72. LXXII.
THE BORDERER AND THE HALF-BREED.
THE struggle was furious, horrible, mortal.
All the most intense and acrid passions, which
agitate the human soul, were spurred to wild
and incredible activity, and the combatants seemed
to have made up their minds to conquer or die, without
thought of retreat or flight.
The enemies were nearly a perfect match. It is true, that
the Indians exceeded the hunters in numerical strength,
but the superiority of the arms used by the latter gave them
a decided advantage, and more than made up for the inequality
of numbers. The area upon which they contended
—the summit of the dizzy precipice—was limited, and thus
the whites fought under favorable circumstances, for they
could not easily be surrounded.
Captain Wagner led the party of hunters: and beside
him Falconbridge advanced into the press, dealing such
blows with his sword that every opponent went down before
him. The two men seemed possessed with the battle ardor
in its fullest extent—that fury of the soul which animates
the blood of men, as animal ferocity does the blood of
beasts, turning the mildest human beings into wolves and
tigers. Captain Wagner did not lose his presence of mind,
however. He led his men with the reckless courage of one
who commands a forlorn hope; but with the cool generalship,
also, of a veteran campaigner. He advanced, step by
step, beating down every opponent—delivering his orders
in a loud, strident tone, which rose above the uproar—and
embracing, even at the instant when he gave his blows, the
entire field of action at a glance.
Falconbridge was beside him—and beside Falconbridge
was George. The youth was thoroughly aroused. His
habitual calmness and amiability had completely disappeared.
His head was tossed back with fearless pride,
and in his heaving bosom, his burning eyes, his lips set
close together, might have been seen the evidences of a nature
of immense depth and strength—of dauntless will—of
inflexible hardihood and determination. There was no
longer anything of the boy about him—he was the full-armed
warrior, rejoicing in the deadly contest. His sword
descended with unerring precision upon the writhing phalanx
of Indian warriors, and he was beside Falconbridge
wherever he advanced.
It was in the midst of this mad struggle, that all at once,
George heard a woman scream—and this scream he recognized
as issuing from the lips of Cannie. It was so wild
and piercing, so filled with distress and anguish, that the
young man's heart turned cold with apprehension. With a
hurried assurance to Falconbridge that he would return in
an instant, George threw himself backward, and clearing at
a single bound, two or three dead bodies, rushed in the
direction of the spot from which he had heard the cry of
distress.
A few words will explain it.
Cannie, Mrs. Butterton, and Miss Argal, had been hastily
conducted to the rear of a large mass of rock, on the eastern
edge of the plateau, not far from the curious granite
bust, in order to screen them from the balls of the savages,
a large portion of whom carried rifles and pistols, procured
from the dwellings which they had plundered on their
march. A cleft in the rock afforded a favorable hiding-place,
and in this cleft, accordingly, the three women
crouched, listening with terror, to the noises of the desperate
conflict. Beside them Lightfoot leaned, with folded
arms, depressed head, and heaving bosom, against the
rock. A terrible struggle was going on in his breast. All
the old instincts of the savage chieftain were aroused within
him, by the din of the combat—by the clashing weapons,
the discharge of fire-arms, the yells and shouts, as the enemies
closed in the mortal contest. His limbs trembled—a
shudder passed through his frame—and his glowing eyes
resembled balls of fire. But those eyes were not directed
toward the place of combat—his nervous fingers did not
clutch the weapon at his girdle. He could take no part
against either of the bands, for neither was his foe. He was
a Catawba, it is true, but he was also a friend of the whites
—a Christian; and to terminate any indecision which he
felt, came the thought that his presence was necessary to
the safety of Cannie.
Thus he curbed the wild battle instinct raging in his
breast—suppressed the tremor which agitated his frame;
his feet rooted themselves in their place, and with folded
arms he awaited the end of the contest.
The three women were less capable of controlling their
feelings. They listened with terror to the shouts and discharges.
Every rifle shot, to their excited imaginations,
rung the death-knell of the person for whom they felt the
deepest solicitude. Above all, Cannie thought of George,
and the peril in which he must be, with blanched cheeks,
and eyes full of wild anguish. She saw him pale and bleeding,
beneath the trampling feet—her imagination conjured
up, for itself, a horrible spectacle—and unable longer to
bear the terrible suspense, she rose to her feet, passed
hastily by Lightfoot, and going to the edge of the rock,
looked toward the combatants.
As she reached the point, she suddenly recoiled with that
cry of terror which George had heard and obeyed.
An Indian, with a hideous scowl upon his features, met
her face to face, and raised above her head a long, glittering
knife, which descended like a flash of lightning toward
her bosom.
But the weapon did not bury itself in her heart. It
found another sheath. Lightfoot had seen her peril—his
face flushed crimson—and arriving at the spot, with a single
bound, he had thrown himself between the girl and the
descending knife.
It entered his bosom, and buried itself to the very hilt.
The savage recognized his brother warrior, and chief, too
late, and uttering a howl of terror at his action, disappeared
in the direction of the main contest, at the moment
when George reached the side of the girl.
Cannie had thrown her arms wildly around the young
Indian, vainly endeavoring to sustain him from falling.
Her strength was unequal to the task, however; Lightfoot
tottered faintly, raised his eyes to heaven, and extending
his arms, fell backward, dragging the girl with him, to the
earth.
George hastened to their assistance, but he had come too
late. The weapon had evidently inflicted a mortal wound.
Almost fainting at the awful sight, at the pale, calm face,
and half-closed eyes of the dying man, Cannie supported
his form in her arms, and looked up at George with an expression
in her eyes which haunted him to the day of his
death. There was in it such a depth of anguish, a tenderness
so profound and passionate, that the young man felt
his cheeks flush in unison with the girl's emotion, and his
pulses throb.
Cannie spoke to the dying man in quick, hurried tones,
which were scarcely recognizable. She bedewed his forehead
with her tears—besought him to speak to her—and
used every means to arouse him, and recall him to consciousness.
Miss Argal and Mrs. Butterton hastened to her
assistance—and all three of them chafed his brow and
hands. It was of no avail—the young Indian exhibited no
signs of life beyond a faint movement of the chest—and
George saw, with inexpressible anguish, that his friend was
dying. As he gazed at the serene face, drooping languidly
toward the bare shoulder, at the eyes veiled by their long
black lashes, at the slowly heaving bosom, which, at every
pulsation, forced a few drops of the Indian's life-blood
through the wound, the young man's throat seemed to
choke with tears, and a groan issued from his lips.
But it was no time to indulge in regrets. The combat in
which his friends were engaged, began to roar more furiously
than before. The cries of his companions recalled
him to the contest; and at the moment when he roused
himself to a consciousness of his duty, these shouts were
redoubled, and replied to from the slope, by which the peak
was reached.
A quick glance in the direction of these latter cries, revealed
their origin. At the distance of a quarter of a mile
Lord Fairfax, who had found the trail of the hunters, was
seen sweeping onward toward the pinnacle, followed by
twenty mounted men, who plunged their spurs into their
foaming animals, and rushed upward, to the relief of their
friends. The sight banished completely the softer emotion
which George had experienced. His face flushed again with
the animal instinct of war—and hastily stooping, he raised
the languid body of Lightfoot in his arms, and bore it to
the cleft in the rock, where the women could minister to
him, if he revived, without danger from the bullets of the
enemy.
He then bade them, in hurried accents, keep close within
their place of concealment; and in the midst of a hundred
frantic shouts, hastened back to the scene of contest.
The Indians, in his absence, had been slowly driven back,
step by step, and were beginning to revolve the propriety
of flight, when they heard the cries of the party coming up
the mountain. At the same moment another incident took
place, which completed their despair, depriving them of all
“heart of hope.”
Captain Wagner, as we have said, plunged, at the head of
his men into the very centre of the savages, and with his
sabre, of immense weight and length of blade, hewed down
every opponent who stood in his path. Breathing hoarsely,
dealing gigantic blows with a ferocity now thoroughly
aroused, and shaking from him, so to speak, as a bear shakes
off the dogs, the most powerful warriors who assailed him,
he had left behind him a long train of dead or dying, who
had bit the dust beneath his arm. He was destined, however,
to find a foeman worthy of his steel. This was the
powerful Half-breed, who had hitherto fought in another
part of the press, but who now advanced toward the soldier,
uplifting, with both hands, a huge axe, which he had
seized from a pile of stolen utensils in the cavern.
The countenance of the Half-breed resembled, at this
moment, the mask of a fiend, or rather the veritable physiognomy
of a demon incarnate, let loose upon the material
earth. His eyes were blood-shot, and burned with a lurid
lustre, suggestive of blood and death. His hideous mouth
was distorted into a sneer, which rendered it a thousand
times more repulsive; on his broad chest, and enormous
arms, the muscles stood out like knots, or excreseences.
He advanced straight upon Captain Wagner, and aimed
a terrible blow at his head—a blow which would have felled
the most powerful ox. The soldier parried it with his
sword, but the result was unhappy for him. The sabre
yielded to the immense stroke, and snapped within six
inches of the hilt.
The Half-breed uttered a howl of triumph, and throwing
his chest backward, whirled the axe with both hands, and all
his strength, above his head, delivering the blow with the
full swing of the deadly weapon.
But he had met an enemy as wary and self-possessed as
himself. The axe did not descend. With a bound of astonishing
rapidity, Wagner leaped upon the Half-breed, and
seized him by the wrist and throat. The axe was no longer
of any use to him—the grasp upon his throat required the
use of his hands—with another howl, more furious than the
former, the savage dropped the weapon and clutched his
enemy in a terrible and deadly embrace.
Then commenced a struggle awful for its ferocity and the
mortal determination of the combatants. It was a contest for
life or death, and each felt that the resultmust be doubtful.
Both were men of immense physical strength—both aroused
to the last fury of passionate hatred; neither gained, at first,
any advantage. The superior stature of Captain Wagner
counted in his favor; but the deformed Half-breed had trained
his huge muscles, by constant exercise, until they were as hard
and elastic as steel; and this more than balanced his want of
height. He wrapped himself around the frame of the Borderer
like a deadly boa-constrictor, tightening the grasp of
his crooked arms and legs, and striving, it seemed, to crush
the breastbone of his adversary.
Thus locked in a deadly embrace, the enemies made gigantic
efforts to terminate the struggle. The Half-breed
had no arms—having discharged his pistols, and dropped
his knife and tomahawk in the melee. The Borderer had a
knife, but it was tangled in his belt, and he could not draw
it, until his foe was prostrate beneath him, and his own
arms free from the paralyzing pressure. They staggered
from side to side, stumbling and nearly falling over the
dead bodies; writhing like wild animals, and uttering hoarse
growls; exerting their great strength to an extent almost
supernatural in the breast to breast contest for life.
Then a new and more terrible feature was added to the
struggle. Step by step they had detached themselves from
the rest of the combatants, and now they found themselves
rapidly approaching the ledge of rock which ran around the
brink of the precipice. The Borderer's back was turned to
it, and he was not aware of his peril until it was almost too
late to guard against it. He heard, at the instant, a sort of
hissing growl, and a sudden and diabolical grin distorted
the face of the Half-breed. Breathing heavily, and gnashing
his boar-like tusks, he forced his enemy toward the
dizzy precipice, and suddenly, as they reached the very
verge, buried his sharp teeth in the Borderer's throat.
Wagner uttered a hoarse cry, and staggered back. The
dog-like bite, deep into his throat, had taken him unawares,
and nearly paralyzed him. His head grew dizzy, his right
hand released its hold upon the Half-breed: clinging like a
tiger, to the Borderer's throat, the malignant savage pushed
him, inch by inch, to the verge.
A glance behind him showed the soldier his awful peril.
He saw the sheer descent of five hundred feet beneath him,
the plateau at its foot, a bed of shattered rocks: and upon
that plateau, his mangled corpse would be lying in three
seconds, unless he could disengage the hideous monster's
teeth from his throat.
His brain reeled. A shudder passed through his frame—
and a sort of chill invaded his breast. The heart of `this
man, who had braved a thousand perils, who had led his
men into the bloodiest gulfs of battle, who had set his life,
a hundred times, upon the hazard of the die, without giving
so much as a thought to the event—the heart of this stalwart
soldier, who had never felt fear in the midst of any
danger, now recoiled and died within him at this horrible
thought—at the idea of death in a shape so hideous and
revolting.
He summoned all his remaining strength, and made a
final effort to hurl from him the monster, whose fangs were
buried in his bleeding throat. The effort was vain. The
jagged teeth clung closer still—their grip was firmer, and
they gnawed at the quivering flesh with hound-like ferocity.
The Borderer uttered a stified cry, and let fall his other
arm, with which he had endeavored to repel his enemy.
The act preserved him. The Half-breed had forced his
opponent to the very brink, and was about to hurl him
over, when he felt a blade, keen and mortal in its stroke,
enter his breast. The Borderer's hand had fallen upon the
knife in his belt—he had drawn it and struck. The monster's
hold relaxed, the teeth clutched at his enemy's throat
with a last despairing effort—and uttering a hoarse growl,
he endeavored to drag the Borderer with him in his fall.
Captain Wagner had just strength enough to recover
himself. His body oscillated, as it were, upon the brink;
and he staggered back, as the hideous form of the Half-breed
disappeared like a mass hurled from some war-like
engine in the yawning chasm, where it was dashed to pieces
upon the rocks.
As the Borderer turned from the terrible contest, wiping
his streaming brows, and breathing heavily, he saw the Indians
give way. Then, all at once, with loud shouts and
the discharge of pistols and carbines, the party, headed by
Lord Fairfax, bore down upon them, and completed the
rout:—the remnant of the band disappeared in the forest,
with howls of hatred and despair.
At the same moment the sun rose above the eastern
mountain, and poured his tranquil light upon the spectacle
of blood and death.
