"Far better an early death and innocence, than a long life of guilt and misery," returned Ella, at once regaining her boldness of speech; "Far better the fate you speak of, than mine."

"And would you prefer being wedded to death, rather than me?" asked Girty, quickly, in surprise.

"Ay, a thousand times!" replied Ella, energetically, rising as she spoke, into a sitting posture, and looking fearlessly upon the renegade, her previously pale features now flushed with excitement. "I fear not death, Simon Girty; I have done no act that should make me fear the change that all must sooner or later undergo; but I could not join my hand to that of a man of blood, without loathing and horror, and feeling criminal in the sight of God and man; and least of all to you, Simon Girty, whose name has become a word of terror to the weak and innocent of my race, and whose deeds of late have been such as to make me join my voice in the general maledictions called down upon you."

During this speech of Ella, Girty sat and gazed upon her with the look of a baffled demon; and, as she concluded, fairly hissed through his teeth:

"And so you would prefer death to me, eh? By ——! you shall have your choice!"

As he spoke, he grasped Ella by the wrist with one hand, seized his tomahawk with the other, and sprung upon his feet. His rapid movement and wild manner now really frightened her; and uttering a faint cry of horror, she endeavored to release his hold; while the warriors, aroused by the noise, bounded up from the earth, weapon in hand, with looks of alarm.

Turning to them, Girty now spoke a few words in the Indian tongue; and, with significant glances at Ella, they were just in the act of again encamping, when crack went some five or six rifles, followed by yells little less savage than their own, and four of them rolled upon the earth, groaning with pain; while the others, surprised and bewildered, grasped their weapons and shouted:

"The Shemanoes!" "The Long Knives!" not knowing whether to stand or fly.

Girty, meantime, had been left unharmed; although the shivering of the helve of the tomahawk in his hand, in front of his breast, showed him he had been a target for no mean marksman, and that his life had been preserved almost by a miracle. For a moment he stood irresolute—his nostrils fairly dilated with fear and rage, still holding Ella by the wrist, who was too paralyzed with what she had seen to speak or move—straining his eyes in every direction to note, if possible, the number of his foes and whence their approach. The whole glance was momentary; but he saw himself nearly surrounded by his enemies, who were fast closing in toward the center with fierce yells; and pausing no longer in indecision, he encircled Ella's waist with his left arm, raised her from the ground, and keeping her as much as possible between himself and his enemies, to deter them from firing, darted away toward a thicket, some fifty yards distant, pursued by two of the attacking party.

Just as Girty gained the thicket, one of his pursuers made a sudden bound forward and grasped him by the arm; but his hold was the next moment shaken off by the renegade, who, being now rendered desperate, drew a pistol from his belt, with the rapidity of lightning, and laid the bold adventurer dead at his feet. Almost at the same moment, Girty received a blow on the back of his head, from the breech of the rifle of his other antagonist, that staggered him forward; when, releasing his hold of Ella, he turned and darted off in another direction, firing a pistol as he went, the ball of which whizzed close to the head of him for whom it was designed; and in a moment more he was lost in the mazes of the forest.

Meantime the bloody work was going forward in the center; for at the moment when Girty darted away, the report of some three or four rifles again echoed through the wood, two more of the red warriors bit the dust, while the other two fled in opposite directions, leaving Boone and his party sole masters of the field.

Eager, excited, reckless and wild, several of the young men now rushed forward, with yells of triumph, to the wounded Indians, whom they immediately tomahawked without mercy, and began to scalp, when the voice of Boone, who had been more cautious, reached them from a distance:

"Beware o' the fire-light, lads! or the red varmints will draw a bead[11] on some of ye."

Scarcely were the words uttered, ere his warning was sadly fulfilled; for the two savages finding they were not pursued, and thirsting for revenge, turned and fired almost simultaneously, with aims so deadly, that one of the young men, by the name of Beecher, fell mortally wounded and expired a moment after; and another, by the name of Morris, had his wrist shattered by a ball. This fatal event produced a panic in the others, who at once fled precipitately into the darkness, leaving Mrs. Younker, who had by this time gained her feet, standing alone by the fire, a bewildered spectator of the terrible tragedies that had so lately been enacted by her side. To her Boone now immediately advanced, notwithstanding the caution he had given the others; and turning to him as he came up, the good lady exclaimed, in a tone of astonishment:

"Why, Colonel Boone, be this here you? Why when did you come—and how on yarth did ye git here—and what in the name o' all creation has been happening? For ye see I war jest dosing away thar by the fire, and dreaming all sorts of things, like all nater, when somehow I kind o' thought I'd all at once turned into a man and gone to war a rale soldier; and the battle had opened, and the big guns war blazing away, and the little guns war popping off, and the soldiers war shrieking and groaning and falling around me, like all possessed; and men a trampling, and horses a running like skeered deer; and then I sort o' woke up, and jumped up, and seed all them dead Injen wretches; and then I jest begun to think as how it warn't no dream at all, but a living truth, all 'cept my being a man and a soldier, as you com'd up. Well, ef this arn't a queer world," resumed the good dame, catching breath meanwhile, "as Preacher Allprayer used to say, then maybe as how I don't know nothing at all about it."

"Your dream war a very nateral one, Mrs. Younker," returned Boone, who, during the speech of the other, had been actively employed in scattering the burning brands, to prevent the recurrence of another sad catastrophe; "and I'm rejoiced to see that you've escaped unharmed, amid this bloody work. Allow me to set you free;" and as he spoke, he drew his scalping knife, and severed the thongs that bound her wrists.

"Gracious on me!" cried the dame, chafing the parts which had been swollen by the tightness of the cords; "how clever 'tis to get free agin, and have the use o' one's hands and tongue, to do and say jest what a body pleases; for d'ye know, Colonel Boone, them thar imps of Satan war awfully afeared o' my talking to 'em, to convince 'em they war the meanest varmints in the whole univarsul yarth o' creation; and actually put a peremshus stop to my saying what I thought on 'em; although I told 'em as how it war a liberty as these blessed colonies war this moment fighting for with the hateful red-coated Britishers. But, Lord presarve us! gracious on us! where in marcy's sake is my dear, darling Ella?" concluded Mrs. Younker, with vehemence and alarm, as she now missed her adopted daughter for the first time.

"She's here, mother," answered a voice close behind her; and turning round, the dame uttered a cry of joy, sprung into the arms of her son Isaac, and wept upon his neck—occasionally articulating, in a choked voice:

"God bless you, Isaac! God bless you, son!—you're a good boy—the Lord's presarved you through the whole on't—the Lord be praised!—but your father, poor lad—your father!" and with a strong burst of emotion, she buried her face upon his breast, and wept aloud.

"I know it," sobbed forth Isaac, his whole frame shaken with the force of his feelings: "I—I know the whole on't, mother—Ella's told me. I'd rather he'd bin killed a thousand times; but thar's no help for it now!"

"No help for it!" cried Ella in alarm, who, having greeted the old hunter, with tearful eyes, now stood weeping by his side. "No help for it! Heaven have mercy!—say not so! They must—they must be rescued!" Then turning wildly to Boone, she grasped his hand in both of hers, and exclaimed: "Oh! sir, speak! tell me they can be saved—and on my knees will I bless you!"

A few words now rapidly uttered by Isaac, put the old hunter in possession of the facts, concerning the forced march of Younker and Reynolds, of which he had previously heard nothing; and musing on the information a few moments, he shook his head sadly, and said, with a sigh:

"I'm sorry for you, Ella—I'm sorry for all o' ye—I'm sorry on my own account—but I'm o' the opinion o' Isaac, that thar's no help for it now. They're too far beyond us—we're in the Indian country—our numbers are few—two or three o' the red varmints have escaped to give 'em information o' what's been done—they'll be thirsty for revenge—and nothing but a special Providence can now alter that prisoners' doom. I had hoped it war to be otherwise; but we must submit to God's decrees;" and raising his hand to his eyes, the old woodsman hastily brushed away a tear, and turned aside to conceal his emotion; while Ella, overcome by her feelings, at the thought of having parted, perhaps for the last time, from Algernon and her uncle, staggered forward and sunk powerless into the arms of Mrs. Younker, whose tears now mingled with her own.

By this time the whole party had gathered silently around their noble leader, and were observing the sad scene as much as the feeble light of the scattered brands would permit, their faces exhibiting a mournfulness of expression in striking contrast to that they had so lately displayed, previous to the death of their comrade. To them Boone now turned, and running his eye slowly over the whole, said, in a sad voice:

"Well, lads, one o' our party's gone to his last account, I perceive," and he pointed mournfully to the still body of Beecher, some three or four paces distant; "another I see is wounded, and a third's missing. I hope no harm's befallen him, the noble Master Harry Millbanks!"

"Alas! he's dead, Colonel!" answered Isaac, covering his eyes with his hand.

"Dead?" echoed Boone.

"Dead?" cried the others, simultaneously.

"Yes," rejoined Isaac, with a sigh; "He and I war chasing that thar infernal renegade Girty, who war running away with Ella thar; and he'd jest got up to him, and got him by the arm, when Girty shuk him off like it warn't nothing at all, and then shot him dead on the spot. Ef he hadn't a bin quite so quick about it, I think as how it wouldn't a happened; for the next moment I hit him a rap on the head with the butt-end o' my rifle, that sent him a staggering off, and would ha' fetched him to the ground, ef it hadn't first struck a limb. Howsomever, it made him let go o' Ella, and start up a new trail—jest leaving his compliments for me in the shape of a bullet, which, ef it didn't do me no harm, it warn't 'cause he didn't intend it to. I jest stopped to look at poor Harry; and finding he war dead, I took Ella by the hand and come straight down here."

"Who's that you said war dead, Isaac?" inquired his mother, who had partially overheard the conversation.

"Harry Millbanks, mother."

"Harry Millbanks!" repeated the dame in astonishment. "What, young Harry?—our Harry?—Goodness gracious, marcy on me! what orful mean wretches them Injens is, to kill sech as him. Dear me! then the hull family is gone; for I hearn from Rosetta, that her father and mother and all war killed afore her eyes; and now she's bin taken on to be killed too, the darling."

"Ha! yes," said Boone, as if struck with a new thought; "I remember seeing the foot-prints of a child—war they made by this unfortunate young man's sister?"

"I reckon as how they war," answered Mrs. Younker; "for the poor thing war a prisoner along with us, crying whensomever she dared to, like all nater."

"Well," rejoined the old hunter, musingly, "we've done all we could—I'm sorry it didn't turn out better—but we must now leave their fates in the hands o' Providence, and return to our homes. We must bury our dead first; and I don't know o' any better way than to sink thar bodies in the Ohio."

Accordingly, after some further conversation, four of the party proceeded for the body of Millbanks—with which they soon returned—while Boone conducted the ladies away from the scene of horror, and down to where Ella informed him the canoes were hidden, leaving his younger companions to rifle and scalp the savages if they chose. In a few minutes from his arrival at the point in question, he was joined by the others, who came slowly, in silence, bearing the mortal remains of Millbanks and Beecher. Placing the canoes in the water, the whole party entered them, in the same silent and solemn manner, and pulled slowly down the Miami, into the middle of the Ohio; then leaving the vessels to float with the current, they uncovered their heads, and mournfully consigned the bodies of the deceased to the watery element.

It was a sad and impressive scene—there, on the turbid Ohio, near the midnight hour—to give to the rolling waters the last remains of those who had been their friends and companions, and as full of life and activity as themselves but an hour before;—it was a sad, impressive, and affecting scene—one that was looked upon with weeping eyes—and one which, by those who witnessed it, was never to be forgotten. There were no loud bursts of grief—there were no frantic exclamations of woe—but the place, the hour, and withal the various events which had transpired to call them so soon from a scene of festivity to one of mourning—together with the thoughts of other friends departed, or in terrible captivity—served to render it a most painfully solemn one—and one, as we said before, that was destined never to be forgotten.

For a short space after the river engulphed the bodies, all gazed upon the waters in silence; when Boone said, in a voice slightly trembling.

"They did their duties—they have gone—God rest their souls, and give peace to their bones!" and taking up a paddle, the noble old hunter pulled steadily for the Kentucky shore in silence, followed by the other boats in the same manner. There they landed, placed the canoes in safety, in case they should again be needed, rekindled their fire, and encamped for the night.

On the following morning, they set out upon their homeward journey; where they finally arrived, without any events occurring worthy of note.

[Footnote 11: A hunter's phrase for taking sight.]



CHAPTER XII.

THE INDIANS AND THEIR PRISONERS.

As you ascend the Miami from its mouth at the present day, you come almost immediately upon what are termed the Bottoms, or Bottom Lands, which are rich and fertile tracts of country, of miles in extent, and sometimes miles in breadth, almost water level, with the stream in question slowly winding its course through them, like a deep blue ribbon carelessly unrolled upon a dark surface. They are now mostly under culture, and almost entirely devoted to the production of maize, which, in the autumn of the year, presents the goodly sight of a golden harvest. At the time of which we write, there were no such pleasant demonstrations of civilization, but a vast unbroken forest instead, some vestiges of which still remain, in the shape of old decaying trees, standing grim and naked,

"To summer's heat and winter's blast,"

like the ruins of ancient structures, to remind the beholder of former days.

On these Bottoms, about ten miles above the mouth of the Miami, Wild-cat and his party, with their prisoners, encamped on the evening the attack was made upon the renegade, as shown in the preceding chapter. Possessing caution in a great degree, and fearful of the escape of his prisoners, Wild-cat spared no precautions which he thought might enhance the security of Younker and Reynolds. Accordingly, when arrived at the spot where he intended to remain for the night, the chief ordered stakes to be driven deep into the earth, some distance apart, to which the feet of the two in question, after being thrown flat upon their backs, in opposite directions, were tightly bound, with their hands still corded to the crossbars as before. A rope was next fastened around the neck of each, and secured to a neighboring sapling, in which uncomfortable manner they were left to pass the night; while their captors, starting a fire, threw themselves upon the earth around it, and soon to all appearance were sound asleep.

To the tortures of her older companions in captivity, little Rosetta was not subjected; for Oshasqua—the fierce warrior to whom Girty had consigned her, in the expectation, probably, that she would long ere this have been knocked on the head and scalped—had, by one of those strange mysterious phenomena of nature, (so difficult of comprehension, and which have been known to link the rough and bloody with the gentle and innocent,) already begun to feel towards her a sort of affection, and to treat her with great kindness whenever he could do so unobserved by the others. The apparel of which he had at first divested her, to ornament his own person, had been restored, piece by piece; and this, together with the change in his manner, had at length been observed by the child, with feelings of gratitude. Poor little thing! to whom could she look for protection now? Her father and mother were dead—had been murdered before her own eyes—her brother was away, and she herself a captive to an almost merciless foe; could she feel other than grateful for an act of kindness, from one at whose hands she looked for nothing but abuse and death? Nay, more: So strange and complex is the human heart—so singular in its developments—that we see nothing to wonder at, in her feeling for the savage, under the circumstances—loathsome and offensive as he might have been to her under others—a sort of affection—or rather, a yearning toward him as a protector. Such she did feel; and thus between two human beings, as much antagonistical perhaps, in every particular, as Nature ever presented, was already established a kind of magnetic sympathy—or, in other words, a gradual blending together of opposites. The result of all this, as may be imagined, was highly beneficial to Rosetta, who, in consequence, fared as well as circumstances would permit. At night she slept unbound beside Oshasqua, who secured her from escape by passing his brawny arm under her head, which also in a measure served her for a pillow. So slept she on the night in question.

With Younker and Reynolds there was little that could be called sleep—the minds of both being too actively employed with the events which had transpired, and with thoughts of those so dear to them, who had been left behind, for what fate God only knew. Besides, there was little wherewithal to court the drowsy god, in the manner of their repose—each limb being strained and corded in a position the most painful—and if they slept at all, it was that feverish and fitful slumber, which, though it serve in part the design of nature, brings with it nothing refreshing to the individual himself. To both, therefore, the night proved one of torture to body and mind; and bad as was their condition after the encampment, it was destined to be worse ere the gray dawn of morning, by the arrival of Girty and the only two Indians who had escaped the deadly rifles of the Kentuckians.

"Up, warriors!" cried the renegade, with a blasphemous oath, as he came upon the detachment. "Up, warriors! and sharpen your wits to invent the most damnable tortures that the mind of man can conceive!" and at the sound of his voice, which was loud and hoarse, each Indian sprung to his feet, with an anxious and troubled face.

"And you, ye miserable white dogs!" continued Girty, turning to Younker and Reynolds, on whom he bestowed numerous kicks, as if by way of enforcing the truth his assertion; "were you suffering all the torments of hell, you might consider yourselves in perfect bliss, compared to what you shall yet undergo ere death snatches you from me!"

"What new troubles ha' ye got, Simon Girty?" asked Younker, composedly. "But you needn't answer; I can see what's writ on your face; thar's bin a rescue—you've lost your prisoners—for which the Lord be praised! I can die content now, with all your tortures."

"Can you, by ——!" cried the renegade, in a paroxysm of rage; "we shall see!"

As he concluded, he bestowed upon Younker a kick in the face, so violent that a stream of blood followed it. The old man uttered a slight groan, but made no other answer; and Girty turned away to communicate to the others the intelligence of what had transpired since their parting; for although they believed it to be of the utmost consequence, and tragical in all its bearings, yet so far there had not been a question asked nor an event related concerning it on either side—such being the force of habit in all matters of grave importance, and the deference to his superiors shown by the Indian on all similar occasions.

As soon as Girty had made known the sad disaster that had befallen his party, there was one universal yell of rage, accompanied by violent demonstrations of grief and anger—such as beating their bodies, stamping fiercely on the ground, and brandishing their tomahawks over their heads with terrific gestures. They then proceeded to dance around Younker and Reynolds, uttering horrid yells, accompanied with kicks and blows; after which, a consultation was held between Girty and Wild-cat, wherein it was agreed to take them to Piqua, a Shawanoe settlement on the Miami, and there have them put to the tortures. Accordingly, without further delay, they unbound their prisoners, with the exception of their hands, and forced them to set forward at a fast pace—treating them, meanwhile, in the most brutal manner. Oshasqua, however, took good care there should be no violence done to Rosetta; for he kept her closely by his side; and occasionally, when he saw her little limbs growing weary, raised and bore her forward, for a considerable distance, in his arms.

It was a strange, but by no means unpleasing sight, to behold that dark, bloodstained warrior—whose very nature was cruel and ferocious, and who probably had never before loved or sought to protect aught bearing the human form—now exhibiting such tender regard for a weak, trembling prisoner, placed in his hands for a speedy sacrifice. It was withal an affecting sight, to Younker and Reynolds, who looked upon it with moistened eyes, and felt it in the force of a revelation from Heaven, that He, who sees the sparrow fall, was even now moving through the wilderness, and teaching one lesson of mercy at least to the most obdurate heart of the savage race.

To the renegade, however, this conduct of Oshasqua was far from being agreeable; for so much did he delight in cruelty, and so bitterly did he hate all his race—particularly now, after having been foiled by them so lately—that he would a thousand times rather have heard the dying groans of the child, and seen her in the last agonies of death, than in the warrior's arms. At length he advanced to the side of the Indian, and said in the Shawanoe dialect, with a sneer:

"Is Oshasqua a squaw, that he should turn nurse?"

Probably from the whole vocabulary of the Indian tongue, a phrase more expressive of contempt, and one that would have been more severely felt by the savage warrior, who abhors any thing of a womanly nature, could not have been selected; and this Girty, who understood well to whom he was speaking, knew, and was prepared to see the hellish design of his heart meet with a ready second from Oshasqua. For a moment after he spoke, the latter looked upon the renegade with flashing eyes; and then seizing Rosetta roughly, he raised her aloft, as if with the intention of dashing her brains out at his feet. She doubtless understood from his fierce movement the murderous intent in his breast, and uttered a heart-rending cry of anguish. In an instant the grim features of the Indian softened; and lowering her again to her former position in his arms, he turned coldly to Girty, and smiting his breast with his hand, said, with dignity:

"Oshasqua a warrior above suspicion. He can save and defend with his life whom he loves!"

Girty bit his lips, and uttering a deep malediction in English, turned away to consult with Wild-cat on the matter; but finding the chief would not join him in interfering with the rights of the other, he growled out another dreadful oath, and let the subject drop.

Late at night the party encamped within something like a mile of Piqua; and by daylight a warrior was despatched to convey intelligence of their approach, their prisoners, and the sad disaster they had experienced on their journey. In the course of an hour the messenger returned, bringing with him a vast number of savages of both sexes and all ages, who immediately set up the most horrid yells, danced around Younker and Algernon like madmen, not unfrequently beating and kicking them unmercifully. They then departed for the town, taking the prisoners with them, where their fate was to be decided by the council.[12] But ere sentence should be pronounced, it was the unanimous decision of the savages, that they should have some amusement, by forcing the prisoners to run the gauntlet. This, to the women and children, as well as the warriors themselves, was a most delightful sport, and they at once made the welkin ring with yells of joy.

"It's a hard task we've got to undergo now, Algernon," said Younker, in a low voice; "and God send it may be my last; for I'd much rayther die this way, nor at the stake. I don't at all calculate on escaping—but something tells me you will—and ef you do—"

Here the old man was interrupted by Girty, who forced himself between the two and separated them. Younker being the first selected to run the gauntlet, was immediately unbound, and stripped to the skin,[13] preparatory to the race. The assemblage now formed themselves into two lines, facing each other, only a few feet apart, and extending the distance of a hundred yards, terminating near the council-house, which stood in the center of the village. Through these lines, the old man was informed by Girty, he must run; while the savages on either side, armed with clubs, were at liberty to inflict as many blows upon him as they could in passing; and therefore it would stand him in hand to reach the other extremity as soon as possible.

"I'm an old man, Simon Girty," said Younker, in reply, "and can't run as I once could—so you needn't reckon on my gitting through alive."

"But, by ——! you must get through alive, or else not at all; for we can't spare you quite so soon, as we want you to try the pleasures of the stake," answered the renegade, with a laugh.

"God's will be done—not yourn nor mine!" rejoined Younker, solemnly. "But tell me, Simon Girty, as the only favor I'll ever ask o' ye—war my wife and Ella rescued?"

"Why," said Girty, "if it will do you any good to know it, I will tell you they were; but I will add, for your particular benefit, that they will again be in my power; for I will excite every tribe of the Six Nations to the war path; and then, woe to the pioneers of Kentucky!—for desolation, rapine and blood shall mark our trail, until the race become extinct. I have sworn, and will fulfill it. But come—all is ready."

"For the first o' your information, I thank you," returned Younker; "for the last on't, I'll only say, thar's a power above ye. I'm ready—lead on!"

Girty now conducted the old man to the lines; and having cautioned the savages, in a loud voice, to beware of taking his life, gave the signal for him to start. Instantly Younker darted forward, and with such speed, that the nearest Indians neglected to strike until he had passed them, by which means he gained some six or eight paces without receiving a blow; but now they fell hard and fast upon him, accompanied with screams and yells of the most diabolical nature; and ere he had gone thirty yards, he began to stagger, when a heavy stroke on the head laid him senseless on the earth. In a moment the renegade, who had kept him company outside, burst through the lines, just in time to ward off the blow of a powerful warrior, aimed at the skull of Younker, which, without doubt, would have been fatal.

"Fool!" cried Girty, fiercely, to the Indian. "Did I not tell you his life must be spared for the stake?"

The savage drew himself up with dignity, and walked away without reply; while the renegade, examining the bruises of the fallen man for a moment or two, ordered him to be taken to the council-house, and, if possible, restored to consciousness. He then returned to Algernon, who had been left standing a sad spectator of the whole proceedings, and said, in a gruff voice:

"Now, by ——! young man, it's your turn; and let me tell you, it will stand you in hand to do your best. Come, let us see what sort of a figure you will cut."

As he concluded, he severed the thongs around the hands of our hero, and unceremoniously began to strip him, in which he was aided by a couple of old squaws.

The features of Algernon were pale, but composed; and he allowed himself to be handled as one who felt an escape from his doom to be impossible, and who had nerved himself to undergo it with as much stoicism as he could command. As his vestments were rent from his body, the wound in his side was discovered to be nearly healed; and would have been entirely so, probably, but for the irritation occasioned it of late by his long marches, exposure and fatigue, which had served to render it at present not a little painful. As his eye for a moment rested upon it, his mind instantly reverted to its cause—recalled, with the rapidity of thought, which is the swiftest comparison we can make, the many and important events that had since transpired up to the present time, wherein the gentle Ella Barnwell held no second place—and he sighed, half aloud:

"I would to Heaven it had been mortal!—how much misery had then been spared me?"

As he said this, one of the squaws, who had been observing it intently, struck him thereon a violent blow with her fist, which started it to bleeding afresh, and, in spite of himself, caused Algernon to utter a sharp cry of pain, at which all laughed heartily. Thinking doubtless this species of amusement as interesting as any, the old hag was on the point of repeating the blow, when Girty arrested it, by saying something to her in the Indian tongue, and all three turned aside, as if to consult together, leaving our hero standing alone, unbound.

A wild thought now suddenly thrilled him. He was free, perchance he might escape; at least he could but die in the attempt; and that, at all events, was preferable to a lingering death of torture! He looked hurriedly around. Only the renegade and the squaws were close at hand, and they engaged in conversation. The main body of the Indians were at a distance, awaiting him to run the gauntlet. He needed no second thought to prompt him to the trial; and wheeling about, he placed his hand upon the wound, and bounded away with the fleetness of the deer. In a moment the yells of an hundred savages in pursuit, sounded in his ear, and urged him onward to the utmost of his strength. He was no mean runner at any time; now he was flying to save his life, and every nerve did its duty. Before him was a slope, that stretched away to the river Miami; and down this he fled with a velocity that astonished himself; while yell after yell of the demons behind, now in full chase, were to him only so many death cries, to stimulate him to renewed exertions. At last he gained the river and rushed into the water. It was not deep, and he struggled forward with all his might. On the opposite side was a steep hill and thicket. Could he but gain that, hope whispered he might elude his pursuers and escape. Again he redoubled his exertions; and, joy—joy to his heart—he reached it, just as the foremost of his adversaries, a powerful and fleet young warrior, dashed into the stream from the opposite bank. He now for the first time began to feel weak and fatigued; but his life was yet in danger, and he still pressed onward. Alas! alas! just on the point of escape, his strength was failing him fast, the blood was trickling too from his wound, and a sharp, severe pain afflicted him in his side. Oh God! he thought—what would he not give for the strength and soundness of body he once possessed! The thicket he had entered was dense and dark, so that it was impossible to move through it with much velocity, or see ahead any distance; and as the thought just recorded rushed through his brain, he came suddenly upon a high, steep rock. By this time his nearest pursuer was also entering the thicket; and in a minute or two more he felt capture would be certain, unless he could instantly secrete himself till his strength should be again renewed. Fortune for once now seemed to stand his friend; for stooping down at the base of the rock, he discovered it to be shelving and projecting somewhat over the declivity; so that by dropping upon the ground and crawling up under it, he would, owing to the density and darkness of the thicket, as before mentioned, be wholly concealed from any one standing upright. To do this was the work of a moment; and the next he heard his pursuing foe rush panting by, with much the same sense of relief that one experiences on awakening from a horrible dream, where death seemed inevitable, and finding oneself lying safely and easily in a comfortable bed.

We say Algernon experienced much the same sense of relief as the awakened dreamer; but unlike the latter, his was only momentary; for yell upon yell still sounded in his ear; and plunge after plunge into the stream, followed quickly by a rustling of the bushes around, the trampling of many feet close by, and the war-whoops of his enemies, warned him, that, if he had escaped one, there were hundreds yet to be eluded before he could consider himself as safe. Wildly his heart palpitated, as now one stirred the bushes within reach of his hand, and, slightly pausing, as if to examine the spot of his concealment, uttered a horrid yell, as of discovery, and then, just as he fancied all was lost, to his great relief darted suddenly away.

Thus one after another passed on; and their fierce yells gradually sounding more and more distant, renewed his hope, that he might yet escape their vigilant eyes, and again be free to roam the earth at will. O, potent, joyful thought!—how it made his very heart leap, and the blood course swiftly through his heated veins!—and then, when some sound was heard more near, how his heart sickened at the fear he might again be captured, and forced to a lingering, agonizing death!—how he shuddered as he thought, until his flesh felt chill and clammy, and cold drops of perspiration, wrung forth by mental agony, stood upon his pale features! Even death, before his escape, possessed not half the terrors for him it would have now; for then he had nerved himself to meet it, and prepared himself for the worst; but now he had again had a taste of freedom, and would feel the reverse in a thousand accumulated horrors.

Thus for a few minutes he lay, in painful thought, when he became aware, by the different sounds, that many of the savages were returning. Presently some two or three paused by the rock, and beat back the bushes around it. Then, dropping upon his knees, one of the Indians actually put his head to the ground, and peered up into the cavity. It was a horrible moment of suspense to Algernon, as he beheld the hideous visage of the savage so near, and evidently gazing upon him; and thinking himself discovered, he was on the point of coming forth, when a certain vagueness in the look of the Indian, led him to hope he was not yet perceived; and he lay motionless, with his breath suspended. But, alas! his hope was soon changed to despair; for after gazing a moment longer, the Indian suddenly started, his features expressed satisfaction, he uttered a significant grunt, and, springing to his feet, gave a loud, long, peculiar whoop. The next moment our hero was roughly seized, and, ere he could exert himself at all, dragged forth by the heels, by which means his limbs and body became not a little bruised and lacerated.

The savages now came running towards their prisoner from all quarters, in high glee at his recapture—being attracted hither, probably, by the signal whoop of success made by the one who first discovered him. Among the rest came Girty; who, as he approached Algernon, burst into a loud laugh, saying, in a jocular manner:

"Well, my fine bird, so you are caught again, eh? I was most infernally afraid you had got away in earnest; I was, by ——! But we'll soon fix you now, so that you won't run away again in a hurry."

Then turning to the savages around him, the renegade continued his remarks in the Indian tongue, occasionally laughing boisterously, in which they not unfrequently joined. In this manner, the whole party returned in triumph to the village—being met on their way thither by the women and children, who set up yells of delight, sung and danced around their prisoner, whom they beat with their fists and with sticks, until he became sore from head to heel.

The gauntlet was soon again made ready, and Algernon started upon the race; but fatigued in body and mind, from the late events—weak and faint from the bleeding of his wound and bruises—he scarcely reached twenty paces down the lines, ere he sunk overpowered to the earth; from which he was immediately raised, and borne forward to the council-house, where, according to the Indian custom, the chiefs and warriors were to decide upon his fate.

[Footnote 12: Lest there should seem to the reader an inconsistency in one tribe yielding the fate of their prisoners to the decision of another, we would remark here, that at the period of which we write, the Six Nations were allied and fought for one common interest against the Americans, on the British side, and therefore not unfrequently shared each others dangers and partook of each others spoils.]

[Footnote 13: A practice sometimes, but not always, followed.]



CHAPTER XIII.

THE TRIAL, SENTENCE, AND EXECUTION.

The council-house in question, was a building of good size, of larger dimensions than its neighbors, stood on a slight elevation, and, as we before remarked, near the center of the village. Into this the warriors and head men of the Piqua tribe now speedily gathered, and proceeded at once to business. An old chief—whose wrinkled features and slightly-tremulous limbs, denoted extreme age—was allowed, by common consent, to act as chairman; and taking his position near the center of the apartment, with a knife and a small stick in his hand, the warriors and chief men of the nation formed a circle around him.

Among these latter—conspicuous above all for his beautiful and graceful form, his dignified manner, and look of intelligence, to whom all eyes turned with seeming deference—was the celebrated Shawanoe chief, Catahecassa, (Black Hoof) whose name occupies no inferior place on the historic page of the present day, as being at first the inveterate foe, and afterward the warm friend of the whites. In stature he was small, being only about five feet eight inches, lightly made, but strongly put together, with a countenance marked and manly, and one that would be pleasing to a friend, but the reverse to an enemy. He was a great orator, a keen, cunning and sagacious warrior, and one who held the confidence and love of his tribe. At the period referred to, he was far past what is usually termed the middle age; though, as subsequent events have proved, only in his noon of life—for at his death he numbered one hundred and ten years.

Upon the ground, within the circle, and near the old chief in the center, were seated Algernon and Younker—the latter having recovered consciousness—both haggard and bloody from their recent brutal treatment. They were sad spectacles to behold, truly, and would have moved to pity any hearts less obdurate than those by which they were surrounded. Their faces bore those expressions of dejection and wan despair, which may sometimes be perceived in the look of a criminal, when, loth to die, he is assured all hope of pardon is past. Not that either Younker or Reynolds felt criminal, or feared death in its ordinary way; but there were a thousand things to harass their minds, besides the dreadful thought of that lingering, horrible torture, which was enough to make the boldest quail, and which they now had not the faintest hope of escaping. There is ever something solemn and awful in the thought of death, let it come in the mildest form possible—for the individual feels he is hastening to that silent bourne, whence none have e'er returned to tell its mysteries—yet such is as nothing in comparison with the death our prisoners were now silently awaiting, away from friends and all sympathy, in the full vigor of animal life, to be fairly worn out by the most excruciating pains, amid the hootings and revilings of a savage foe. It was enough to have made the stoutest heart faint, trembling and sick; and thus our unfortunate friends felt, as they slowly gazed around and saw nothing but fierce, angry looks bent upon them.

Girty was the first to address the assemblage, in the Indian dialect, in an animated and angry speech of five minutes duration; occasionally turning his sinister visage upon the prisoners, with an expression of mortal hatred; gesticulating the while in that vehement manner which would have left no doubts on their minds as to the nature of his discourse, had they not previously known him to be their determined foe. He narrated to the savages, clearly and briefly, the wrongs which had been done them, as well as himself, by the whites; how, as the ally and friend of the red-man, he had been cursed, defied and treated with much contumely, by those here present; how their friends had followed and slaughtered his braves; how the whites were every day becoming stronger and more aggressive; how that, unless speedily exterminated, they would presently drive the red-men from their hunting grounds, burn their wigwams, and murder their wives and children; referred them, as a proof, to the sacking and burning of the Chillicothe and Piqua villages, on the Little Miami and Mad rivers, the year preceding, by General Clark and his men;[15] and wound up by demanding the death of the prisoners at the stake, and a speedy and bloody retaliation upon the pioneers of Kentucky.

As Girty concluded his speech, which was listened to in breathless silence, there was a great sensation in the house, and an almost unanimous grunt of approval from the chiefs and braves there assembled. It needed but this, to arouse their vindictive passions against the white invader to the extreme; and they bent upon the unfortunate prisoners, eyes which seemed inflamed with rage and revenge. Girty perceived, at a glance, that he had succeeded to the full of his heart's desire; and with a devilish smile of satisfaction on his features, he drew back among the warriors, to listen to the harangues of the others.

Black Hoof was the next to follow the renegade, in a similar but more eloquent strain; during which his countenance became greatly animated; and it was easy for the prisoners to perceive—who could not understand a word he uttered—that he spoke with great enthusiasm. He also pressed upon his companions the vast importance of exterminating the whites, ere they, as he expressed it, became as the leaves of the forest, and covered the red-man's soil; that, for this purpose, they should prepare themselves as soon as possible, to open a deadly, unyielding warfare upon the frontiers; but said, withal, that he was opposed to burning the prisoners—as that was a barbarism which he feared would not be sanctioned by the great Spirit—and urged that they should be put to death in, a quicker and milder form.[14]

Black Hoof's speech was warmly received, with the exception of what referred to the prisoners, and this rather coldly. They were excited to a powerful degree—their passions were up for revenge—and they could not bear the idea of sending a prisoner out of the world, without first enjoying the delight of seeing him writhe under the tortures of the stake.

Wild-cat next followed Black Hoof, in a brief speech, in which he but echoed the sentiments of Girty throughout, and received, like his colleague, an almost universal grunt of approbation. He was succeeded by one or two others, to the same effect—each urging the burning of the prisoners—and on their conclusion, no other appearing to speak, the old chief in the center at once proceeded to decide, by vote, the matter at issue. Advancing to the warrior nearest the door, he handed him a war-club, and then resumed his place in the circle, to record the will of each. He who was in favor of burning the prisoners, struck the ground fiercely with the weapon in question, and then passed it to his neighbor; he who was otherwise disposed, passed it quietly, in silence; thus it went through the whole assemblage—the old chief recording the vote of each, by cutting a notch on the stick in his hand; those for mercy being placed on one side, and those for the torture on the opposite. Some three or four only, besides Black Hoof, passed it quietly—consequently the sentence of death was carried by a decided majority. Had there been any doubt in the minds of Younker and Reynolds as to the result, it would have needed only one glance at Girty, who was now grinning upon them like a demon, to assure them their doom was sealed.

The question next came up as to the time and place for executing the sentence; and after some further debate, it was decided that the old man should be burnt forthwith, in the village, that their women and children might have a holiday pastime; but that Algernon must be made a grand national example of, before the assembled tribes at Upper Sandusky, when they should be met to receive presents from the British agent.[16] This latter decision was mainly effected by the eloquence of Black Hoof; who, from some cause, for which it would be impossible to account—only as a mysterious working of an overruling Providence—had secretly determined, if such a thing were possible, to save the life of Algernon; and took this method as the only one likely to aid his purpose by protecting him from immediate death.

The trial concluded, the council now broke up, and Girty was authorized to inform the prisoners of their sentence; while four young braves were selected to take charge of Algernon, and to set off with him, so soon as the burning of Younker should be over, for Upper Sandusky, where he was to be kept in durance until wanted. Advancing directly to the prisoners, the renegade now said, with a sneer:

"Well, my beauties, are you ready to die?"

"We don't expect any thing else, Simon Girty," answered the old man mildly.

"Don't you, by ——!" rejoined Girty. "Perhaps it's just as well you don't—ha, ha, ha! Come, old dotard," he continued, "down on your marrow bones and say your prayers; for, by ——! you will never behold the setting of another sun."

"I've said my prayers regular for thirty year," answered Younker; "and I've been ready to die whensomever the Lord should see fit to call me; and therefore don't feel myself no more obligated to pray jest at this particular time, than ef I war told I war going to live twenty year more. It's only them as hain't lived right, that the near coming o' death makes pray, more nor at another time; and so jest allow me, Simon Girty, to return you your advice, which is very good, and which, ef you follow yourself, you'll be likely to make a much better man nor you've ever done afore."

"Fool!" muttered the renegade, with an oath. Then turning to Algernon, he continued: "You, sirrah, are destined to live a little longer—though by no design of mine, I can assure you. Don't flatter yourself, though, that you are going to escape," he added, as he perceived the countenance of Algernon slightly brighten at his intelligence; "for, by ——! if I thought there was a probability of such a thing happening, I would brain you where you sit, if I died for it the next moment. No, young man, there is no escape for you; you are condemned to be burnt, as well as Younker, only at another place; and, by ——! I will follow you myself, to see that the sentence is enforced with all its horrors."

"For all of which you doubtless feel yourself entitled to my thanks," returned Algernon, bitterly. "Do your worst, Simon Girty; but understand me, before you go further, that though life is as dear to me at the present moment as to another, yet so much do I abhor and loathe the very sight of you, that, could I have it for the asking, I would not stoop to beg it of so brutal and cowardly a thing as yourself."

"By ——!" cried Girty, in a transport of rage; "the time will come, when, if you do not sue for life, you will for death, and at my hands; and till then will I forego my revenge for your insolence now. And let me tell you one thing further, that you may muse upon it in my absence. I will raise an army, ere many months are over, and march upon the frontiers of Kentucky; and by all the powers of good and evil, I swear again to get possession of the girl you love, but whom I now hate—hate as the arch-fiend hates Heaven—and she shall thenceforth be my mistress and slave; and to make her feel more happy, I will ever and anon whisper your name in her ear, and tell her how you died, and the part I took in your death; and in the still hours of night, will I picture to her your agonies and dying groans, and repeat your prayers for death to release you. Ha! you may well shudder and grow pale; for again I swear, by all the elements, and by every thing mortal and immortal, I will accomplish the deed! Then, and not till then, will I feel my revenge complete."

The countenance of Girty, as he said this, was terrible to behold; for so enraged was he, that he fairly foamed at the mouth, and his eyes seemed like two balls of fire. As he concluded, he turned away abruptly; and muttering something in the Indian tongue, to some of the savages who were standing around, immediately quitted the council-house.

As Girty departed, the four young warriors who were to have charge of Algernon, immediately advanced to him; and one of them tapping him on the shoulder, moved away, motioning him to follow. As he prepared to obey, Younker grasped him by the hand, and, with eyes full of tears, in a trembling, pathetic voice, said:

"Good-bye, lad! God bless and be with you. Something tells me we won't never meet agin. Keep up as stout a heart as you can, and ef you should escape, tell my (here the old man's voice faltered so that he could scarcely articulate a syllable)—tell my wife, and—and children—that I died happy, a thinking o' them, and praying for 'em—to—to the last. Good-bye! good-bye!" and wringing his hand again, the old man fairly sobbed aloud; while the rough warriors stood looking on in silence, and Algernon could only groan forth a farewell.

So they parted—never to meet again on earth.

Algernon was now conducted, by his guards, to a small building on the outskirts of the village; where, after receiving food and water, and having his clothes restored to him, he was informed by one of the Indians—who could speak a smattering of English—that he might be bound and remain, or accompany them to see the Big Knife tortured. He chose the former without hesitation; and was immediately secured in a manner similar to what he had been the night previously, and then left alone to the anguish of his own thoughts. What the feelings of our hero were, as thus he lay, suffering from his bruises and wound—his mind recurring to the dire events taking place in another part of the village, and his own awful doom—we shall leave to the imagination of the reader: suffice it to say, however, that when his guards returned, some two hours later, he was found in a swooning state, with large cold drops of perspiration standing thickly on his features.

Meantime, Younker was brought forth from the council-house—amid the hootings, revilings, and personal abuse of the savage mob—and then painted black,[17] preparatory to undergoing the awful death-sentence. He was then offered food—probably with the kind intention of strengthening him, and thus prolonging his life and tortures—but this he absolutely refused, and was immediately conducted to the place of execution, which was on the brow of the slope before described as reaching to the river. Here his wrists were immediately bound behind him; and then a rope, fastened to the ligature, was secured to a stake—driven into the earth for the purpose and left sufficiently long for him sit down, stand up, or walk around a circle of some six or eight feet in diameter.

During this proceeding, the Indians failed not to abuse him in various ways—some by pinching, and others by pounding him with their fists, with stones, and with clubs,—all of which he seemed to bear with great patience and resignation.

As soon as all was ready for the more diabolical tortures, Girty made the announcement, in a brief speech to the Indians; and then taking up a rifle, loaded with powder only, discharged it upon the prisoner's naked body. A loud yell of satisfaction, from the excited mob, followed this inhuman act; while several savages, rushing forward with rifles loaded in the same manner, now strove who should be first to imitate the renegade's example; by which means, no less than fifty discharges were made, in quick succession, until the flesh of the old man, from the neck downwards, was completely filled with burnt powder. Younker uttered a few groans, but bore all with manly fortitude, and made no complaints.

This part of the hellish ceremony over, a fire was kindled of hickory poles, placed in a circle round the stake, outside of that which his rope allowed Younker to make, in order that he might feel all the torments of roasting alive, without being sufficiently near to the flame to get a speedy relief by death. To add even more torture, if possible, to this infernal proceeding, the Indians would take up brands, and place the burning parts against the old man's body; and then, as they saw him cringe and writhe under the pain thus inflicted, would burst into horrid laughs, in which they were ever joined by the renegade. The old squaws too, and even the children, not wishing to be outdone in this refinement of cruelty, would take slabs, and having loaded them with live coals and ashes, would throw them upon his head and body, until not only both became covered, but the ground around him, so that there was no cool place for his feet; while at every new infliction of pain, the crowd would break forth in strains of wild, discordant laughter.

Thus passed some three-quarters of an hour of tortures the most horrible, during which the old man bore up under his sufferings with a strength and manliness that not only astonished his tormentors, but excited for himself, even in savage breasts, a feeling of respect. Girty, it may be, was moved to a similar feeling; for at length, advancing to his victim, he said, in a tone of more deference than he had hitherto used:

"You bear up well, old man—well. I have seen many a one die, in a similar way, who was thought to be courageous—yet none with that firmness you have thus far displayed."

Younker, who was slowly walking around the stake, with his face bent toward the earth, suddenly paused, as Girty addressed him, and turning his eyes mildly upon the renegade, in a feeble voice, replied:

"My firmness is given me from above. I can bear my torments, Simon Girty, for they're arthly, and will soon be over; but yourn—who'll say what yourn'll be, when you come to answer afore Almighty God for this and other crimes! But that arn't for the like o' me to speak of now. I'm a dying man, and trust soon to be in a better world. Ef I ever did you wrong, Simon Girty, I don't remember it now; and I'm very sartin I never did nothing to merit this. You came to my house, and war treated to the best I had, and here am I in return for't. Howsomever, the reckoning's got to come yit atween you and your God; and so I leave you—farewell."

"But say," returned Girty, who now seemed greatly moved by the manner and tone of Younker: "But say, old man, that you forgive me, and I will own that I did you wrong."

"I don't know's I've any enemies, except these round here," replied the other, feebly, "and I'd like to die at peace with all the world; but what you ax, Simon Girty, I can't grant; it's agin my nater and conscience; I can't say I forgive ye, for what you've done, for I don't. I may be wrong—it may not be Christian like—but ef it's a sin, it's one I've got to answer for myself. No, Girty, I can't forgive—pre'aps God will—you must look to him: I can't. Girty, I can't; and so, farewell forever! God be merciful to me a sinner," he added, looking upward devoutly; "and ef I've done wrong, oh! pardon me, for Christ's sake!"

With these words, the lips of Younker were sealed forever.

Girty stood and gazed upon him in silence, for a few minutes, as one whose mind is ill at ease, and then walked slowly away, in a mood of deep abstraction. Younker continued alive some three-quarters of an hour longer—bearing his tortures with great fortitude—and then sunk down with a groan and expired. The Indians then proceeded to scalp him; after which they gradually dispersed, with the apparent satisfaction of wolves that have gorged their fill on some sheep-fold.

When Algernon's guards returned, they found him in a swooning state, as previously recorded; and fearful that his life might be lost, and another day's sport thus spoiled, they immediately called in their great medicine man, who at once set about bandaging his wound, and applying to it such healing remedies as were known by him to be speedily efficacious, and for which the Indians are proverbially remarkable. His bruises were also rubbed with a soothing liquid; and by noon of the day following, he had gained sufficient strength to start upon his journey, accompanied by his guards.

On that journey we shall now leave him, and turn to other, and more important events; merely remarking, by the way, lest the reader should consider the neglect an oversight, that, on entering the Piqua village, Oshasqua had taken care to render the life of little Rosetta Millbanks safe, and had secured to her as much comfort as circumstances would permit.

[Footnote 14: In the action at Piqua here referred to, Simon Girty commanded three hundred Mingoes, whom he withdrew on account of the desperation with which the whites fought.]

[Footnote 15: This was a peculiar characteristic of this great chief, as drawn from the pages of history; and the more peculiar, that he was a fierce, determined warrior, and the very last to hold out against a peace with his white enemy. But there were some noble traits in the man; and when, at last, he was wrought upon to sign the treaty of Greenville, in 1795—twenty-four years after the date of the foregoing events—so keen was his sense of honor, that no entreaty nor persuasion could thenceforth induce him to break his bond; and he remained a firm friend of the Americans to the day of his death. He was opposed to burning prisoners, and to polygamy, and is said to have lived forty years with one wife, rearing a numerous family of children.—See Drake's Life of Tecumseh.]

[Footnote 16: The reader will bear in mind, that these events transpired during the American Revolution; that the Indians were, at this time, allies of the British; who paid them, in consequence, regular annuities, at Upper Sandusky.]

[Footnote 17: This was a customary proceeding of the savages at that day, with all prisoners doomed to death.]



CHAPTER XIV.

HISTORICAL EVENTS.

From the first inroads of the whites upon what the Indians considered their lawful possessions, although by them unoccupied—namely, the territory known as Kan-tuck-kee—up to the year which opens our story, there had been scarcely any cessation of hostilities between the two races so antagonistical in their habits and principles. Whenever an opportunity presented itself favorable to their purpose, the savages would steal down from their settlements—generally situated on the Bottom Lands of the principal rivers in the present State of Ohio—cross over La Belle Riviere into Kentucky, and, having committed as many murders and other horrible acts as were thought prudent for their safety, would return in triumph, if successful, to their homes, taking along with them scalps of both sexes and all ages, from the infant to the gray-beard, and not unfrequently a few prisoners for the amusement of burning at the stake.

These flying visits of the savages were generally repaid by similar acts of kindness on the part of the whites; who, on several occasions, marched with large armies into their very midst, destroyed their crops and stores, and burnt their towns. An expedition of this kind was prosecuted by General Clark, in August of the year preceding the events we have detailed, of which mention has been previously made. He had under his command one thousand men, mostly from Kentucky, and marched direct upon old Chillicothe, which the Indians deserted and burnt on his approach. He next moved upon the Piqua towns, on Mad river, where a desperate engagement ensued between the whites and Indians, in which the former proved victorious. Having secured what plunder they could, together with the horses, the Kentuckians destroyed the town, and cut down some two hundred acres of standing corn. They then returned to Chillicothe on their homeward route, where they destroyed other large fields of produce, supposed in all to amount to something like five hundred acres.

We have mentioned this expedition for the purpose of showing why the year which opens our story, 1781, was less disastrous to the frontier settlers than the preceding ones—the Indians being too busily occupied in repairing the damage done them, and in hunting to support their families, to have much thought for the war-path, or time to follow it; consequently the year in question, as regards Kentucky, may be said to have passed away in a comparatively quiet manner, with no events more worthy of note than those we have laid before the reader.

But if the vengeance of the savage slumbered for the time being, it was only like some pent up fire, burning in secret, until opportunity should present for it to burst forth in a manner most appalling, carrying destruction and terror throughout its course; and in consequence of this, the year 1782 was destined to be one most signally marked by bloody deeds in the annals of Kentucky. The winter of '81 and '82 passed quietly away; but early in the ensuing spring hostilities were again renewed, with a zeal which showed that neither faction had forgotten old grudges during the intervening quietude. Girty did all that lay in his power to stir up the vindictive feelings of the Indians, and was aided in his laudable endeavors by one or two others[18] who wore the uniform of British officers. It was the design of the renegade to raise a grand army from the union of the Six Nations, lead them quietly into the heart of Kentucky, and, by a bold move, seize some prominent station, murder the garrison, and thus secure at once a stronghold, from which to sally forth, spread death and desolation in every quarter, and, if possible, depopulate the entire country. Long and ardently did he labor in stirring up the Indians by inflammatory speeches; till at last he succeeded in uniting a grand body for his hellish purpose; which, on the very eve of success, as one may say, was at last frustrated by what seemed a direct Providence, of which more anon, and its proper place.

Previously, however, to the event just referred to, parties of Indians, numbering from five to fifty, prowled about the frontiers, committing at every opportunity all manner of horrid deeds, and thus rousing the whites to defence and retaliation. One of these skirmishes has been more particularly dwelt on, by the historians of Kentucky, than any of the others; on account, probably, of the desperate and sanguinary struggle for mastery between the two contending parties, and the cruel desertion, at a time of need, of a portion of the whites; by which means the Indians had advantage of numbers, that otherwise would have been equally opposed. We allude to what is generally known as Estill's Defeat.

It is not our province in the present work to detail any thing not directly connected with our story; and therefore we shall pass on, after a cursory glance at the main facts in question. Sometime in March, a party of Wyandots made a descent upon Estill's station, which stood near the present site of Richmond; and having killed and scalped a young lady, and captured a Negro slave, were induced, by the exaggerated account which the latter gave of the force within, to an immediate retreat; whereby, probably, the lives of the women and children, almost the only occupants, were saved—Captain Estill himself, with his garrison, and several new recruits, being at the time away, on a search for these very savages, who were known by some unmistakable signs to be in the vicinity. Word being despatched to Estill, of what had transpired in his absence, he immediately sought out the trail of the retreating foes, which he followed with his men, and toward night of the second day overtook them at Hinston's Fork of Licking, where a desperate engagement immediately ensued. At the onset, there were twenty-five Indians, and exactly the same number of whites; but the immediate desertion, in a cowardly manner, of a certain Lieutenant Miller, with six men under his command, left the odds greatly in favor of the Wyandots, who were all picked warriors. Notwithstanding the cowardice of their companions, our little Spartan band fought most heroically for an hour and three-quarters; when the few survivors, on both sides, being almost worn out, ceased hostilities as by mutual consent. In this ever memorable action, Captain Estill, a brave and popular man, together with nine of his gallant companions, fell to rise no more. Four others were badly wounded, leaving only the same number of unharmed survivors. The Indians, it was afterwards ascertained, had seventeen warriors killed on the field, among whom was one of their bravest chiefs, and two others severely wounded; and there has been a tradition since among the Wyandots, that only one survivor ever returned to tell the tale.

The news of the foregoing disastrous skirmish flew like wild fire, to use a common phrase, throughout the borders, and, together with others of less note, served to kindle the fire of vengeance in the bosoms of the settlers, and excite a deeper hostility than ever against the savage foe. Nor was the subsequent conduct of the Indians themselves calculated to soften this bitter feeling against them; for, to use the words of a modern writer, "The woods again teemed with savages, and no one was safe from attack beyond the walls of a station. The influence of the British, and the constant pressure of the Long Knives, upon the red-men, had produced a union of the various tribes of the northwest, who seemed to be gathering again to strike a fatal blow at the frontier settlements; and had they been led by a Phillip, a Pontiac, or a Tecumseh, it is impossible to estimate the injury they might have inflicted."

Whether the foregoing remarks may be deemed by the reader a digression, or otherwise, we have certainly felt ourself justified in making them; from the fact, that our story is designed to be historical in all its bearings; and because many months being supposed to elapse, ere our characters are again brought upon the stage of action, it seemed expedient to give a general view of what was taking place in the interval. Having done so, we will now forthwith resume our narrative.

About five miles from Lexington, a little to the left of the present road leading thence to Maysville, and on a gentle rise of the southern bank of the Elkhorn, at the time of which we write, stood Bryan's Station, to which we must now call the reader's attention. This station was founded in the year 1779, by William Bryan, (a brother-in-law of Daniel Boone,) who had, prior to the events we are now about to describe, been surprised and killed by the Indians in the vicinity of a stream called Cane Run.

This fort, at the period in question, was one of great importance to the early settlers—standing as it did on what was considered at the time of its erection, the extreme frontier, and, by this means, extending their area of security. The station consisted of forty cabins, placed in parallel lines, connected by strong pallisades, forming a parallelogram of thirty rods by twenty, and enclosing something like four acres of ground. Outside of the cabins and pallisades, to render the fort still more secure, were planted heavy pickets, a foot in diameter, and some twelve feet in height above the ground; so that it was impossible for an enemy to scale them, or affect them in the least, with any thing short of fire and cannon ball. To guard against the former, and prevent the besiegers making a lodgment under the walls, at each of the four corners or angles, was erected what was called a block-house—a building which projected beyond the pickets, a few feet above the ground, and enabled the besieged to pour a raking fire across the advanced party of the assailants. Large folding gates, on huge, wooden hinges, in front and rear, opened into the enclosure, through which men, wagons, horses, and domestic cattle, had admittance and exit. In the center, as the reader has doubtless already divined, was a broad space, into which the doors of the cabins opened, and which served the purpose of a regular common, where teams and cattle were oftentimes secured, where wrestling and other athletic sports took place. The cabins were all well constructed, with puncheon floors, the roofs of which sloped inward, to avoid as much as possible their being set on fire by burning arrows, shot by the Indians for the purpose, a practice by no means uncommon during a siege. This fort, at the period referred to, was garrisoned by from forty to fifty men; and though somewhat out of repair, in respect to a few of its pallisades, was still in a condition to resist an overwhelming force, unless taken wholly by surprise. There was one great error, however, connected with its design—and one that seems to have been common to most of the stations of that period—which was, that the spring, supplying the inmates with water, had not been enclosed within the pickets. The reader can at once imagine the misery that must have ensued from this cause, in case of their being suddenly assaulted by a superior enemy, and the siege protracted to any considerable length of time.

Within this fort, on their return from captivity, Mrs. Younker and Ella had taken up their abode, to remain until another cabin should be erected, or it should be thought safe for them to live again in a more exposed manner. Isaac had straightway repaired to his father-in-law's, to behold again the idol of his heart, and pour into her ear his grief for the loss of his father and friend, and receive her sympathy for his affliction in return. The disastrous affair which had called him and his companions so suddenly from a scene of festivity to one of mourning—the loss of so many valuable neighbors, and the result of the expedition in pursuit of the enemy—created at the time no little excitement throughout the frontiers, and caused some of the more timid to resort to the nearest stations for security. But as time wore on, and as nothing serious happened during the fall and winter, confidence and courage gradually became restored; and the affair was almost forgotten, save by the friends and relatives of the deceased and those particularly concerned in it.

Spring, however, revived the alarm of the settlers, by the reappearance of the enemy in all quarters, and the outrages they committed, as before mentioned; so that but very few persons ventured to remain without the walls of a fort; and these, such of them as were fortunate enough to escape death or captivity, were fain to seek refuge therein before the close of summer.

Immediately on the receipt of the alarming intelligence of Estill's defeat, Isaac, his wife, and the family of his father-in-law, Wilson, repaired to Bryan's Station, and joined Mrs. Younker and Ella, who had meantime remained there in security.

[Footnote 18: McKee and Elliot.]



CHAPTER XV.

OLD CHARACTERS AND NEW.

It was toward night of a hot sultry day in the month of August, that Ella Barnwell was seated by the door of a cabin, within the walls of Bryan's Station, gazing forth, with what seemed a vacant stare, upon a group of individuals, who were standing near the center of the common before spoken of, engaged in a very animated conversation. Her features perhaps were no paler than when we saw her last; but there was a tender, melancholy expression on her sweet countenance, of deep abiding grief, and a look of mournfulness in her beautiful eyes, that touched involuntarily the hearts of all who met her gaze.

Since we last beheld her, days of anxious solicitude, and sleepless nights, had been apportioned Ella; for memory—all potent memory—had kept constantly before her mind's eye the images of those who were gone, and mourned as forever lost to the living; and her imagination had a thousand times traced them to the awful stake, seen their terrible tortures, heard their agonizing, dying groans; and her heart had bled for them in secret; and tears of anguish, at their untimely fate, had often dimmed her eyes. Even now, as she apparently gazed upon that group of individuals, whom she saw not, and whose voices, sounding in her ear, she heard not, her mind was occupied with the probable fate of her uncle and Algernon, the still all-absorbing theme of her soul.

While seated thus, Mrs. Younker approached Ella from behind, unperceived by the latter, and now stood gazing upon her with a sorrowful look. The countenance of the good dame had altered less, perhaps, than Ella's, owing to her strong masculine spirit; but still there was an expression of anxiety and sadness thereon, which, until of late, had never been visible—not even when on her march to what, as she then believed, was her final doom—the excitement whereof, and the many events that occurred on the route, having been sufficient to occupy her mind in a different manner from what it had been in brooding over the fate of her husband for months in secret, and in a place of comparative safety. At length a remark, in a loud voice, of one of the individuals of the group before alluded to, arrested the attention of both Mrs. Younker and Ella.

"I tell you," said the speaker, who was evidently much excited, "it was that infernal cut-throat Girty's doings, and no mistake. Heaven's curses on him for a villain!—and I don't think he'll more nor git his just dues, to suffer them hell fires of torment, hereafter, that he's kindled so often around his victims on arth."

At these words Ella started to her feet, and exclaiming wildly,

"Who are they—who are Girty's victims?" sprung swiftly towards the group, followed by Mrs. Younker.

All eyes, from all quarters, were now turned upon her, as, like a spirit, she glided noiselessly forward, her sweet countenance radiant with the flush of excitement, her eyes dilated and sparkling, and her glossy ringlets floating on the breeze. Curiosity could no longer remain unsatisfied; and by one spontaneous movement, from every point of compass, women and children now hurried toward the center of the common, to gather the tidings.

The quiet, modest, melancholy air of Ella, had, one time with another, since her first appearance in the Station, attracted the attention, and won the regard of its inmates; most of whom had made inquiries concerning her, and learned the cause of her sadness; and now, as she gained the crowd, each gazed upon her with a look of respect; and at once moving aside to let her pass, she presently stood the central attraction of an excited multitude, of both sexes, all ages and sizes.

"Who are they?" cried she again, turning from one to the other, rapidly, with an anxious look: "who are the victims of the renegade Girty?"

"We were speaking, Miss Barnwell," answered a youth, of genteel appearance, doffing his hat, and making at the same time a polite and respectful bow: "We were speaking of the defeat, capture, and burning of Colonel Crawford, by the Indians, in their own country, in which the notorious Simon Girty is said to have taken an active part[19]—news whereof has just reached us."

At the mention of the name of Crawford, so different from the one she was expecting to hear, the momentary insanity, or delusion of Ella, vanished; she saw her position at a glance, and the hundred eyes that were upon her; and instantly her face became suffused with blushes; while she shrunk back, with a sense of maidenly shame and bashful timidity, almost overpowering to herself, and really painful for others to behold. She now strove to speak—to give an excuse for her singular conduct—but her tongue failed her, and she would have sunk to the earth, only for the support of Mrs. Younker, who at this moment gained her side.

"Never mind it. Miss Barnwell—it don't need any excuse—we understand your feelings for lost friends," were some of the remarks from the crowd, as the throng again made a passage for her to depart.

"Goodness, gracious, marcy on me alive! what a splurge you did make on't, darling!" said Mrs. Younker to Ella, as they moved away by themselves. "Why, you jest kind o' started up, for all the world like a skeered deer; and afore I could get my hands on ye, you war off like an Injen's arrow. Well, thar, thar, poor gal—never mind it!" added the good dame, consolingly, as Ella turned towards her a painful, imploring look; "we all knows your feelings, darling, and so never mind it. Mistakes will happen in the best o' families, as the Rev. Mr. Allprayer used to say, when any body accused him o' doing any thing he hadn't oughter a done."

"Mother," said Ella, feebly, "I feel faint; this shock, I fear, may be too much for my nervous system."

"Oh! my child, darling, don't mind it—every body knows your feelings—and nobody'll think any thing strange on't. In course you war thinking o' your friends—as war nateral you should—and so war I; and when I heerd the name o' that ripscallious renegade, it jest set my hull blood to biling, like it war hot water, and I felt orful revengeful. But the Lord's will be done, child. He knows what's best; and let us pray to him, that ef our friends is among the land of the living, they may be restored to us, or taken straight away to His presence."

As Mrs. Younker said this, she and Ella entered the cottage.

"Poor girl!" said a voice among the crowd, as soon as Ella was out of hearing; "they do say as how she eats but little now, and scarcely takes any rest at all lately, on account of the trouble of her mind. Poor girl! she's not long for this world;" and the speaker shook his head sadly.

"But what is it?—what is it as troubles her so?" inquired an old woman, in a voice tremulous with age, who, being somewhat of a new-comer, had not heard the oft-repeated story.

"I'll tell it ye—I'll tell it ye," answered another gossiping crone, standing beside the querist, who, fearful of being forestalled, now eagerly began her scandalous narration.

Meantime, the male portion of the crowd had resumed their conversation, concerning the unfortunate campaign of Crawford; during which manifold invectives were bestowed upon the savages, and the renegade Girty. Some of the more reckless among them were for raising another army, as soon as possible, to pursue the Indians, even to the death, and spare none that fell into their hands, neither the aged, women, nor children; but these propositions were speedily overruled by cooler and wiser heads; who stated that Kentucky had scarcely fighting men enough to protect one another on their own ground—much less to march into the enemy's country, and leave their wives and children exposed to certain destruction.

While these discussions were in progress, the attention of each was suddenly arrested by the cry of some person from the right hand block-house, looking toward the south, announcing that a single horseman was approaching with a speed which betokened evil tidings. These were times of excitement, when news of disaster and death was borne on almost every breeze; and consequently all now sprung rapidly to the southern pickets, where, through loop-holes and crevices in the partially decayed pallisades, they perceived an individual riding as if for life.

"How he rides!—Who is it?—What can have happened?" were some of the remarks now rapidly uttered, as the horseman was seen bounding forward on his foaming steed. Instantly the nearest gate was thrown open; and, in less than two minutes, horse and rider stood within the enclosure, surrounded by a breathless multitude, eager for his intelligence.

"Arm!" cried the horseman, a good looking youth of eighteen: "Arm—all that can be spared—and on to the rescue!"

"What's happened, Dick Allison?" asked one who had recognized the rider.

"I have it on the best authority," answered Dick, "that Hoy's Station has just been attacked, by a large body of Indians, and Captain Holder and his men defeated."

"But whar d'ye get your news?" inquired another voice; while a look of alarm, and resolute determination to avenge the fallen, could be seen depicted on the upturned countenances of the assemblage.

"I was riding in that direction, when I met a messenger on his way to Lexington for assistance; and turning my horse, I spurred hither with all speed."

"Have the red devils got possession of the fort?" inquired another.

"I am not certain, for I did not wait to hear particulars; but I'm under the impression they have not, and that Holder was defeated outside the walls."

"Well, they must have assistance, and that as soon as it can be got to 'em," rejoined a white-haired veteran, one of the head men of the garrison, whose countenance was remarkable for its noble, benevolent expression, and who, from love and veneration, was generally called Father Albach. "It's too late in the day, though, to muster and march thar to-night," continued the old man; "but we'll have our horses got up and put in here to night, and our guns cleaned, and every thing fixed for to start at daylight to-morrow. Eh! my gallant lads—what say ye?" and he glanced playfully around upon the bystanders.

"Yes—yes—yes—father!" cried a score of voices, in a breath; and the next moment a long, loud cheer, attested the popularity of the old man's decision.

"Another cheer for Father Albach, and three more for licking the ripscallious varmints clean to death!" cried our old acquaintance, Isaac Younker, who, having been otherwise occupied during the discussion concerning Crawford's defeat, had joined the crowd on the arrival of the messenger.

"Good for Ike," shouted one: "Hurray!" and four lusty cheers followed.

All now became bustle and confusion, as each set himself to preparing for the morrow's expedition. Guns were brought out and cleaned, locks examined, new flints put in place of old ones, bullets cast, powder-horns replenished, horses driven within the enclosure, saddles and bridles overhauled, and, in fact, every thing requisite for the journey was made ready as fast as possible.

Isaac, on the present occasion, was by no means indolent; for having examined his rifle, and found it in a good condition, he immediately brought forth an old saddle and bridle, somewhat the worse for wear, and set himself down to repairing them, wherever needed, by thongs of deerskin. While engaged in this laudable occupation, a young lad came running to and informed him, that there was a stranger down by the gate who wished to speak with him immediately.

"A stranger!" replied Isaac, looking up in surprise. "Why, what in the name o' all creation can a stranger be wanting with me? Why don't he come and see me, if he wants to see me, and not put me to all this here trouble, jest when I'm gitting ready to go and lick some o' them red heathen like all nater?"

"Don't know, sir," answered the lad, "what his reasons be for not coming, any more nor you; but he said to the man as opened the gate for him, 'Is Isaac Younker in the fort?' and the man said, 'Yes;' and then he said to me, 'Run, my little lad, and tell him to come here, and I'll gin you some thing;' and that's all I knows about it."

"Well, I 'spose I'll have to go," rejoined Isaac, rising to his feet; "but I don't think much o' the feller as puts a gentleman to all this here trouble, jest for nothing at all, as one may say, when a feller's in a hurry too. Howsomever," continued he, soliloquizing, as he walked forward in the proper direction, "I 'spect it's some chap as wants to hoax me, or else he's putting on the extras; ef so, I'll fix him, so he won't want to do it agin right immediately, I reckon."

Thus muttering to himself, Isaac drew near the front gate, against which, within the pallisades, the stranger in question was leaning, with his hat pressed down over his forehead, as though he desired concealment. His habiliments, after the fashion of the day, were originally of a superior quality to those generally worn on the frontiers, but soiled and torn in several places, as from the wear and tear of a long, fatiguing journey. His features, what portion of them could be seen under his hat, were pale and haggard, denoting one who had experienced many and severe vicissitudes. As Isaac approached, he raised his eyes from the ground, turned them full upon him, and then, taking a step forward, said, in a voice tremulous with emotion:

"Thank God! Isaac Younker, I am able to behold you once again."

As a distinct view of his features fell upon the curious gaze of the latter, and his voice sounded in his ear, Isaac paused for a moment, as one stupefied with amazement; the next, he staggered back a pace or two, dropped his hands upon his knees, in a stooping posture, as if to peer more closely into the face of the stranger; and then bounding from the earth, he uttered a wild yell of delight, threw his hat upon the ground in a transport of joy, and rushed into the extended arms of Algernon Reynolds, where he wept like a child upon his neck, neither of them able to utter a syllable for something like a minute.

"The Lord be praised!" were the first articulate words of Isaac, in a voice choked with emotion. "God bless you! Mr. Reynolds;" and again the tears of joy fell fast and long. "Is it you?" resumed he, again starting back and gazing wildly upon the other, as if fearful of some mistake. "Yes! yes! it's you—there's no mistaking that thar face—the dead's come to life again, for sartin;" and once more he sprung upon the other's neck, with all the apparent delight of a mother meeting with a lost child.

"Yes, yes, Isaac, thank God! it is myself you really behold—one who never expected to see you again in this world," rejoined Algernon, affected himself to tears, by the noble, heart-touching, affectionate manner of his companion. "But—but Isaac—our friends here—are they—all—all well, Isaac?" This was said in a voice, which, in spite of the speaker's efforts to be calm, trembled from anxiety and apprehension.

"Why," answered Isaac, in a somewhat hesitating manner, "I don't know's thar's any body exactly sick—but—"

"But what, Isaac?" interrupted Algernon, with a start.

"Why, Ella, you know—"

"Yes, yes, Isaac—what of her?" and grasping him by the arm, Algernon gazed upon the other's features with a look of alarm.

"Now don't be skeered, Mr. Reynolds—thar han't nothing happened—only I 'spect she's bin a thinking o' you—who every body thought war dead—and she's kind o' grown thin and pale on't, and we war gitting afeared it might end badly; but as you've come now, I know as how it'll all be right agin."

Algernon released the speaker's arm, and for some moments gazed abstractedly upon the ground; while over his countenance swept one of those painful expressions of the deep workings of the soul, to which, from causes known to the reader, he was subject. At length he said, with a sigh:

"Well, Isaac, I have come to behold her once again, and then—"

He paused, apparently overpowered by some latent feeling.

"And then!" said Isaac, repeating the words, with a look of surprise: "I reckon you arn't a going to leave us agin soon, Mr. Reynolds?"

"There are circumstances, unknown to you, friend Isaac, which I fear will compel me so to do."

"What!" cried the other; "start off agin, and put your scalp into the hands of the infernal, ripscallious, painted Injens? No, by thunder! you shan't do it, Mr. Reynolds; for sting me with a nest o' hornets, ef I don't hang to ye like a tick to a sheep. No, no, Mr. Reynolds; don't—don't think o' sech a thing. But come, go in and see Ella—she'd be crazy ef she knew you war here."