University of Virginia Library

5. CHAPTER V.
THE DECOY.

WHEN Henry reached the bank of the river, he
found, to his surprise and somewhat to his dismay,
that he was not at the place where he had come
ashore; but whether he was now above or below
the proper point, he could not tell, till he chanced
to recollect the close-wooded hill on the other headland,
and then he knew he had gone up the stream
instead of down. As we have said, the night was
very dark; and while within the forest, where nothing
could be seen, it was so much more a matter
of chance than calculation which had brought him
to the river at all, that he felt very thankful to find
he had not gone further astray and become completely
lost. He immediately set out to pick his
way downward along the bank; and though he
made what haste he could, it took him a full hour
to reach the place of landing. No boat of course
was there, for his really frightened companions had
hurried aboard the larger boats with them, and
were now congratulating themselves that they had
escaped with their lives from the dreadful Unknown
of the forest.

“Halloo the boat!” shouted Henry.

“Who's thar?” was the response of Tom.

“It is me—Henry Colburn.”

“Sure it's you?”

“Yes.”

“Alive?”

“Yes.”

“Don't believe a —— word on't! You're only
the ghost of yourself!”

“Don't be a fool, Tom! but come ashore here
with a boat, and I'll soon convince you I'm worth
a thousand ghosts!” cried Henry, half amused and
half vexed at the superstitious fears of one of the
bravest scouts and hunters of the borders.

“It sounds powerful like him,” he heard Tom say
to one of his companions, “and I've a notion to risk
it.”

“Come, come, Tom, if you're afraid of me, it is
time you were leaving the wilderness for some finiky
settlement, as you call it!” cried Henry.

“Hold on, then!” returned the old woodman; “I'll
be with you in a jiffy.”

The dip of an oar was now heard, and a minute
after the bow of a small skiff touched the shore.
Henry had been so long accustomed to the awful
darkness of the woods, that he was barely able to
see it floating up to the bank, like an indistinct
shadow, and he hastened to meet it.

“Is it you, Tom?” he queried, as he stepped into
it.

“ 'Spect it ar,” replied that worthy, “though I've

been so infarnally skeered, that I hardly know myself
from a pine stump. Woofh! warn't that
shriek orful? I thought we war all goners then
sure! and when we got yere, and didn't find you
amongst us, we allowed the Demon had got you.
How'd ye git off, Harry?”

“It was fearful,” returned Henry, shuddering at
the thought of all he had heard, seen, and passed
through, “and when I get aboard the larger boat I
will tell you all about it.”

His companions greeted him as one just rescued
from a fate worse than death, and a dozen eager
questions were pressed upon him in a breath. He
related all that had occurred after they left him, up
to the time of his rejoining them. Great was their
indignation at the murderous attempt of Hampton,
and equally great was their satisfaction at the thought
that the Devil now had him, for he had not yet returned,
and no one now believed he ever would.

“ 'Spect it war him all the time as the Devil war
arter!” muttered Tom; “and ef he's got him, as I
'spect he has, it'll maybe keep us from doing a lettle
private hanging—the lying, cowardly, slinking
white nigger!”

Some two hours were spent in talking over the
events of the night—Tom, as usual, predicting the
most disastrous consequences to spring from the
appearance of the Phantom, or Demon, or whatever
it might be, and his equally superstitious companions
for the most part agreeing with him.

“I tell you, boys, thar'll so'thing orful come on't!”
repeated Tom, some twenty times, with an ominous
shake of his head.

“So you said,” observed Henry, “when you saw
the Thing before; but you see we are both alive yet,
and nothing serious has come of it so far.”

“Wall, can't you guv it time!” snarled Tom, who
did not like the idea of being considered a false
prognosticator. “You'll see! Whar's the use?”

“It would be very strange, indeed, if something
serious should not happen in the course of time!”
laughed Henry. “If that is what you mean, we are
well agreed.”

Nothing serious, however, occurred that night,
and at daylight the boats resumed their progress
down the river. To the great delight of his companions,
Henry made a sketch of the scene in the
forest, at the moment when the strange Unknown
was in the act of leaping down from the tree in
pursuit of Hampton. It was drawn from memory,
with great fidelity, and the lights and shades were
managed with true artistic effect.

He showed it to Isaline, who, having retired early
the evening before, as yet knew nothing about the
events of the night.

“It is a strange sort of picture,” she said, “but
what does it represent?”

“A scene I witnessed last night.”

“You?”

“Even I, Miss Holcombe. This figure is intended
for myself.”

“Were you then ashore and in the forest?”

“I was.”

“And what is this leaping down from the tree?
a human being, or an animal?”

“I do not know—it looks there as it appeared to
me.”

“And who is this running here?”

“Charles Hampton.”

“Ha!” cried Isaline, turning quickly, catching him
by the arm, and looking keenly into his eyes; “you
and he quarreled, yesterday! and what were you
doing together in the forest last night?”

“After gentlemen quarrel, it sometimes becomes
necessary for them to meet and settle their differences.”

“You went to fight a duel?”

“Respect for myself and companions required me
to demand satisfaction for the gross insults I received
yesterday in your presence!”

“Oh, heavens! and you fought?” cried Isaline,
with a nervous clasping of her hands. “I might
have known you would!”

“No, we did not fight, for we were interrupted,
as you see.”

“And where is Charles Hampton now?”

“I do not know.”

“Is he living?”

“I cannot say—he has not returned.”

“You did not kill him?”

“No, I did not harm him—though he treacherously
fired at me, and then ran like a coward.”

“Thank God that at least his blood is not on your
soul!” said Isaline, fervently.

“At least I am spared that reflection, though I
was strongly tempted to send a ball through him.
The last I saw of him, he was flying in fear, and the
strange Unknown was pursuing him, uttering hideous
shrieks.”

“And this strange Unknown, as you call it—what
do you suppose it is?”

“I hardly pretend to conjecture,” replied Henry.
“It, or something like it, has many times been seen
and heard in the forest by the scouts and hunters,
who are superstitious enough to believe it something
supernatural—though, in that respect, I am not prepared
to agree with them. My rough companions
fear it more than they would a host of Indians; and
they say that, after it is seen and heard, something
evil always befalls the unfortunate party—though
even of that I am not so sure. When the word was
on the point of being given, last night, that might
have proved fatal to Hampton or myself, or perhaps
both, the air was filled with a prolonged and terrible
shriek, and all who were present with us turned
and fled in wild dismay, leaving us alone in our
positions. I admit I was a good deal unnerved and
startled myself, and was on the point of following
their example, when Hampton, with murderous

treachery, fired at me, the ball just grazing my cheek,
as you can perceive by this red mark. Then, fearing
I might shoot him down like a dog, as I was certainly
tempted to do, he turned and ran also; and this
Creature, with more wild shrieks, leaped down from
a tree near him and went bounding after him. I
heard the cries of both till they appeared to be lost
in the distance, and then I hurriedly left the scene,
and fortunately made my way safely back to the
boats. I drew this rough sketch from memory, and
this is all I know of the affair.”

“A wonderful mystery!” returned Isaline, with a
shudder. “What can it be? Heavens! what a fate
for Hampton!”

From her words and manner, Henry was at a loss
to know in what degree of estimation his rival was
held by Isaline. Did she regret his absence as that
of an acquaintance, a friend, or a lover? or did she
regret his absence at all? He could not tell. Sometimes
he fancied one thing and sometimes another,
but the real truth was a secret of her own. At all
events, the field was now clear for him; and as he
had already begun to form a very ardent attachment
for her, he resolved to make the most of his present
opportunity.

Thus far, with the exception of the incidents we
have mentioned, nothing had occurred to break the
dull monotony of a slow passage down the river;
but toward the evening of that day, the boat was
hailed from the Ohio shore, by a man who seemed

to be in great distress, and who begged most piteously
to be taken aboard, declaring he had been a
prisoner among the Indians and had just made his
escape.

“That story's told so often that we haint got no
faith in't!” called out one of the men.

“Oh, for God's sake, don't leave me to die here!”
cried the man, holding out his hands imploringly.

“Can you swim?”

“No, I should drown.”

“Well, we shan't run our boats any nearer the
shore, for we're too old in the business to stick our
feet into Injun traps.”

“Oh, for God's sake, for mercy's sake, don't leave
me here to starve. or be caught by the savages
again!” pleaded the man.

We have already mentioned the manner in which
the Indians, by means of decoys, sometimes entrapped
the inexperienced and unwary to their
destruction, and this of course will explain what
might otherwise seem the cruel indifference of the
scouts to the apparent sufferings of a fellow being.
They were, in a general way, bold, brave men, who
would risk their lives, when necessary, where they
had faith in the justice and need of the noble deed;
and even now, with all their doubts upon them, it
was very trying to them to turn a deaf ear to prayers
so earnestly, and it might be truthfully, made; but
their resolution was taken, and all the piteous pleadings
of the man on the shore failed to shake it in

the least. Of course the sympathies of the women
were strongly enlisted in behalf of the apparent
sufferer, and they soon joined their prayers to his,
declaring it would be such a species of downright
cruelty to leave him there to perish that Heaven
would be certain to visit them with its displeasure.

“Whar's the use?” growled Tom. “Ef we
knowed the feller warn't lying, we'd fotch him off
in no time; but I haint the least incline to see you
all riddled with bullets, or hev some yelling red
devil slapping my own ha'r in my face.”

“Is it really true that we are going to leave that
poor fellow to perish there?” said Isaline to Henry,
with some warmth.

“It seems cruel. I admit; but it certainly would
not be prudent for us to risk one of these boats
ashore,” he replied.

“But there are smaller boats,” returned Isaline,
quickly; “and, among you all, I should think there
might be found one or two men brave enough to
make the venture alone!”

The color mounted to the temples of Henry, and
he replied, with a slight bow:

“At least, Miss Holcombe, your suggestion shall
not be lost one me!”

“Nay, I did not mean you, Mr. Colburn!” she
quickly cried, as he turned to leave her. “Stay!
you must not go yourself! but let some of the others
venture instead!”

“I would ask no man to risk his life and decline

to peril my own!” he answered, with a look of dignified
reproach.

“Return, then, I pray you, and do only what is
prudent!” said Isaline, turning somewhat pale.
“Do not act upon my words, which I now admit
were thoughtlessly spoken.”

“No,” said Henry, respectfully but firmly, “I
cannot change my purpose now, but shall make an
effort to save this man, let the consequences be what
they may!”

When they learned what he was about to do, the
companions of the young artist remonstrated with
him against his rash design—and Rough Tom even
called him a fool for thinking of such a thing—but
he calmly replied that there might be no danger
whatever, the man's story might be true, and at
least his conscience would not be easy until he
should have made an effort to save him.

“Well, at least you shan't go alone!” said Davis,
following him to a skiff which was fastened to the
stern of the larger boat.

“Nay,” said Henry, “there is no need of two to
do the work of one. If there is no danger, I can
readily bring off the man; and if there is danger, it
is folly to peril two lives!”

“That may be all very well for you to say,” rejoined
Davis; “but you see you can't have everything
your own way; and if you go, I'm agoing to
go with you!”

Henry made no further objection, and the two

were soon afloat in the skiff and striking off for the
Ohio shore.

“Oh, be careful of your lives!” called out Isaline,
in a voice that was tremulous with emotion. “Be
very, very cautions! and do not forget that yonder
is a dangerous shore, and that you may be advancing
upon a terrible ambuscade!”

She said lives, and apparently addressed them both;
but her thoughts dwelt on one, and she fairly groaned
in spirit at the reflection that it was her own words
which had prompted him to undertake what might
prove a fatal adventure.

“I will remember your instructions!” returned
Henry, lifting his hat and waving her an adieu.

As the little boat gradually increased the distance
between it and the larger one, and glided off lightly
toward the northern shore, every eye was fixed upon
it with that intensity of feeling which we never fail
to experience when we see a human being perilling
his life in the cause of humanity. There was a deep
and breathless silence, as if all were oppressed with
the dread and awe of the shadow of death. Nearer
and still nearer the little boat approached the shore,
where the solitary man was making frantic gestures
of hope and joy, and more intense became the feelings
of the spectators, some of whom unconsciously
clasped their hands and wrung them. Now the
stranger, apparently by the directions of those who
had gone to save him, went lower down the stream,
to a projecting point of land, and came out to the

end of it, that he might be reached without requiring
the skiff to venture too far in shore; but even there,
tall, overhanging trees and a dense thicket formed a
dark, heavy background, which might conceal a
treacherous foe, and the anxious watchers felt little
relief from the change of position.

Colburn and Davis themselves seemed far from
being satisfied that all was right—for, after drawing
near the point, they checked their advance, and
first turned up the stream and then down, and appeared
to reconnoitre the shore with great keenness
and care. Then they stopped and held a parley
with the stranger, the words of which could not be
distinguished by those on the larger boat. A minute
or two after, as if the colloquy had proved satisfactory
to the scouts, they were seen pulling up to the
bank, while the man was observed to advance to the
extreme verge of it, holding on by the overhanging
bushes, as if ready to leap or lower himself into the
skiff the instant the bow should come beneath him.

At this critical moment of intense expectation—
a moment that seemed so fraught with deliverance
or danger—several light puffs of smoke were seen
issuing from the thicket, the reports of several
muskets were heard blending into one heavy roar,
and both Colburn and Davis were observed to sink
down in their little craft, as if riddled with bullets.
At the same instant the stranger gave a shout of
triumph, and five or six painted savages burst into
view, uttering their appalling war-whoops!