The Riflemen of the Miami

"I don't know, I'm sure. I'm 'fraid of everybody."

"See here, Zeke, was there any Injins chasing you, just now?"

"Yes – no. I've been clear of them a long time, I run so fast; but I'm just as afeard, as I s'pose the Injins are all over the woods."

"Not so bad as that, though we'd be willing to get along if there was a few less."

"Yes, that's so. Got any thing to eat?"

"No, but we'll soon have something."

"Can I go 'long with you?" asked the frightened fellow.

"If you wish to, provided you do what I want you to."

"Oh, I'll do any thing for you. Who's that with you?" he questioned, peering around the hunter, who, although he had advanced a few steps, still stood in front of Edith.

"A young friend, Miss Edith Sudbury."

"Glad to see you," said the young man, with an awkward bow.

"But see here," pursued the Rifleman, "how comes it you are in these woods at all? You didn't come all the way from Pennsylvany alone?"

"Oh, no – oh, no. I came down the Ohio in a flat-boat."

"How is it that you are here, then?"

"The other day we stopped along the shore a while, and I went off in the woods, and got lost. When I found my way back, the flat-boat had gone, and I was left alone. I've been wandering around ever since, and am nearly starved to death. Be you two hunting?"

"No, we are making our way to a settlement some miles off. Do you wish to go with us?"

"Yes, anywhere to get out of these derned woods. Gracious! what a big job it'll be to cut all these trees down," said young Hunt, looking above and around him, as though absorbed with this new idea.

"A big job, certainly; but there'll be a big lot to do it when the time comes. There don't appear to be any reason why we should wait, and so we'll move ahead."

"Which way are you going?"

"Right ahead."

"Over the same ground that I come over?"

"I s'pose so."

"Oh, heavens! you are lost if you do. Don't do that."

"What's the matter? Any danger?"

"The woods are chuck full of Injins, I tell you. There must have somebody passed that way and they looking for them, there are so many."

Dernor turned and spoke to Edith:

"No doubt he is right. It is but what I suspected. What shall I do? Take a longer way home, and a safer one, or the short route?"

"Take the safest, whichever that may be."

"That is the longest. Come on, friend."

"I'm follerin'," replied that worthy, striding after him.

It was considerably past the hour of noon, and the brisk walk through the woods had given the Rifleman an appetite something akin to that of his new-found companion, so that he did not forget the expressed wish of the latter. He had no difficulty in bringing down another turkey and cooking it. There was one peculiarity which did not escape either Dernor or Edith. On the part of the latter it occasioned no concern, but it was the subject of considerable wonder and speculation with the former. Zeke Hunt, as he called himself, professed to be ravenously hungry; but when the tempting, juicy meat of the turkey was placed before him, he swallowed but a few mouthfuls. This was a small matter, it was true, and with any one except the Rifleman, would have escaped notice but this sagacious hunter considered it of so much importance as to ask an explanation.

"You appeared to be dying with hunger, and now, when food is offered, you hardly touch it. What is the meaning of that?"

"I don't know," said Zeke, wiping his fingers on the hair of his head.

"Yes, you do know. Tell me the meaning of it."

"S'pose I ain't hungry."

"Isn't the bird cooked well enough?"

"Wouldn't hurt if 'twas cooked better."

The Rifleman at first was disposed to resent this insult, but, on second thought, he set the man down as a fool, and one unworthy of notice. There is no disguising the fact that his action had given the hunter an unpleasant suspicion, which, however, was dissipated by the perfect coolness with which he met his inquiry.

"I guess yer ain't used to cookin', be you?" he asked, perfectly unabashed by the frigid manner of the hunter.

"I've done considerable, sir, in the last few years."

"Don't say so. Shouldn't have thought it, from the way that thing looks."

"What is the matter with this cooking, I should like to know; eh?"

"Oh, nothin', as I knows on. The gal appears to like it well enough."

"Indeed I do," said Edith, unable to restrain a laugh at the manner of their new companion, who, seeing it, rolled his head back and gave an answering "horse-laugh" that could have been heard a half-mile distant.

"Don't let me hear that agin," said the Rifleman, rising to his feet.

"Why don't you want to hear it?" asked Zeke, in blank astonishment.

"It's no wonder the flat-boat left you, if you were in the habit of making such noises as that. It's enough to wake every sleeping Injin in these woods."

"It'll scare 'em, I guess, won't it?"

"I should think it would, so don't try it agin."

"Done eatin'?"

"Yes, of course."

"Thought it was about time."

"We will not reach home to-night," said the Rifleman, speaking to Edith. "I'm sorry, for they'll be worried about us."

"I am sorry, too, for I dislike to remain in the woods so long."

"This fellow will be of little use to us, as he doesn't appear to know any thing. I can't understand how he has come this far. He's been lucky, I s'pose, but whether we're going to be, with him along, is more than I can tell."

"Of course you won't turn him off. It would be cruel," said Edith, sincerely commiserating the helpless situation of the young man.

"As long as he behaves himself, and it doesn't make it any more dangerous for you, he can stay with us; but he mustn't open that big mouth of his as wide as he did just now."

"Hello! how long afore you're goin' to start?" called out Zeke, as our two friends stood talking together.

"Follow behind us, and make no noise, if you want to save your top-knot."

"Hope there ain't no danger of that happening, after I've come as far as this all right."

The three moved forward once again, the movements of the Rifleman characterized by his usual caution, while Zeke Hunt straddled along at a most awkward gait, kicking up the leaves, and breaking and bending the undergrowth in such a manner as to make the care of the hunter entirely useless. In this manner they traveled until nightfall, when they reached the banks of a small brook, beside which it was decided to encamp for the night. During the latter part of the day it had been steadily growing colder, so that, after some deliberation, Dernor concluded to start a fire.

"You don't s'pose the Injins will see it, do you?" asked Hunt.

"I'm sure I can't tell. Why do you ask?"

"'Cause, if they are goin' to see it, I want to get out the way. I don't s'pose you've traveled the woods much, have you?"

"Probably as much as you have."

"You have, eh?"

There was something in the tone in which this was uttered that made the hunter turn and look at Zeke Hunt. As he did so, he saw an expression of his greenish, gray goggle-eyes that made him feel certain, for the minute, that he had seen him before. It may have been a fancy, for the expression was gone instantly, and succeeded by the same blank, half-idiotic look.

This was the second time the same unpleasant suspicion had entered the mind of the Rifleman, and he was resolved, at the least, to keep an eye upon Zeke Hunt. While it was not at all impossible that the story he had told was true in every particular, still there was an air of improbability about it, which could not escape the notice of so quick-sighted a man as Dernor, and, from this time forward, every action or word of the awkward countryman was watched with a jealous eye.

The fire which was kindled was carefully screened, so that it would not be apt to catch the eye of any one in the neighborhood. After some conversation between the hunter and Edith, the latter wrapped his blanket over her own, and, thus protected, lay down upon the ground. The weariness and fatigue brought on by the day's travel soon manifested itself in a deep, dreamless, refreshing sleep.

"Are you going to stay up all night?" asked Dernor of the countryman.

"I don't know whether I am or not."

"Ain't you sleepy?"

"Don't feel much so jest now; s'pose I mought after a while."

"You have traveled enough. Why don't you feel sleepy?"

"Haw! haw! haw! what a question. How do I know why I ain't sleepy? You don't appear so yourself."

"I ain't, either."

"You've done as much tramping as I have."

"That may be; but I'm used to it, and you ain't."

"Don't know 'bout that. Used to do good 'eal of it up on the farm. Say, you, did you ever hear of the Riflemen of the Miami?"

"Yes, very often. They are sometimes seen in these parts."

"I'd like to jine them 'ere fellers."

"You jine 'em!" repeated Dernor, contemptuously. "You'd be a pretty chap to go with them. Them chaps, sir, is hunters!" he added, in a triumphant tone.

"Jest what I s'posed, and that's why I wanted to jine 'em."

"Can you shoot?"

"Ef you'll lend me your iron there a minute, I'll show you what I can do."

"It is dark now. There is no chance to show your skill. Wait till morning."

"Very well, don't forget. I've done some shootin', fur all I ain't used to Injins. But, I say, do you know the head feller of them Riflemen?"

"I'm very well acquainted with him."

"What sort of a chap is he?"

"Good deal such a man as I am."

"Haw! haw! great man to be the leader. Hope you're never taken for him, be you?"

"Very often – because I am the leader of the Riflemen myself."

"Get out," said the countryman, as if he expected to be bitten. "You can't make me believe that."

"It makes no difference to me whether you believe it or not. If you make much more noise, like enough you'll find out who I am."

"Be you really the leader of the Riflemen?" queried Zeke Hunt, not noticing the warning which had just been uttered.

"I've told you once, so let's hear no more about it."

"My gracious! you don't look much like one. 'Pears to me you and I look a good deal alike. Don't you think so?"

"Heaven save me, I hope not."

"Oh, I'm willing that it should be so. I ain't offended."

The impudence of the countryman was so consummate that Dernor could not restrain a laugh at it.

"They always considered me good-looking down hum," he added; "and there wasn't a gal I wasn't able to get if I wanted her."

"I should think you would be anxious to get back again."

"Would be, if it wasn't for the old man. He was awful on me. Didn't appear to be proud of me at all."

"Queer, sure. I don't see how he could help it."

"Me neither. Dad was always mad, though, and used to aboose me shameful. The fust thing in my life that I can remember was of gettin' a lickin'."

"What was it for?"

"Nothin' worth tellin'. I was a little feller then, and one day heated the poker red-hot, and run it down grandmother's back. But there! didn't he lam me for that! Always was whippin' me. School-teacher was just as bad. Licked me like blazes the fust day."

"Did he lick you for nothin'?"

"Purty near. Didn't do any thing except to put a handful of gunpowder in a dry inkstand, and then touch it off under his chair. Haw! haw! haw! didn't he jump? and oh gracious!" he added, in a solemn tone, "didn't I jump, too, when he fell on me."

"You seem to have been about the biggest scamp in the country. Why did he whip you this last time when you run away?"

"Hadn't any more reason than he had at other times. I tried to take Ann Parsons home from singing-school, and she wouldn't let me. That was the reason."

"He couldn't have whipped you for that."

"Well, it all come from that. I followed her home, and jest give her my opinion of her, and when her old man undertook to say any thing, I jest pitched in and walloped him."

"You had a sensible father, and it's a pity he hasn't got you now, for I don't care any thing about your company."

"You going to turn me off? You said you wouldn't."

"And I shan't, I tell you agin, as long as you behave yourself. If you cac'late to go with me to the settlement, you must not have too much to say. Remember that we are still in dangerous territory, and a little foolishness by either of us may bring a pack of the red-skins upon us."

"Just what I thought. I'm sleepy."

And without further ceremony, he lolled over on the ground, and in a few minutes, to all appearances, was sound asleep. Intently watching his face for a time, the Rifleman now and then saw his eyelids partly unclose, as if he wished to ascertain whether any one was scrutinizing him. The somewhat lengthy conversation which we have taken the pains to record, had about disarmed the hunter of the suspicions which had been lingering with him for a long time. He believed Zeke Hunt an ignorant fellow, who had been left along the Ohio river, as he had related, and who had not yet learned that trait of civilized society, carefully to conceal his thoughts and feelings when in conversation. The impression which he first felt, of having met him before, might easily arise from his resemblance to some former acquaintance.

Still, the Rifleman was by no means so forgetful of his charge as to indulge in slumber, when there was the remotest probability of danger threatening her. Inured as he was to all manner of hardships and suffering, it was no difficult matter for him to spend several nights in succession without sleep. He therefore watched over her through the second night, never, for a single moment, allowing himself to become unconscious. Several times he saw the countryman raise his head and change his position, and when spoken to, heard him mutter something about it being "derned hard to sleep with his head on the soft side of a stone, and one side toasted and the other froze."

The hours wore away without any incident worth mentioning, and at the first appearance of day Edith was astir and ready to resume the journey. Enough of the turkey, slain on the day before, remained to give each a sufficient meal, and with cheerful spirits upon the part of all, the three again took up their march through the wilderness.

The route which the information of the countryman led the hunter to adopt was such that he expected to reach the settlement in the course of the afternoon. It will thus be seen that it was a very circuitous one – they, in fact, being already several miles north of their destination. As yet, the eagle eye of the hunter had discovered no danger, and their march was continued without interruption until noon, when they halted for a few minutes' rest.

"If you haint no 'bjection, I'll try a shot with your gun," said Zeke Hunt, "bein' as you thought I couldn't shoot any."

"I'd rather not have my rifle fired at present, youngster, as ears that we don't fancy might hear it."

"You're only afeard I might beat you, that's all."

This remark so nettled the hunter that he resolved to gratify his disagreeable companion.

"Put up your mark, then," said he, "and as far off as you choose."

The countryman walked to a tree somewhat over a hundred yards distant, and with his knife clipped off a small piece of bark, leaving a gleaming spot, an inch or two in diameter.

"You fire first," said he, as he came back.

The hunter drew up his rifle, and pausing hardly a second to take aim, buried the bullet fairly in the center of the target.

"Whew! that's derned good; don't believe I can beat it much; but I'll try."

The gun was quickly reloaded, and, after taking aim and adjusting it nearly a dozen times, Zeke Hunt fired, missing the tree altogether. As he ran to ascertain the result of his shot, instead of handing the rifle to Dernor, he carried it, apparently without thinking, with him. When he had carefully examined the mark, he proceeded to reload it, before returning. This was so natural an occurrence, that the hunter received his weapon without noticing it.

"Want to fire again?" asked the countryman.

"No, it isn't worth while."

"I give in, but think I'll be up to you after a little practice."

About half an hour afterward, as they were walking along, Dernor, by a mere accident, happened to look at the pan of his rifle and saw that the priming had been removed. A moment's reflection convinced him that this had been done by Zeke Hunt, not accidentally, but on purpose. The hunter managed to reprime without being noticed, and he made a vow that this apparent lubber should henceforth be watched with a lynx-eye.

They had gone scarcely a half-mile further, when the latter came up beside Edith, and remarked that he had been taken sick.

"Don't you feel able to walk?" she asked.

"I'm dreadful afeard I shall have to ax you to pause for a while," he said, manifesting that peculiar repugnance to receiving kindness, which, singularly enough is manifested more or less by every person in similar circumstances.

"What's the matter?" gruffly asked Dernor, who was still meditating upon the incident we have mentioned above.

"Sick," groaned Zeke Hunt, apparently in great misery.

"What has made you sick?"

"I don't know; allers was considered delicate."

"How do you feel?"

"Jest as though I wanted to whistle!" was the curious reply and placing his finger in his mouth, the fellow gave a sound that would have done credit to an ordinary locomotive.

"If you make that noise again I'll shoot you," said the Rifleman, now fairly convinced that mischief was intended. Without heeding his threat, the sick man arose to the upright position, and with flashing eyes, repeated the sound.

"I gave you warning," said Dernor, raising his gun, pointing it at his breast, and pulling the trigger. It missed fire!

"I guess you'll have to fix up that load a little," said Zeke Hunt, "and afore you can do that, you're likely to have visitors."

The Rifleman clubbed his gun and advanced toward the man. The latter drew his knife, and said:

"Keep off, Lew Dernor; don't you know me?"

"I've been a fool," said the hunter. "Yes, I know you through your disguise, Simon Girty. I see what you have been trying to do, but you will never take one of us alive. I hear the tramp of the coming Indians that he has signaled," he added, addressing Edith, "and there is not a minute to lose."

So saying, he placed his arm around her waist, and started off at a rapid run.

CHAPTER VIII.

THE FLIGHT

The pass was steep and rugged,The wolves they howled and whined;But he ran like a whirlwind up the pass,And left the wolves behind.– Macaulay.Moments like these,Rend men's lives into immortalities.– Byron.

For a few minutes, the Rifleman ran "like a whirlwind," supporting entirely the weight of Edith, for none knew better than he the imminent peril that menaced both. The wood was quite open, so that his way was not much impeded, and he went at a terrific rate, well aware that all depended upon gaining an advantage over the Indians at the start.

He had gone but a short distance, when he became convinced that his only danger was from falling into the hands of his pursuers, as it was their sole object to make him and Edith prisoners; as a consequence, there was no danger from being fired at by them. When he deemed it prudent, he released his hold upon her, and she, half running and being half carried, flew over the ground at a rate as astonishing to herself as it was to her pursuers. The latter kept up a series of yells and outcries, amid which the discordant screeches of Zeke Hunt, now Simon Girty, the renegade, could be plainly distinguished. Several furtive glances over the shoulder gave him glimpses of some eight or ten savages in pursuit, the renegade being among the foremost.

As Dernor was thus hurrying forward, he recalled that, less than half a mile distant, the woods were broken and cut up by ravines and hills, as though an earthquake had passed through that section; and, believing that this would afford him a better opportunity of eluding his foes, he turned in that direction and strained every nerve to reach it. As for Edith herself, she seemed fired with supernatural strength, and sped with a swiftness of which she never dreamed herself capable. Seeing this, the Rifleman attempted to draw the charge out of his gun and reload it. It was a work of great difficulty to do this while running, but he succeeded in accomplishing it at last.

Constantly glancing behind him, in order to see his chance, he suddenly whirled and fired with the rapidity of thought. Without pausing to reload, he again placed his arm around Edith, and dashed forward almost at the top of his speed.

Finding that the Indians, if gaining at all, were gaining very slowly upon him, he half concluded that it was their intention to run his companion down, well knowing that, although he was fully competent both in speed and in bottom to contest with them, it could not be expected that she could continue the rate at which she was going, for any length of time.

"Ain't you tired?" he asked, hurriedly.

"Not much; I can run a great deal further," she replied, in the same hurried manner.

"Keep your spirits up; we'll soon have different ground to travel over."

Almost as he spoke, they came to the edge of a sort of ravine, too broad for either to leap, and too precipitous to admit of an immediate descent by either. Still retaining his hold upon her, Dernor ran rapidly along the edge, until reaching a favorable spot, he lifted her bodily from the ground, and bounded down to a rock over a dozen feet below, and then leaped from this to the bottom of the ravine, Edith sustaining no more of a shock than if she had been a feather.

Being now in the bottom of the ravine, where the ground was comparatively even, the hunter placed the girl once more upon her feet, and side by side they continued their flight from their merciless pursuers. Their loud, exultant yells continued reverberating through the woods, and glancing upward, Dernor saw the form of a huge Indian suddenly come to view, on the edge of the ravine, some distance ahead of him, and make some menacing motion toward him. As the ravine at this point was a sheer precipice, the hunter did not believe he would attempt to descend it, and feeling there was no danger of being fired upon, he kept steadily onward.

But he was mistaken. Before he was opposite the savage, he came sliding and tumbling down the ravine, as though some one had pushed him from behind. However that may have been, he alighted on his feet without injury, and made directly toward the fugitives, with the manifest intention of checking their flight.

Lewis Dernor saw that a collision with the Indian was unavoidable, and without the least hesitation prepared himself for it. The savage was a Miami – a brawny, muscular warrior, fully six feet in height, of matchless symmetry and formidable strength. When the combatants were perhaps a dozen yards apart, he raised his tomahawk over his head, and poising it a moment, hurled it, with a most deadly force, full at the head of the hunter. The latter had not expected such a demonstration as this, but had detected it in time to avoid it. He dropped his head the instant the weapon left the savage's hand, and it whizzed over him, going end over end, until it struck the solid rock, where the terrible force of the concussion shivered it to atoms. Seeing this, the Miami whipped out his knife and stood on the defensive.

"Now, my good friend," muttered Dernor, between his clenched teeth, "it is my turn."

He handed his rifle to Edith – who had paused, now that they were so close to their enemy – and, drawing his own knife, made a sort of running bound, coming upon the Indian with a panther-like spring, that nearly drove him backward off his feet. There was a clashing of knives, the scintillation of steel against steel, the deadly embrace, and hand-to-hand struggle; and, as the Rifleman recoiled clear of his fallen adversary, he reached out to Edith for his rifle.

"Come on," said he, in his ordinary voice; "I guess the way is clear."

"I – I am afraid," faltered Edith, "that I can not run much further."

"There ain't any need of it," said the hunter. "Lean on me, and we'll walk awhile, if there's a thousand tearing Injins after us."