"He come out dere," said Oonamoo, again.

Finding there was little chance of gaining what information he wished from the Indian, O'Hara set about solving the difficulty himself. The former having announced that Dernor had left the creek at this point, it now remained for him to determine by what means he had thrown his pursuers off the scent, as it was very manifest he had done. The ground around the canoe was quite wet and spongy, showing the numerous footprints with considerable distinctness. Among these, it was very easy to distinguish that of the leader of the Riflemen. The instant O'Hara saw this, he became aware of the curious fact that it was more recent than those of the Indian, proving that Dernor had followed them, instead of they having followed him! How this was accomplished, the hunter was at a loss to determine, although, from the expression of the Indian's face, he knew it was all plain to him.

"Lew has gone over this ground last," said O'Hara, "but how he has done it, I can't see just now. How was it?"

"Look under canoe," said Oonamoo.

O'Hara's eyes opened, as he began to comprehend matters. He carefully raised one end of the canoe, and saw at once that his leader had lain beneath it, while his enemies were searching for him. A few words more from the Huron, and every thing was explained. Believing the reader will be interested in the description of the ingenious artifice adopted by the hunter, we here give it as briefly as possible.

It may seem incredible that Lewis Dernor should have been concealed beneath this Indian canoe, when fully a dozen savages were thirsting for his scalp, and when it would have appeared the height of absurdity to think that they would fail to look beneath it. Nevertheless, such was really the case. It happened in the following manner:

When the Rifleman discovered the canoe lying against the bank, he sprung from the water, coming upon the frail barken structure with such force that he perceptibly started the bottom. It thus appeared to have been deserted for its uselessness. Stepping off of this upon the swampy ground, he walked about twenty yards up the bank, when he turned to the left, and approached the water again. The trail which he left was so distinct that no one could fail to see, he having purposely made it thus. Instead of taking to the water again, as it would appear he had done, he merely entered its margin, and then walked backward to the canoe again, stepping so exactly in his own footsteps, that the wily Shawnees and Miamis had no suspicion of the stratagem practiced. Reaching the canoe, he managed to lift it, without changing its position, when he lowered it again, without making any additional footprints. This done, he slipped beneath it, drew up his feet, and confidently awaited the approach of the savages.

In about twenty minutes they came up. The foremost paused, upon seeing the canoe with its cracked bottom, and were about to overturn it, when their eyes rested upon the footprints of the fugitive. There was no need of looking beneath it, for they could see the direction he had taken. He was going at such speed that they had no time to pause, and they immediately dashed off in pursuit, the others following suit, like so many hounds. So soon as he was satisfied they were out of sight, the Rifleman came from beneath the canoe, carefully setting it back in its place again, and struck off in the woods at a more leisurely gait.

"All safe—nebber git on track agin," said Oonamoo.

"Don't believe they will. By gracious! but I should hate to try that trick of Lew's. Just s'pose they had looked under! it would have been all up with him. I daresn't use such means, 'cause I haven't got legs enough, for emergencies. Where does the trail lead to now, Oonamoo?"

"Where gal hid—go get her now—Injin know notting about it."

"I s'pose Lew will take his time now, as he knows he's got the dogs off his track."

"Go slow little ways—then run fast—want to see gal."

The Huron certainly displayed some knowledge of the workings of the heart when he remarked, in substance, that, although the lover might proceed at a moderate gait for some distance, it would not be long before the thoughts of Edith would urge him to as great exertions as he had displayed during the height of the chase. True to what he had said, O'Hara noticed that his footsteps gradually lengthened until it was manifest that he had been "letting himself out" again.

It was now getting well along in the afternoon. The Huron struck into a sort of a compromise between a walk and a trot, he being anxious to make what progress he could before darkness set in. They had come too far to overtake Dernor and Edith the next day, and O'Hara began really to believe that the two had reached the settlement by this time. Upon mentioning this supposition to Oonamoo, the latter shook his head—meaning that all danger had not been overcome by the fugitives. The woods were too full of Indians, and the settlement was too far away for them to accomplish the rest of their journey without danger.

Objects were just growing indistinct, when O'Hara and the Huron came upon the bushes where Edith had been concealed. They saw that Dernor had approached on the opposite side from which he had left it, and that upon being rejoined by his charge, he had once more started northward, as if his desire was still to remain above his enemies, and avoid, as much as lay in his power, all probabilities of encountering them.

"I s'pose we've got to lay on our oars, as the sailors say, till daylight," said O'Hara.

The Huron looked at him, as if he failed to comprehend him, and he added, in explanation:

"There being no light, of course we can't see their tracks, and will have to wait till morning."

"No wait—go on all night."

"How will you do that?"

"Oonamoo know which way dey go."

"I don't deny that, but, smart as you are, I don't believe you can see a trail on such a night as this."

"Don't want to see trail—know which way go—go up, then go off toward settlement."

O'Hara understood that the Huron had formed his idea of the general direction which the Rifleman had taken, and intended to follow him in this manner. Being thoroughly well acquainted with the country, there was no difficulty in doing this; and, without pausing to think of drink or food, the two resumed their pursuit as hopefully and confidently as though the matter were already settled.

To follow up thus persistently one of the most skillful border-men of the period, with the desire of assisting him in whatever strait he may have gotten himself, would have been the acme of absurdity upon the part of those undertaking it, and would have gained for them no thanks for attempting it, had the circumstances been difficult. But, incommoded as he was by the charge of Edith, and environed by enemies, it could hardly be expected that he would come through unscathed. His enemies, fully aware of the difficulties of his situation, undoubtedly were using every endeavor to thwart him, it being certain that they were aware of his identity. To have captured the leader of the Riflemen of the Miami would have been a feat of which even a war-party would have been proud, and the Huron well knew they would not give over their efforts until he was absolutely beyond their reach. This was the reason why he was so anxious to press forward as far as it would be prudent to venture during the darkness.

By midnight the two had reached a point above which the Huron believed the fugitives would not go; and being unable to determine the precise course which they had taken after this, they concluded to wait until daylight before going further. Accordingly they lay down on the ground, both dropping to sleep immediately, and both waking at precisely the same moment, just as the light of the day was appearing.

A half-hour's search discovered the trail of their friends within several hundred yards of where they had slept—thus close and exact had been the calculation of the sagacious Huron. He and O'Hara now began to entertain hopes that, after all, the fugitives had succeeded in reaching the settlement. The latter, at the most, was not more than twenty miles distant; and, had Dernor been allowed the entire night to travel, he could have safely reached it. A critical examination of his footprints, however, revealed the fact that they had not been made more than twenty hours before. If he had reached the settlement, therefore, he must have done it in the latter part of the preceding day.

The two now pressed on with all haste. They had gone scarcely a half-mile, when both made a startling discovery. Numerous moccasin-tracks became suddenly visible, and O'Hara needed no prompting to understand that the persistent Indians were again upon the trail of the fugitives. How they had succeeded in regaining it, after being so cleverly misled, was a mystery. The Huron accounted for it only upon the supposition that they had come upon it by accident. A slight comparison of the two trails by Oonamoo showed that the savages were close behind their friends—so close that they could overtake them ere they could reach their destination—the settlement.



CHAPTER XI.

AT BAY.

Like lightning from storm-clouds on high, The hurtling, death-winged arrows fly, And windrows of pale warriors lie! Oh! never has the sun's bright eye Looked from his hill-top in the sky, Upon a field so glorious.—G. P. MORRIS.

As Oonamoo and O'Hara pressed forward, they found they were gaining very rapidly upon the pursuers and pursued. As for the Huron, he had an apprehension amounting almost to a certain conviction that the leader of the Riflemen, after all, had committed a sad mistake, in believing that he was safe from his enemies, after being rejoined by Edith. This belief had led him into some trap, and the faithful Indian felt that his services were sorely needed at that very moment.

It was yet early in the day, when he and the hunter ascended a sort of ridge, which afforded them quite an extensive view of the surrounding wilderness. Here, carefully protecting their persons from observation, they looked out over the forest in quest of signs of human beings. The unexperienced person might have looked for hours without discovering the slightest evidence of animal life in the vast expanse spread out before him. He would have seen the dark emerald of these western wilds cut by the gleaming silver of many a stream and river; the tree-tops gently bowed, like a field of grain, when the breeze rides over it; and overhead, perhaps, would have been noted the flocks of birds circling in curious figures; but all beneath would have been silent—silent, save in that deep, solemn murmur which comes up perpetually like the voice of the ocean.

But the Huron had scarcely glanced over the sylvan scene, when his dark eye rested upon what, to him, was a most palpable evidence of the presence of others in these woods. About a half-mile distant, on the edge of a small clearing, stood the remains of a log fort. This was subjected to a most searching scrutiny by both, but, for a time, O'Hara discovered nothing unusual in its appearance.

"He's dere—he and the gal," said Oonamoo, pointing toward the pile of logs.

"How do you know that? Have you seen him?"

"See now what he done—he's dere. Look agin."

"I've looked at them logs ever since we've been standing here, but hain't seen Lew or the gal yet."

"Eber seen logs afore?"

"Have I ever seen them logs before? Yes, often."

"How they look when last see him?"

"The same as they do now, I believe."

"Sure?" asked Oonamoo, in a tone that revealed all to O'Hara. He now looked again toward the remains of the log-fort, and understood at once the meaning of the Huron's question. He had passed by the spot during the preceding autumn, and noticed that the logs were scattered and thrown down, as if a tornado had passed over the spot. Now, however, there was system in their arrangement—proof sure that the hand of man had been employed upon them. The Huron had seen them scarcely a week before, and knew that all these changes had been made since—that, in fact, Lewis Dernor had made them, and at that moment was standing at bay behind them.

While yet they were looking, they saw something gleam for an instant in the sunlight, and then disappear as if drawn behind the logs.

"That was Lew's rifle," said O'Hara. "He always keeps the barrel polished up so that it nearly blinds a person to shoot."

"'Sh! look."

At the point where they had witnessed the movement of this bright object, they now saw a red jet of flame spout out, a wreath of blue smoke arise, and then came the report of a rifle.

"There's one red-skin the less," said O'Hara. "When Lew pulls trigger, something is sure to go under."

"Want us there," said Oonamoo, starting down the ridge on his peculiar trot, and moving off toward what may now properly be termed a fort. Upon coming in its vicinity, both exercised the greatest caution in their movements, knowing, as they did, that it was besieged by their deadly enemies. A half-hour's reconnoitering by both showed that there were ten Indians, exclusive of one dead one, collected at one end of the clearing, where each, safely ensconced behind a tree, was patiently waiting for a shot at the Rifleman, whom they now at last believed they had fairly cornered.

Upon witnessing this condition of affairs, Oonamoo and O'Hara debated a proposition proposed by the latter. It was that the Huron, who was very fleet of foot, should instantly make all haste to the settlement, and return with the Riflemen and a sufficient force to scatter the besieging Indians to the four winds. This undertaking would require more than five hours at the utmost to fulfill it, but those five hours were so precious, that Oonamoo decided not to make the attempt. He felt sure that unless Dernor surrendered, the party of savages would attack the place in a body before two hours elapsed; and, brave and determined as he knew the Rifleman to be, he could see that a resistance upon his part would be useless. He, therefore, acted with his usual wisdom, in deciding to remain upon the ground to render assistance when it would be needed.

The first plan adopted by O'Hara and the Huron was to keep their position, remaining carefully concealed, until the savages should move forward to the assault, when, as the former expressed it, they would "wade in promiscuously." This project offered to its originators the great point of excitement and desperate fighting, but was finally rejected by the Huron for the last reason.

It is a very pleasant thing for a nation to think itself invincible and able to conquer all others with which it may come in collision. The same sensations, in a smaller degree, no doubt are experienced by two persons when, in the flush of the moment, they feel able to combat with five times their numbers; but, if time be allowed, the "sober second thought" will prevail, and action will be guided more by prudence than madness. The Huron was as brave a man as ever breathed, but he was also as shrewd and cunning. He knew well enough that should he and O'Hara rush in upon ten desperate, well-armed warriors, no matter how fiercely they might fight, the result would be that both would be killed and no one benefited. He, therefore, determined to resort once more to his powers of stratagem.

The great point now was to make Dernor aware of the vicinity of his two friends. Without this Oonamoo would be more likely to be shot by him than by the savages. This part of the stratagem was the most difficult to accomplish. The Shawnees and Miamis being collected at one end of the clearing, it could not be expected that any signal, however skillfully or guardedly made, would attract the notice of Dernor. It might possibly be seen by Edith, but would not be understood. This means, therefore, was not even attempted.

The besieged Rifleman of course kept himself invisible. He had become aware, when within a mile or so of the present spot, that he was again pursued by his unrelenting enemies, and making all haste thither, had thrown the logs together as compactly and securely as the time allowed him would permit. He had brought down one of his assailants, and they in turn had buried some twenty balls in the logs around him, without inflicting injury upon either Edith or himself.

In the hope of giving his leader an inkling of the condition of affairs, O'Hara uttered a whistle, so perfect an imitation of the call of a certain bird, that the suspicious Shawnees and Miamis failed to notice it. Pausing a few moments, he repeated it, and then awaited the action of Oonamoo. Whether Dernor had caught the signal or not, of course his friends had no means of judging; but the Huron, knowing that if he had not his own death was certain, now coolly made the desperate attempt he had decided upon.

Securely sheltered behind his log-fort, Dernor stood with cocked rifle awaiting his chance to pick off one of his enemies. Every faculty was absorbed in this, and he scarcely removed his eye once from the spot where he knew they were collected. He was aware of their exact number, as he was also of the fact that Girty, the renegade, was not among them. His lips were compressed, a dark scowl had settled upon his face, and it would have been easy for any one to have read the iron determination of his heart. He was at bay, it was true, and he was not ignorant of the desire of the savages to gain possession of him. He said nothing to Edith of the resolve he had made, but she needed no telling to understand it. So long as life remained, her defender would never desert her.

He was standing thus, gazing stealthily out through a loophole, when Edith, who was watching every portion of the clearing, placed her hand on his shoulder and told him that an Indian was stealing toward them from the side opposite to that on which their enemies were collected. As quick as thought Dernor wheeled around, pointed his rifle out and took aim at the approaching savage. The latter saw the movement, understood fully its cause, and yet made no attempt to escape, relying entirely upon the chances of the Rifleman discovering his identity before firing. His faith was rewarded, although Oonamoo came nigher death in that single moment than ever he imagined. Dernor's finger was already pressing the trigger, when he saw directly behind the approaching Indian the barrel of a rifle project from behind a tree and then disappear again. This served to arrest his attention, and before he renewed his aim the round face of O'Hara was thrust forth and disappeared again. This led him to examine the face of the venturesome Indian. A single glance and he recognized Oonamoo, the faithful Huron. He instantly drew his rifle in, and the latter, understanding the meaning of it, sprung nimbly forward, and with one bound cleared the opposing barricades and came down beside the besieged Rifleman. The latter grasped his hand and silently pressed it.

"Who is with you?" he asked, after relinquishing it.

"'Hara—short feller—legs like bent Injin's bow."

"Nobody else?"

"Nobody else," replied the Huron.

"You watch that side, then, Oonamoo, and I will attend to this."

"No watch this side—no Injin come here—all on toder side—me watch with you—come round this side bime-by."

"Do as you please; you're an Injin and ought to understand them."

Oonamoo had been seen by the besieging savages as he bounded over the logs, and, for a few minutes, they were puzzled to understand the meaning of so singular an occurrence. Their first impression was that one of their number, more daring than the others, had taken this desperate means of getting at the Rifleman, and they listened intently for sounds of combat and struggles between them; but, as moment after moment passed without the silence being disturbed, their eyes were opened to the fact that he had been reinforced by a formidable ally; and this, too, when a little foresight on their part would have prevented it. Having felt certain, previous to this, that the white man had no friends in the vicinity, they had neglected to surround his fort, so as to prevent their approach. To prevent any thing further happening like this, a part of the band now proceeded to get on the opposite side of him.

There was but one way in which this could be done without being menaced by the rifles of the besieged party. Several of the Indians, being careful to keep the protecting trees before them, slowly retreated backward until they had gone far enough in the wood to be safe, when they passed around and approached the fort from the opposite side. It was not long before they became aware that the friend of the Rifleman was fully as sagacious as himself, and that, after all, the parties were not so unequally matched. The threatening muzzles were constantly protruding from behind those logs, and it was absolute suicide for any one to attempt to stand before them.

Dernor having caught a glimpse of O'Hara, his companion, wondered considerably that he did not follow the example of the Huron, and unite with him in the fort. Thus strengthened, his confidence would have been restored, and he would bid defiance to the Shawnees and Miamis. But, as he waited, and finally saw that a number of Indians had succeeded in getting behind him, he was compelled to give up this hope. This excited speculation the more upon his part, because he was fully aware of O'Hara's defects, and felt that it would have been the most prudent course for him to adopt. At length he questioned the Huron:

"Where's Tom?"

"Dunno—gone away."

"Why didn't he do as you did—come over and join me?"

"Tom 'Hara goin' to do sumkin' else—he know what."

"I expect he does. He'd better move his carcase from where he was a few minutes ago, or them dogs will move it for him."

"He know—dey won't move him—he get out way soon enough."

"He's got too short legs," said Dernor, who, aware of the affection the Huron bore him, and experiencing a sort of reaction of his spirits after their continued depression, was disposed to quiz Oonamoo a little.

"Got long eyes, dough," replied he, quickly.

"Got long eyes?" laughed Dernor. "I don't know as they're any longer than mine."

"Good 'eal longer. Tom 'Hara neber let Shawnee and Miami get him atween the logs—he know too much."

Dernor felt the sarcasm of this remark and took it kindly.

"Neither would they have got me here, had I been alone."

It would be difficult to describe the expression that illuminated the Huron's face at this remark. He turned his dark, basilisk orbs (their fierceness now subdued into a softer light) full upon Edith, who, seated upon a portion of one of the logs, was listening to the conversation. The muscles around the corners of his mouth twitched a little, a wrinkle or two gathered, his beautiful white teeth became visible, but she only half-suspected that he was smiling.

"Nice gal," said he, his voice now as soft as a woman's. "White man love her—fight for her—Oonamoo do so too."

She did not know whether to be pleased or frightened at the look of the Huron. In her perplexity she turned toward Dernor.

"You needn't be alarmed," said he, understanding her embarrassment. "Oonamoo here is an old and tried friend, and will stand by you as long as I will, which," he added, in a lower tone, "will be as long as the One above gives me breath. He is devoted to me if he doesn't love you."

"Yes, Oonamoo does—he love all white folks—love the gals—clever to him and feed him when hungry."

Dernor merely smiled, believing that the remark of the savage fully explained his passion without any qualifying observation of his own.

"Oonamoo love white folks—love missionaries—tell him all about God up dere"—pointing upward—"spirit land—happy place—Oonamoo don't take scalp when Injin sleeping—so he go up dere when he die."

"I believe you will, for if there ever was an honorable savage you are one," said Dernor, warmly.

The Huron made no reply to this compliment, evidently thinking enough had been said. It must not be supposed that this conversation occurred in the connected form in which we have given it. Several moments sometimes elapsed between the different remarks, and hardly once during its progress did Dernor look at the savage. Once or twice he turned toward Edith, as also did Oonamoo, but the danger that menaced him was too great for either to be diverted from it.

Some twenty minutes had elapsed, when an exclamation from the Huron showed that some new scheme was afoot. Immediately after, a blazing arrow came whizzing through the air, and buried itself in the logs. The sharp crackling told that the twist of flame had communicated with the logs and it was burning.

"My God! are we to be burnt alive?" exclaimed Dernor, losing his self-possession for a moment.

"Ugh—can't burn—logs too wet—go out," replied his unmoved companion.

So it proved, although an inch or two of some of the logs were sufficiently seasoned to take fire, they were all too damp and soaked to burn. Oonamoo had hardly spoken when the blaze went out of itself. A perfect storm of arrows, tipped with burning tow, now came sailing in upon them, but the only inconvenience they occasioned was a blinding, suffocating smoke, which lasted, however, but a few moments.

"Where the deuce did they get their bows and tow from?" asked Dernor. "Do they carry such articles with them?"

"Sent for 'em after git here," replied Oonamoo.

"Won't any of these logs burn?"

"Too wet—smoke—but won't blaze."

The Indians soon found that nothing could be accomplished in the way of burning out the fugitives, so they ceased the attempt only to devise some other expedient. What this was to be, the besieged party for a long time were unable to determine. The first warning they had was a bullet, which grazed the face of Oonamoo, coming in at the top of the fort.

"Ugh! Shawnee climb tree—Oonamoo fetch him out dere," said the latter, sheltering himself as quick as lightning, and peering out in the hope of gaining a glimpse of the miscreant who had come so near shooting him. He was disappointed, however, the savage descending the tree with such skill and caution that his person was never once exposed to the eagle eye of the Huron.

For an hour succeeding this last attempt nothing further was done by the besieging savages. They carefully kept their bodies concealed, so that the utmost watchfulness on the part of Oonamoo and Dernor failed to get a shot at them. They saw enough, however, to make them certain they were surrounded by their enemies, and that for the present, at least, under Heaven, they had nothing but their own bravery and good rifles to rely upon.

There were several means by which the fugitives could be compelled to succumb in the end, if these means were only employed by the savages. The first and obviously safest was to keep up the siege until they were compelled to come to terms. Dernor had not a drop of water nor a particle of food, and consequently this plan on the part of the besiegers would have been only a question of time. Again, a rapid and determined assault could scarcely fail to take the Rifleman and the Huron. There were ten Indians to make the attempt, but those ten knew well enough that two of their number would never live to reach the fort in case the rush was made and that there would be desperate work before the two men could be overcome.

During the hour of silence these plans occurred to Dernor, and he mentioned the first to Oonamoo. The cunning savage shook his head.

"Won't do that—afeard."

"Afraid of what?"

"Settlement two—t'ree—fifteen mile off—afeard other Long Knives come afore we got starve."

"I hope the boys are somewhere in the woods. Why don't the cowardly dogs rush in upon us? They could batter these logs down in five minutes."

"Afeard we batter 'em down," replied the Huron, with a sparkle of his black eyes.

"We would surely knock some of them over, but I don't suppose we could finish up the whole ten."

"Finish some—don't know which—dat de reason."

"Their heads are so full of their devilish inventions, I should think they could get up some way to attack us without getting a shot at them."

"Attack purty soon—keep eye peeled—don't see notting?"

"Nothing at all," replied the Rifleman, who, all this time, was peering through a chink in the logs and not looking at the Indian.

Taking it for granted that if the Huron saw no danger there could be none, Dernor turned toward Edith, and asked, in that low, passionate tone which he instinctively assumed in addressing her:

"And how do you feel, dear Edith, all this time?"

"My courage, I think, will bear up as long as yours," she answered, with a faint smile.

"It will bear up to the end, then," he added. Then looking at her a moment, he continued: "Edith, how you must feel toward me for bringing you into this trouble! I have been thinking of it for the last day or two."

"Did you do it on purpose?" she asked. "That is, did you know we should be pursued and persecuted as we have been when we started?"

"Know it? of course not. I would have been shot before I would have come."

"Then why do you ask me such a question? No, Lewis, I do not blame you in the least. On the contrary, I shall never be able to express the gratitude I feel for what you have done."

This was the first time Edith had addressed the Rifleman by his given name, and it gave him a peculiar pleasure which it would be difficult to describe. He was only restrained from approaching by the reflection that he would cut a most ridiculous figure in the presence of the Huron. His feelings were now such that, upon his own account alone, he would have welcomed several days' siege. In fact, he would have cared very little had Oonamoo been a hundred miles distant just then.

But these emotions were only temporary. Five minutes later, he felt heartily ashamed that he should have entertained them.

"I am certain, Edith——"

Further utterance was checked by an exclamation from the Huron. Looking forth, Dernor saw that the crisis of the contest had arrived!



CHAPTER XII.

CONCLUSION.

They come!—be firm—in silence rally! The Long Knives our retreat have found! Hark! their tramp is in the valley, And they hem the forest round! The burthened boughs with pale scouts quiver, The echoing hills tumultuous ring, While, across the eddying river, Their barks, like foaming war-steeds, spring, The bloodhounds darken land and water, They come—like buffaloes for slaughter.—G. P. MORRIS.

At that point from which the Huron had advanced to the fort, the Shawnees and Miamis had now collected, preparatory to their final attack upon it. The wood being thick at this spot, they had little difficulty in keeping their bodies out of sight, the besieged being enabled to judge of their position by the points of their rifles and portions of their dress, which they took no pains to conceal.

"That means business," said Dernor, loosening his knife, and examining the priming of his rifle. "What's their idea, Oonamoo?"

"Run all togedder—make big rush—all come from one side."

Being satisfied of this, the Huron crossed over to the side of the hunter, so as to be ready for the assault. He was as cool as if sitting in his own wigwam, although none was more aware than himself of the peril that hung over his head. Could the Shawnees or Miamis once obtain his person, no species of torment that their fiendish minds could invent would be left untried upon him. But he had played hide-and-seek too long with death, to be disconcerted in a moment like this.

"What are they waiting for?" asked Dernor, who began to grow impatient at the delay.

"Ain't waitin'—here dey come!"

As he spoke, ten Indians suddenly appeared to view, from behind as many trees, and, pausing a moment, set up a yell that must have been heard miles distant, and rushed with the speed of the whirlwind toward the fort. Half-way across the clearing they had come, when the sharp crack of two rifles was heard, and the two foremost savages, making a tremendous bound in the air, came down to the ground in their death-struggles. But the others were not checked in the least. On they came, right over the prostrate bodies, and the next minute were tearing at the pile of logs, with the fury of madmen.

The Rifleman and the Huron had discharged their rifles together at the savages, as they came pouring forward; then drawing their knives, they awaited the onset. The logs, loosely thrown together, could not long resist the efforts to dislodge them, and, in a few minutes, came tumbling to the ground. The first bronzed skull that appeared above them was shattered like an egg-shell, by the stock of the Huron's rifle; while, as the savages swarmed in, Dernor stooped, and catching Edith round the waist, bounded clear of the logs, and dashed at headlong speed across the clearing. Right behind, like a pack of hounds, poured his relentless enemies, held in check solely by the Huron, who, covering the retreat of his white friends, raged like a tiger with his clubbed rifle; but, powerful and agile as he was, he was finally brought to the earth, and, heedless of him, the savages poured onward, intent only on capturing Dernor and Edith.

At this moment the edge of the clearing was reached; the fugitive had dashed into the wood, and his enemies were just following, when several flashes illuminated the edge of the forest, and simultaneous with the report, the remaining Riflemen of the Miami, with one exception, burst into the clearing and shot forward like a tornado toward the savages. The number of the whites was increased by Harry and Jim Smith, but half of the Indians had already gone to the earth, and the remaining ones broke and scattered as if a mine had exploded beneath their feet.

"Hello! anybody hurt?" demanded Harry Smith. "Come back here, Lew, and let us see you."

The fugitive had run quite a distance; but, recognizing the voice of a friend, he halted, looked back, and then returned. In the clearing, he saw standing the panting, excited forms of the brothers Smith, Allmat, George Dernor and Ferdinand Sego! The latter was leaning on his rifle, and looked up as Lewis and Edith came to view. He instantly started, as if struck by a bullet, and gazed at her as though he doubted the evidence of his own eyes. Edith, on her part, was hardly less agitated. She trembled and leaned heavily a moment on the hunter's arm, and then, relinquishing her hold, bounded forward and was clasped in the arms of Sego. Neither spoke until they had partly recovered from their emotions; then they conversed in tones so low, that the bystanders, had they wished, could not have overheard the words that were said.

All this time, as may well be supposed, Lewis Dernor was tortured by the most agonizing emotions. The beautiful dreams and air-castles which he had been continually forming and building during the past few days, now dissolved like mist in the air, and left nothing but the cold, cheerless reality, far colder and more cheerless than had ever before impressed him. Sego and Edith were reunited, and although there appeared to have been some mystery and misunderstanding between them, it was now cleared up, and their happiness seemed complete. The Rifleman drew a deep sigh and looked up.

"I say, Lew," said his brother, "I've asked yer half a dozen times, whether there's any thing that need keep us here any longer?"

"The Huron—Oonamoo?" asked the hunter, looking around him.

"Was Oonamoo with you?—I recollect, now, Tom said he was. Well, that must be him, then, stretched out yonder."

The two moved toward the prostrate form of the Indian, which lay upon its face. They rolled him over on his back, but he was limp and nerveless as a rag. His body was still warm, but to all appearance he was entirely lifeless—a gash on the side of his face, from which a great quantity of blood had streamed over his person, adding to the ghastly appearance of the body.

"Poor fellow! he's dead," said Lewis, with a saddened feeling, as he looked down upon him. "He was a faithful fellow, and had few equals. I'm sorry he's dead."

"Oonamoo ain't dead," said the prostrate individual, opening his eyes, and getting upon his feet with some difficulty. "Play 'possum—dat all."

"You're a good one," said George Dernor, admiringly, as he supported him. "You've had considerable of a hurt though, along side of your noddle."

"Hit purty hard—hurt a leetle," said the Huron.

"We'll dress your wounds as soon as we reach the brook out in the woods. What did you play 'possum for?"

"Fool Shawnee—fool Miami—t'ink dey cotch Lew and gal, den come and git Oonamoo scalp. If t'ink he ain't dead, kill him; wait till get out of sight, den run."

The meaning of which was, that the Huron, upon being felled to the earth, concluded it best to feign death until his enemies were out of sight, when he would have risen to his feet and fled. The wound he had received was so severe, that he knew his flight would be difficult and tardy, and he, therefore, avoided giving any signs of life as long as he had reason to believe the savages were in the vicinity. Of course he was perfectly conscious when the two Riflemen stood over him, and heard their words. Understanding at once from these the changed condition of affairs, he arose to his feet, as we have mentioned.

A few minutes later, the party was moving slowly through the wood. The brothers Smith led the way; behind them came Sego and Edith far more affectionate and loving than she and Dernor had ever been. The latter, with his brother, and Allmat and Oonamoo, brought up the rear. In a few minutes they reached the brook, where the party halted.

The stoical Huron had borne up like a martyr thus far; but the precipitation with which he sought a seat the moment a pause was made, showed that he had taxed nature to the utmost. The cool fluid was taken from the brook in the canteens of the hunters, all the blood thoroughly washed from the Indian, and then the wound was carefully bandaged by Edith, from pieces of her own dress. This done, the savage rose to his feet—his head being so swathed and bundled up that it was nearly thrice its ordinary size—and looked about him with an air that was truly amusing.

"You'll be all right agin in a few days," said Harry Smith. "Let's move on, as the day is getting well along."

"Oonamoo don't go furder—leave you here," said the savage.

"How is this? Come, go with us to the settlement and stay till your wound gets better," said Lewis.

All joined their entreaties, but it availed nothing. The savage had made up his mind, and it could not be changed.

"Can't stay—Shawnees, Delawares, all round—git much scalp in woods," and waving them an adieu, he plunged into the forest.

"Injin is Injin!" said Jim Smith; "you can't change his nature. The missionaries have had a hold of him, and made him an honorable red-skin, but they can't get that hankering after scalps out of him. Shall I tell you where he's going? He's going back: to the clearin' where them dead Injins are stretched, and intends to get their top-knots. I seen him look at 'em very wishful-like when we started away. He was too weak, and he didn't want to do it afore Edith, or he'd 've had 'em afore we left that place."

[The next time the Riflemen encountered the Huron, it was upon the war-trail, and full a dozen more scalp-locks hung at his girdle!]

Again the party moved forward, now with considerable briskness, there being no cause for tardiness or delay. Sego and Edith conversed in low tones, every look and action showing their perfect happiness, while the hardy leader of the Riflemen was as wretched an object as it is possible to imagine. They had progressed several miles, when, as they descended a sort of hollow, they encountered O'Hara, hurrying along as fast as the shortness of his legs would permit.

"Hello!" he exclaimed, suddenly halting. "Is the row done with?"

"Of course it is," replied Harry Smith.

"Who finished it?"

"We all had a hand in it, I reckon."

"It's an all-fired shame. As soon as—where's Oonamoo?" he abruptly demanded, looking around him.

"Gone off in the woods for scalps."

"Didn't lose his?"

"No; although he come mighty nigh losing his head."

"It's an all-fired shame," resumed O'Hara. "As soon as he got inside the fort there with Lew, I streaked it for the settlement to get the boys. I told you to hurry, but after you got to the clearin', I wanted you to wait so that I could jine in the fun, and pitch in promiscuously. Why didn't you do it?"

"Matters were mixed up a little too much to allow us to wait," replied Lewis Dernor.

"S'pose they was, but I'm mad and want to lick somebody. Won't you fight, Lew?"

The latter merely smiled, and the party moved on, O'Hara being forced to bottle his wrath, as he could find no one upon whom to expend it. Occasionally, however, he and the brothers Smith had a war of words, but it amounted to nothing, being attended by no real ill-feeling upon either side.

It was just growing dark when the party reached the settlement. The delight with which the fugitives were welcomed by the settlers need not be described. Many had had the most painful apprehensions regarding Edith, and nearly every family felt as if one of its members had been restored, upon her return. And the confidence which they reposed in the gallant-hearted Rifleman, the reliance which they placed upon his prowess and bravery, were such that all felt his death would have been a public calamity.

The Riflemen remained several days in the settlement, there being no special cause for hurrying their departure. While the members of this small party enjoyed themselves to the utmost, the sadness and dejection of their leader was remarked by all. He was often seen wandering in the woods, silent and moody, resolutely refusing communication with any one. He carefully avoided Sego and Edith, until the latter, wondering more than the others at the cause of his changed behavior, sent word to him that she wished him to spend an evening with her. Dernor's first impulse was to refuse the invitation; but, on second thought, he concluded to accept it, and he returned a reply promising to call upon her on the following evening.

Edith was living with Smith, where Sego was also spending his time, and, from the wording of her invitation, he confidently expected to meet her alone. He was considerably disappointed and chagrined, therefore, on entering the room, to find Sego seated within a few feet of her, the expression of both faces showing that each was full of happiness and utterly delighted with each other. Both welcomed him, and when he had been seated, Edith asked, rather abruptly:

"Now, Lewis, what is the matter with you?"

"Nothing," he replied, looking at the toe of his moccasin, and feeling a little stubborn and ugly simply because his fair questioner was just the opposite.

"Now you needn't tell me that," she persisted. "What makes you act so strangely—and keep away from me as though you hated me?"

"You ought to know," replied the hunter, more sullenly than before.

"I? I am sure I do not. Pray, what is it?"

The hunter, who was acting much like a pouting child, refused to make answer. Edith laughingly repeated her question several times, but it was not replied to. Still laughing and blushing, she arose, and moved her chair close beside him; then, sitting down, placed one of her warm hands in his. Gently patting his embrowned cheek with the other hand, she asked, in that voice which none but the maiden can assume who is conscious of her power:

"Won't you tell Edith what troubles you?"

Matters were getting decidedly dangerous. There sat the sullen hunter, his head bent, his lips closed, and his eyes fixed resolutely upon the toe of his moccasin. Right before these eyes, so directly before them that the view of his foot was almost hid, was the beaming, laughing, radiant face of Edith, looking right up in his own, her eyes sparkling, and her countenance a thousand times more lovely than ever. Several times Dernor felt like catching her to his bosom, and kissing her lips again and again; but, as he was on the very point of doing so, he remembered that Sego was in the room, and felt more angered than ever, and gazed harder than ever at his moccasin.

"Won't you even look at me?" asked Edith, putting her open hand over his eyes, as if to pull his gaze down. He instantly looked her steadily in the face, without changing a muscle of his countenance, while she, folding her hands, returned the gaze with equal steadiness. Her lips, too, were resolutely closed, but her eyes fairly scintillated with mischief, and she seemed just able to prevent herself from laughing outright. How long this oculistic contest would have continued we can not pretend to say, but it was ended by Edith asking:

"What makes you look so troubled, Lewis?"

"Because I am," he replied, curtly.

"Tell me the cause, and I will do all I can to help it."

"It's you that have done it!" He spoke with deep feeling.

"I that have done it!" repeated the girl, in consternation. "Why, how did I do it?"

"Edith!" His words were ringingly clear. They were winged with reproof. "Do you want me to tell you?"

"Of course I do."

"When we were alone, you led me to believe that you loved me. As soon as you saw Sego you went right into his arms, and I was forgotten."

The lurking mirth and mischief in her face grew more perceptible each moment, while he was certain, although he did not look in that direction, that Sego was doing his best to smother a laugh.

"Well, what of that?" she asked, looking down from his face and toying with a button at his waist.

"What of that?" he exclaimed, indignantly. "It is the meanest thing a person could do."

The reader must be indulgent, and consider the circumstances in which the hunter was placed. The mischievous Edith was tormenting him. How could she, being a woman, help it?

"Don't you believe I love you?" she asked, after a moment's pause.

"Believe it? To my sorrow and mortification, I know you don't."

"Lewis!"

"You love Sego, and I can be nothing to you but one of many friends," he added.

"Yes, dearly do I love Sego!" the maiden replied, with the old roguishness in her eyes.

"Fudge!" he exclaimed, impatiently, and making a movement as if to move away. "Edith"—he spoke earnestly—"I can not bear this trifling. I am sorry you have treated me thus. I must leave you——"

"No, you must not leave me!" she as earnestly answered.

"Do you wish to keep me here longer, to mortify me?"

"I have something more to say to you."

"Say it quickly, then."

"In the first place, look straight into my eyes, as you did a few minutes ago."

The hunter did as requested, although it was a harder task than he suspected.

"Now," said Edith, "in the first place, I love you; and, in the second place, I love him (pointing to Sego); but (here a pause) I do not feel the same toward each of you."

"I shouldn't think you did, the way things looked in the clearing!"

Edith laughed outright, and then said:

"Lewis, let me tell you something. The man sitting there, whom you know as Ferdinand Sego, is my own father!"

"Is that so?" demanded Dernor, almost springing off his seat, "Then, by thunder, if you ain't the most noble gal in the wide creation, and I the biggest fool."

And he embraced her, unmindful of the presence of Sego, who seemed in danger of an epileptic fit from his excessive laughter.

"How is this? Let's understand matters," said the Rifleman, a few minutes later.

"I can soon explain," said Sego. "To commence at the beginning, my name is Ferdinand Sego Sudbury. I emigrated out in this western country some years since, with my wife, and only daughter, Edith, here. Shortly after, my wife died; and, feeling lonely and dejected, I took to wandering in the woods, making long hunts, to while away the time. You remember when I encountered you, and received an invitation to make one of your number. I accepted it, with the understanding that I could not spend my entire time with you. When not with you, I was at my own cabin, with my daughter. I joined under the simple name which you have known me by, for no reason at all save that it was a mere notion, I having used that name in the East on more than one occasion. I kept my relations with your band secret from Edith, as I did not wish to alarm her by letting her know that I took part in your desperate expeditions.

"It happened on one occasion, when wandering along the Ohio, on my return to my cabin, that I encountered a flat-boat, in which were several of my acquaintances. At their urgent request, I waded out, was taken on board, and accompanied them to their destination, down the river. Here I left them, and several days after reached my cabin. I found Edith gone. The undisturbed condition of the furniture forbade the supposition that she had been carried off by the savages. I endeavored to find her trail, but a storm obliterated all traces, and I was compelled to give her up as lost.

"It was quite a while before I rejoined you. When I did, I said nothing of my loss, not believing that you knew any thing about it. It seems singular that I should have omitted to mention it; but, I will not deny I had a lingering suspicion that Edith had eloped with some young hunter, whose acquaintance she had formed during my absence. After I had been with you some time, I mentioned her name, but, you not having heard it, I gained no satisfaction by doing so.

"What happened after this is known, perhaps, better to you than to me. If you love Edith, as I rather suspect you do, from all I have heard and seen, you are welcome to her. I know she has a strong affection for you."

It is wonderful how a matter like the one in question will become known in a small community. The next day there was not a person in the whole settlement who was not aware of what has been related in the last few pages, and there was not one who did not rejoice in the happiness of the noble-hearted leader of the Riflemen of the Miami.

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As we have hinted in the commencement of this work, the organization known by the name last mentioned, kept up its existence several years longer. Lewis Dernor remained its nominal leader, but, after his marriage, the exploits of its members became less frequent and noted. All, however, joined in the great border war which raged for several years previous to 1794. In Anthony Wayne's great battle of this year, Tom O'Hara and Allmat fell, and, as has been said in another place, the organization was broken up, never again to be revived. Lewis Dernor and Edith lived to a ripe old age, and their descendants at this day are among the most respectable and widely-known of the inhabitants of Southern Ohio.

THE END