emigrants! told me there was

no Injuns on the road; when what should I do
but see a hull grist on 'em dodging among the
bushes at the river, to surround me, the tarnation
critturs. But I kinder had the start on 'em, and
I whipped and I cut, and I run, and I dodged.
And so says I, `I've beat you, you tarnation,
scalping varmints!' when up jumps that long-legged
feller, and the five behind him; and, blast
'em, that riz my corruption. And I—”

“In a word,” said Roland, impatiently, and
with a stern accent, assumed perhaps to reassure
his kinswoman, whom the alarming communications
of the stranger, uttered in an agony of terror
and haste, filled with an agitation which she could
not conceal, “you have seen Indians, or you say
you have. If you tell the truth, there is no time
left for deliberation; if a falsehood—”

“Why should we wait upon the road to question
and wonder?” said Telie Doe, with a boldness
and firmness that at another moment would
have excited surprise; “why should we wait here,
while the Indians may be approaching? The forest
is open, and the Lower Ford is free.”

“If you can yet lead us thither,” said Roland,
eagerly, “all is not yet lost. We can neither advance
nor return. On, maiden, for the love of
Heaven!”

These hasty expressions revealed to Edith the
deep and serious light in which her kinsman regarded
their present situation, though at first seeking
to hide his anxiety under a veil of composure.
In fact, there was not an individual present, on
whom the fatal news of the vicinity of the redman
had produced a more alarming impression
than on Roland. Young, brave, acquainted with
war, and accustomed to scenes of blood and peril,
it is not to be supposed that he entertained fear on

his own account; but the presence of one whom
he loved, and whom he would have rescued from
danger at any moment, at the sacrifice of his own
life thrice over, was enough to cause, and excuse,
a temporary fainting of spirit, and a desire to fly
the scene of peril, of which, under any other
circumstances, he would have been heartily
ashamed. The suddenness of the terror—for up
to the present moment he had dreamed of no difficulty
comprising danger, or of no danger implying
the presence of savages in the forest,—had
somewhat shocked his mind from its propriety,
and left him in a manner unfitted to exercise the
decision and energy so necessary to the welfare
of his feeble and well nigh helpless followers.
The vastness of his embarrassment, all disclosed at
once,—his friends and fellow emigrants now far
away; the few miles which he had, to the last,
hoped separated him from them, converted into
leagues; Indian enemies at hand; advance and
retreat both alike cut off; and night approaching
fast, in which, without a guide, any attempt to retreat
through the wild forest would be as likely to
secure his destruction as deliverance;—these were
circumstances that crowded into his mind with
benumbing effect, engrossing his faculties, when
the most active use of them was essential to the
preservation of his party.

It was at this moment of weakness and confusion,
while uttering what was meant to throw
some little discredit over the story of Dodge, to
abate the terrors of Edith, that the words of Telie
Doe fell on his ears, bringing both aid and hope
to his embarrassed spirits. She, at least, was acquainted
with the woods; she, at least, could conduct
him, if not to the fortified Station he had
left, (and bitterly now did he regret having left it,)

to the neglected ford of the river, which her former
attempts to lead him thither, and the memory
of his dream, caused him now to regard as a city
of refuge pointed out by destiny itself.

“Yous hall have your way at last, fair Telie,”
he said, with a laugh, but not of merriment: “Fate
speaks for you; and whether I will or not, we
must to the Lower Ford.”

“You will never repent it,” said the girl, the
bright looks which she had worn for the few moments
she was permitted to controul the motions
of the party, returning to her visage, and seeming
to emanate from a rejoicing spirit;—“they will
not think of waylaying us at the Lower Ford!”

With that, she darted into the wood, and, followed
by the others, including the new-comer,
Dodge, was soon at a considerable distance from
the road.

“Singular,” said Roland to Edith, at whose
rein he now rode, endeavouring to remove her
terrors, which, though she uttered no words, were
manifestly overpowering,—“singular that the girl
should look so glad and fearless, while we are, I
believe, all horribly frightened. It is, however, a
good omen. When one so timorous as she casts
aside fear, there is little reason for others to be
frighted.”

“I hope,—I hope so,” murmured Edith. “But
—but I have had my omens, Roland, and they
were evil ones. I dreamed—You smile at
me!”

“I do,” said the soldier, “and not more at your
joyless tones, my fair cousin, than at the coincidence
of our thoughts. I dreamed (for I also
have had my visions,) last night, that some one
came to me and whispered in my ear `to cross
the river at the Lower Ford,' the Upper being

dangerous.' Verily, I shall hereafter treat my
dreams with respect. I suppose,—I hope, were it
only to prove we have a good angel in common,
—that you dreamed the same thing?”

“No,—it was not that,” said Edith, “with a
sad and anxious countenance. “It was a dream
that has always been followed by evil. I dreamed
—. But it will offend you, cousin?”

“What!” said Roland, “a dream? You dreamed
perhaps that I forgot both wisdom and affection,
when, for the sake of this worthless beast,
Briareus, I drew you into difficulty and peril?”

“No, no,” said Edith, earnestly, and then added
in a low voice, “I dreamed of Richard Braxley!”

“Curse him!” muttered the youth, with tones
of bitter passion: “it is to him we owe all that
now afflicts us,—poverty and exile, our distresses
and difficulties, our fears and our dangers. For
a wooer,” he added, with a smile of equal bitterness,
“methinks he has fallen on but a rough way
of proving his regard. But you dreamed of him.
Well, what was it? He came to you, with the
look of a beaten dog, fawned at your feet, and
displaying that infernal will, `Marry me,' quoth
he, `fair maid, and I will be a greater rascal than
before,—I will burn this will, and consent to enjoy
Roland Forrester's lands and houses in right of
my wife, instead of claiming them in trust for an
heir no longer in the land of the living.' Cur!—
and but for you, Edith, I would have repaid his
insolence as it deserved. But you ever intercede
for your worst enemies. There is that confounded
Stackpole, now: I vow to heaven, I am sorry
I cut the rascal down!—But you dreamed of
Braxley! What said the villain?”

“He said,” replied Edith, who had listened
mournfully, but in silence, to the young man's

hasty expressions, like one who was too well acquainted
with the impetuosity of his temper, to
think of opposing him in his angry moments, or
perhaps because her spirits were too much subdued
by her fears to allow her to play the monitress,—“He
said, and frowningly, too, that `soft
words were with him the prelude to hard resolutions,
and that where he could not win as the turtle,
he could take his prey like a vulture;'—or
some such words of anger. Now, Roland, I have
twice before dreamed of this man, and on each
occasion a heavy calamity ensued, and that on
the following day. I dreamed of him the night
before our uncle died. I dreamed a second time,
and the next day he produced and recorded the
will that robbed us of our inheritance. I dreamed
of him again last night; and what evil is now
hovering over us, I know not, but,—it is foolish
of me to say so,—yet my fears tell me it will be
something dreadful.”

“Your fears, I hope, will deceive you,” said
Roland, smiling in spite of himself at this little
display of weakness on the part of Edith. “I
have much confidence in this girl, Telie, though I
can scarce tell why. A free road and a round
gallop will carry us to our journey's end by night-fall;
and, at the worst, we shall have bright star-light
to light us on. Be comforted, my cousin. I
begin heartily to suspect yon cowardly Dodge, or
Dodger, or whatever he calls himself, has been
imposed upon by his fears, and that he has actually
seen no Indians at all. The springing up
of a bush from under his horse's feet, and the
starting away of a dozen frighted rabbits, might
easily explain his conceit of the long-legged Indian,
and his five murderous accomplices; and
as for the savages seen in ambush at the Ford,

the shaking of the cane-brake by the breeze, or by
some skulking bear, would as readily account for
them. The idea of his being allowed to pass a
crew of Indians in their lair, without being pursued,
or even fired on, is quite preposterous.”

These ideas, perhaps devised to dispel his kinswoman's
fears, were scarce uttered before they
appeared highly reasonable to the inventor himself;
and he straightway rode to Dodge's side,
and began to question him more closely than he
had before had leisure to do, in relation to those
wondrous adventures, the recounting of which
had produced so serious a change in the destination
of the party. All his efforts, however, to obtain
satisfactory confirmation of his suspicion were
unavailing. The man, now in a great measure
relieved of his terrors, repeated his story with a
thousand details, which convinced Roland that it
was, in its chief features, correct. That he had
actually been attacked, or fired upon by some persons,
Roland could not doubt, having heard the
shots himself. As to the ambush at the Ford, all
he could say was, that he had actually seen several
Indians,—he knew not the number,—stealing
through the wood in the direction opposite the
river, as if on the outlook for some expected party,—Captain
Forrester's, he supposed, of which
he had heard among the emigrants; and that this
giving him the advantage of the first discovery,
he had darted ahead with all his speed, until
arrested at an unexpected moment by the six
warriors, whose guns and voices had been heard
by the party.

Besides communicating all the information
which he possessed on these points, he proceeded
without waiting to be asked, to give an account
of his own history; and a very lamentable one it

was. He was from the Down-East country, a
representative of the Bay State, from which he
had been seduced by the arguments of his old
friend Josiah Jones, to go `a pedlering' with the
latter to the new settlements in the West; where
the situation of the colonists, so far removed from
all markets, promised uncommon advantages to
the adventurous trader. These had been in a
measure realized on the upper Ohio; but the prospect
of superior gains in Kentucky had tempted
the two friends to extend their speculations further;
and in an evil hour they embarked their
assorted notions and their own bodies in a flatboat
on the Ohio; in the descent of which it was
their fortune to be stripped of every thing, after
enduring risks without number and daily attacks
from Indians lying in wait on the banks of the
river; which misadventures had terminated in the
capture of their boat, and the death of Josiah, the
unlucky projector of the expedition, Pardon himself
barely escaping with his life. These calamities
were the more distasteful to the worthy
Dodge, whose inclinations were of no warlike
cast, and whose courage never rose to the fighting
point, as he freely professed, until goaded into
action by sheer desperation. He had `got enough,'
as he said, `of the everlasting Injuns, and of Kentucky,
where there was such a shocking deal of
'em, that a peaceable trader's scalp was in no
more security than a rambling scout's;' and, cursing
his bad luck and the memory of the friend
who had cajoled him into ruin, difficulty, and constant
danger, his sole desire was now to return to
the safer lands of the East, which he expected to
effect most advantageously by advancing to some
of the South-eastern stations, and throwing himself
in the way of the first band of militia, whose
tour of duty in the District was completed, and who
should be about to return to their native State.
He had got enough of the Ohio, as well as the
Indians; the wilderness-road possessed fewer terrors,
and, therefore, appeared to his imagination
the more eligible route of escape.