University of Virginia Library

25. CHAPTER XXV.
THE FIENDS TRIUMPH.

The dreadful work of slaughter was soon over.
The Kentuckians, busy over their dead and suspecting
no danger, with not a single rifle in their hands,
were taken at a terrible advantage, and could offer
but a feeble resistance to their overpowering foes.
More than half of them were shot down at the first
fire; and the others, with the exception of three, who
ran and were pursued, were speedily dispatched—
clubbed muskets and tomahawks doing the bloody
work in a very brief time. No prisoners were taken
here—every man was killed.

The last to come up but the fiercest in the work
of butchery, was Blodget. He fairly maddened in
it. His knife and tomahawk were plied with a rapidity
and vigor that soon covered him with large
splashes of blood—hands, arms, face and body. He
was eager for scalps, and he managed to secure
four. These were more than his share—more than
were taken by any one warrior.

“Now then,” he muttered to himself when all was
over, his dull, leaden eye brightening and gleaming
with fiendish satisfaction, “the girl's mine beyond
all power of Methoto, the — Buffalo! for I can

show two scalps to his one. I fixed him!” he
chuckled to himself; “for when we both got sight of
the girl, I sent him after her, along with a few warriors,
to take her lover and his companion prisoners
—well knowing, if they did that, they'd serve me
and get no scalps—at least he wouldn't—while I'd
have the better chance at these fellows here.”

The slaughter over—for, owing to the circumstances
we have mentioned, it was rather a massacre
than a fight—and the dead all scalped and plundered
—the savages, in the best of spirits, came together
for a consultation, gathering around the prisoners
that had been spared.

Rough Tom and Henry, meantime, had received
much the same treatment as Hampton; and now,
with nearly everything stripped from their persons—
their faces, arms and bodies marked with blows—
they stood bound to a sapling, bearing up under
their misfortunes with the heroic fortitude of brave
men; but Isaline, poor Isaline, was still in the arms
of her captor, the rough Methoto, who having now
got possession of her, was disposed to retain it as
long as possible. Yielding up glory, revenge and
plunder to his companions, he had contented himself
in withdrawing from the others and seating
himself on the trunk of the fallen tree, where he
now held Isaline hugged to his breast, in much the
same manner as one child is often seen to support
another. Blodget had sent him to secure her, for
the reasons we have named; and he had not only

faithfully obeyed the commands of that villain, but
had exceeded them in so much that he still literally
kept her in his own possession, under the impression
that she was to be his prisoner altogether, as she
had once been Hampton's. And she, poor girl—
confounded and bewildered by the shock which had
so suddenly changed her happiness into horror, with
only a stupefied consciousness of misery remaining
to her—made no attempt to escape from the arms
that held her; but sat, with her eyes fixed on Henry,
as one who saw yet only partially comprehended.

Blodget, as he came up and glanced at Methoto,
scowled darkly; but his first words were addressed
to Henry.

“So,” he said, shaking the gory scalps of his late
victims in the face of the young artist, “we've got
you back again among us, have we? Glad to see
you, and hope you'll stop awhile with us—long
enough to make a respectable visit at least. Who's
this other fellow here?” nodding to Tom. “I don't
think I know him. Why don't you introduce me?
where's your manners?”

“Jest you cut these yere cords, you white devil,
and I'll shake hands with you!” growled Tom.

“Really, my worthy old codger, you do me too
much honor!” grinned Blodget, striding up and
slapping the woodman some half-a-dozen times in
the face with the bloody scalps in his hand. “Here's
a greeting for you from your old comrades, who've
been fools enough to step out and leave you behind!”

he pursued, with the cool malice of a demon. “How
was it you didn't go with them, eh? Perhaps you
were afraid to see the devil so soon after making a
spooney of yourself!”

“Wagh!” grunted Tom; “you kin talk more —
nonsense nor any fool I ever see!”

Blodget laughed.

“Old codger, you amuse me!” he said. “What a
fine time I'll have with the three of ye—for there's
another fellow traveller waiting to join his song of
glory to yours.”

“Whar?” asked Tom, looking around.

“Oh, he's not here,” said Blodget; “we left him
back in the woods a piece, holding up a tree, like
you're doing. An old friend of yours,” he pursued,
turning to Henry, “and very fond of that girl there,
that Methoto's playing doll-baby with—Charles
Hampton, he calls himself.”

“What!” cried Tom, with a fierce gleam of joy;
“you got him tied up like us?”

“For all the world like you, except more so!”
grinned Blodget, whose whim it was just now to be
more amused than angry. “He's got a little extra
touch, in the shape of a cord around his neck and a
gag in his mouth. You know him then?”

“S'pect I does!” replied Tom; “and ef you've got
him fixed, like you say, I kin a' most call it squar'
about myself—for he's the — slinking skunk that
got us into all this yere trouble.”

“Yes, you see, he got us over here, so's he could

catch the girl; and then he was ready to bolt, and
did bolt!” rejoined Blodget. “He run off with the
girl, and then she run off from him, and then he
run after her till he heard us fighting, and then he
run off by himself, and run right into our hands,
which was little the rummiest run of them all,” and
Blodget concluded with a fiendish laugh.

“All right!” said Tom; “you jest keep him; and
ef you takes a notion to see a lettle fun, jest you
untie us both in a opening whar thar's room enough
to hev a white nigger licked! Agh! wagh! whar's
the use?”

Again Blodget laughed, and, by one of those
strange freaks in human nature, began to conceive
quite a liking for the rough woodman. He asked
him his name, which Tom readily told; and, after a
few more questions and answers, said, with some
show of good feeling:

“Tom, you ought to join the Indians; and if, when
you get to their towns, you take a notion to do so,
I'll do what I can for you!”

Tom's first impulse was to say he'd rather join
the imps of darkness; but he suddenly recollected
his condition—a bound and helpless prisoner—and
had the good sense to understand he had better have
the vile decoy for a friend than an enemy—at least
under the present circumstances—and so he rejoined:

“Thank'e, hoss—you tork like a trump; and I'm
not sartin but what as how I'd make a purty considerable

kind of a scrimptious sort of a red nig—
a—a—Injun—yes, sir! S'pect me and you'd git
along amazing—for I reckons we'd both like to tickle
up that thar devil of a Hampton, hey?”

“Yes, indeed, my jolly old codger!” laughed Blodget;
“and if we don't both have a chance, it shan't
be my fault.”

At that time Blodget really meant what he said
—for he was in good humor over his late success,
and Tom had not done anything, at least to his
knowledge, to incur his personal hate. He had
called him a white devil, it was true; but that, under
the circumstances, only showed he was a bold, brave
fellow, who was not afraid to speak his mind and
take the consequences; and though a coward himself,
he admired courage in others. Tom's hatred,
too, of Hampton, to that degree that he was half
willing to suffer himself so that that villain might
be punished with him, was a sort of bond of
affinity between them. Moreover, he wanted a
white companion who could speak his own language,
and he foresaw he was going to have trouble with
Methoto, which would make the two deadly enemies.
And then the rough woodman really amused him,
with his odd way of expressing himself. So, all
taken together, produced an effect which no one
could have calculated on before they met—for human
nature is such a strange instrument, so strangely
attuned, that the wisest player that ever lived is not
always sure of the sounds he will evoke when his
hand sweeps the cords.

Blodget now said a few words to the Indians in
favor of Tom; and then, with the scowl settling
back on his brow, he strode over to where Methoto
was still sitting, with the half stupefied Isaline
clasped in his arms, and addressed him in the
Indian tongue, of which we will give a free translation.

“Has the Buffalo turned into a squaw who is
nursing her first child?” he asked, in a sneering
tone.

“No, the Buffalo is a braver warrior than the
little sneaking Fox who puts the question!” replied
Methoto, with a sullen gleam of hate. “But the
Buffalo has got his own—got what he has long been
seeking—and is content. Let the sneaking Fox go
his way, and not get under the hoofs that will crush
him!”

“The Buffalo has not got his own, but that which
belongs to another, and which he will not be allowed
to hold!” returned Blodget, scarcely able to keep his
fierce passions under his control. “Behold the scalps
of the warrior, which give to Wawakotchethe[1] the
prize he fought for!” he added, with a flourish of his
bloody trophies.

“Oogh! stolen from dead men that his red brothers
had killed!” growled the white Indian, with a
look of contempt. “The Fox had the cunning to
bring in the courage of the goose—but let him not
force the Buffalo to use his horns! The squaw belongs

to the Buffalo, who saw her before the Fox,
and she gave herself to him afterward. There is no
more to be said. Go!”

“Has the Buffalo forgot the decree of his red
brothers?” asked Blodget, rather mildly, not altogether
fancying the look with which Methoto accompanied
his last words.

“The Buffalo has said `Go'—let the Fox heed in
time!” rejoined Methoto, his cold, gray eyes gleaming
out wickedly through a dark, heavy scowl.

“Our red brothers shall decide!” said Blodget,
drawing back.

And then, as he turned on his heel and advanced
to the group of warriors, who were already preparing
to resume their march back to where they had
left their horses, he muttered in English:

“The — insolent scoundrel! I'll have his
heart's blood and scalp too before long!”

He then addressed the warriors, demanding that
Isaline should either be given up to him now, as
having the best right to her according to their decree,
or else that she should be taken in charge as a
general prisoner, as had been done before.

“My red brothers must see that if either the Buffalo
or the Fox is entitled to her possession, it is the
Fox!” he said in conclusion, holding up his scalps.

The Indians were not slow to decide the point,
for their former decision covered the whole ground.
The girl could belong to neither of the white men
till they should reach the Ohio, and then their scalps
should be counted and the matter finally settled.

“The brothers of the Fox are wise, and he bows
to their will!” replied the cunning Blodget; “let
the Buffalo do the same and yield up the girl to
their possession!”

The principal chief now advanced to Methoto and
said:

“My brother is holding what is not yet his own,
and his brothers will take the prize in charge!”

“And let it run away, as they did before!” grumbled
Methoto, with a lowering brow.

“No, it shall be better guarded this time.”

“Tell my brothers the squaw gave herself to the
Buffalo, and he would rather take care of her.”

“The warriors have already decided, and there is
no need for more words!” rejoined the chief, rather
sternly. “If the Buffalo would not get into trouble,
he will now yield to their wishes and be silent!”

Finding the matter thus fully settled against him,
Methoto sullenly yielded to the general demand.
Placing Isaline on her feet, with a scowl and a sigh,
he got up and walked away. The chief took her
by the hand and led her up to the savage group,
who stood waiting to see the result—she, pale as a
ghost, uttering not a word, and moving forward as
if mechanically.

Unbinding Tom and Henry, all except their
hands, and placing them separately in the file, with
Isaline in the rear, the Indians now resumed their
triumphant march in the same direction they had
fled before.

When they reached the place where they had left
Hampton, and found him still secured to the tree,
with the gag in his mouth, they uttered a few joyous
whoops, and all who had taken fresh scalps paid him
special attention by slapping the gory trophies in his
face.

“You see I'm a prophet!” said Blodget to him,
with a brutal laugh; “for I told you, you know,
we'd use up the Kentuckians, and we've done it!
Only two or three of them got away, and all the
rest that are alive you see here in the shape of a
couple of your friends.”

“Don't call me the friend of sich a — slinking
coward as him!” growled Tom, who happened to be
standing within a few feet of the treacherous villain.

“Almost my own words to him, when he had the
impudence to call me his friend some time ago!”
laughed Blodget.

It would be hard to find a more miserable wretch
than Hampton was now, as he turned his dark eyes
from one to the other of the persons around him,
and saw no pity in any face, with the exception,
perhaps, of that of the girl he had so deeply
wronged, and whose now sad, sorrowful features
seemed to have sympathy with all that suffered.

Unbinding Hampton from the tree and taking the
gag from his mouth, the Indians placed him in the
file, in the same manner as the others, and again
resumed their triumphant march.

In something like an hour they came in sight of

their horses, plunder and guard; and then they
stopped and gave a series of halloos, one for each
scalp and prisoner, and followed these with a few
short, sharp yells of joyous triumph. These were
joyously answered by the guard; and then succeeded
two long, dismal howls, announcing that two of the
wounded warriors, left in their charge, had since
breathed their last.

This suddenly changed the rejoicing to mourning
and rage; and as the savages hurried forward and
looked at the dead bodies of their comrades, some
of the fiercest and least thoughtful were for dispatching
the prisoners at once. A consultation was held
to decide their fate, and all the cunning address of
Blodget was required to save them.

“Let my brothers be wise,” he said, “and not
now, in a moment of passion, destroy those who may
afford us much amusement when we reach our
homes. The brave dead fought well and have been
amply avenged. Their enemies' scalps, in large
numbers, are now dangling at our girdles, while not
a single scalp have the Long Knives[2] to show in
return. The friends of the braves who are gone
will wail for them; and their living brothers should
give them the means to rejoice, by presenting them
with prisoners for the tortures.”

His words produced a marked effect on the minds

of the savage group, and, his purpose being ably
seconded by the chiefs, he soon had the satisfaction
of seeing his point carried unanimously.

The Indians, having destroyed or vanquished
those who had directly followed and attacked them,
now felt perfectly secure, not dreaming there were
still larger parties of the whites roving through the
country which stretched between their westward
trail and the Ohio. They felt, however, they had
ventured enough for the present; and, loaded with
plunder and covered with glory, they were resolved
to begin their homeward march, to enjoy the gratulations
of their friends for the triumphs they had
so bravely won. But there was no need of haste,
they reasoned, and so everything was leisurely done.
First they buried their dead, and did what they
could for the only wounded sufferer remaining. He
had been shot in the side, but appeared not to be
mortally wounded, and was able to sit a horse.
They next prepared their midday meal, and gave
the prisoners all they wanted. Isaline took hers,
but scarcely tasted it; Hampton and Henry ate only
a little; but Tom devoured enough for three ordinary
men—carelessly remarking to Blodget, with
his mouth full of the tender, well-toasted meat:

“I've seed worse cooks nor these red ni—a—a—
Injuns—and I've got a holler in me you could chuck
a ox into—yes, sir!”

“Fill it then,” laughed the decoy, “for you won't
always have so good a chance perhaps!”

“Jest what I's a thinking on!” mumbled the fearless
borderer; “me and you come to p'ints amazing!
Woofh! whar's the use? Ax Hampton ef his jawrs
is sore chawing that thar stick?”

“You're a trump, by _____!” rejoined Blodget,
with another laugh and a friendly slap of the woodman's
broad shoulder; “and when I get you home
to our village, I'll do what I can for you!”

“Ef you ever does, you sneaking slink of the
devil!” thought Tom, as he looked at the other with
a pleasant grin, which, it must be confessed, was very
far from conveying a true idea of the state of his
feelings. “Nothing like playing possum when a
feller's got nothing better to do!” mentally pursued
Tom. “I'll live to fix this yere white nigger yit!”

Having finished their meal and smoked their
pipes, the Indians resumed their journey to the
northward, intending to avoid all fortified settlements
and get out of the country as quietly as possible.
By adopting this course—which they did
without any knowledge that a division of the whites
had struck across the wilderness to head them off—
the chances were more than a thousand to one—in
fact almost infinite—that the savages would escape
without being molested by any armed body of their
foes; and this Tom comprehended, with a mental
groan, when subsequently informed by Blodget of
their design.

The larger part of the Indians rode their captured
horses; but all the prisoners, with the exception of

Isaline, were compelled to go afoot—though they
were not loaded with burdens, as was not unusual
in a march of this kind—the plunder, which was
considerable in bulk, being placed on the backs of
a few of the quieter animals. Isaline, as on a previous
occasion, was mounted in front of a fierce-looking
savage, but was respectfully treated and
without abuse. Her feelings, and those of Henry—
as, stripped nearly naked, he was forced over the
roughest ground, with here and there a sharp stick
and stone lacerating his naked feet—we must leave
to lovers to imagine. Both were thankful, however,
that the life of the other had been spared, and that
as yet they had not been separated. What the
future might have in store fore them, it was terrible
to conjecture; but as in their hour of happiness, so
in their hour of misery, they silently and secretly
prayed to Him who alone had the power to deliver
them from the hands of their enemies and bring
them together in safety and joy. Blodget rode a
part of the time and a part of the time walked; but
Methoto, having got possession of a horse, seemed
little disposed to yield it up to any one, even for a
brief time. He had nothing to say; but, with his
brow clouded and a wicked light in his eye, he kept
steadily along, brooding over his dark thoughts,
and secretly calculating the chances of carrying out
a design he had already imperfectly formed—a design
which concerned Isaline, and was destined to bring
about some strange and startling events.