CHAPTER I.

HISTORY AND A MYSTERY.

If, in the month of July, 1794, an observing white man could have traveled unmolested from the banks of the Ohio river due north to the famous Maumee rapids, he would have been struck with the wonderful activity manifested in the various Indian villages on his route.

No signs of idleness would have greeted his eye; the young warrior did not recline in the shadow of his birchen lodge enjoying the 2comforts of summer life in mid forest. If his image was reflected in the clear streams, it was but for a moment, as his lithe canoe shot from bank to bank. Everything between the two rivers portended war.

Indian runners were constantly departing and arriving at the several native villages, and excited groups of Shawnees, Delawares and Wyandots discussed—not the latest deer trails nor the next moon-feast, but the approaching contest for the mastery of power.

A few years had passed away since they had met and conquered Harmar and St. Clair. Those bloody victories had rendered the Indian bold and aggressive. He believed himself invincible, and pointed with pride to the scalps taken on the ill-fated 4th of November, ’91.

But a new foe had advanced from the south—treading in the tracks of St. Clair’s butchered troops, but with his stern eye fixed on victory. The Indians were beginning to exhibit signs of alarm—signs first exhibited at the British posts in the ““Northwestern Territory,” where the powers and generalship of Wayne were known and acknowledged.

It was the impetuous, Mad Anthony who led the advancing columns through the Ohio forests. He had entered the blood-drenched territory with the victory of Stony Point to urge him on to nobler deeds, and with the firm determination of punishing the tribes, as well as of avenging the defeat of his predecessors.

Tidings of his advance spread like wildfire from village to village, and councils became the order of day and night alike.

The Indians knew the Blacksnake, as they called Wayne, and some, in their fear, counseled peace. But that was not to be thought of by the chiefs and the young Hotspurs whose first scalps had been torn from the heads of Butler’s men.

Such sachems as Little Turtle, Blue Jacket, and Bockhougahelas stirred the Indian heart, and not a few words of encouragement came from the British forts on the Maumee.

Simon Girty and kindred spirits moved from tribe to tribe underrating Wayne before the august councils, until a united cry of “war to the knife!” ascended to the skies.

The chase suddenly lost its charms to the scarlet hunter; the dandy turned from his mirror to the rifle; the very air seemed heavy with war.

The older warriors were eager to lay their plans before any one who would listen; they said that Wayne would march with St. Clair’s carelessness, and affirmed that the order of Indian battle, so successful on that occasion, would drive the Blacksnake from the territory.

Under the Indian banner—if the plume of Little Turtle can be thus designated—the warriors of seven tribes were marshalling. There were the Miamis, the Pottawatamies, Delawares, Shawnees, Chippewas, Ottawas, and Senecas; and in the ranks of each nation stood not a few white renegades.

It was a formidable force to oppose the victor of Stony Point, and the reader of our forest romance will learn with what success the cabal met.

We have thought best to prelude our story with the glimpses at history just given, as it enables the reader to obtain an idea of the situation of affairs in the locality throughout which the incidents that follow take place.

It was near the close of a sultry day in July, 1794, that two men reached the right bank of the Maumee about ten miles below Fort Defiance, which Wayne had erected and garrisoned.

They looked like Wyandot warriors, painted for the warpath. They were athletic men, and one, as could be seen despite the profusion of paint which his face wore, was at least twenty years the other’s senior.

Long-barreled rifles were trailed at their sides, and their belts carried the Indian’s inseparable companions—the tomahawk and scalping knife.

“There goes the sun,” said the youngest of the pair in unmistakable and melodious English. “Look at the old planet, Wolf Cap, if you want to see him before he goes to bed. These are dangerous times, and one does not know when the sun sets if he will be permitted to greet it in the morning.”

“That is so, Harvey,” was the reply, in the brusque tone of the rough frontiersman, and the speaker looked at the magnificent god of day whose last streaks of light were crimsoning the water. “There was a time when I didn’t care if I never beheld the sun again. It was that night when I came home and found no house to shelter me; but a dead family among a heap of smoking ruins, and in a tree hard by a tomahawk buried to the handle.”

“You have told me,” the younger said, as if to spare his companion the pain of narrating the story of the Indian descent upon his cabin in Kentucky.

“So I have, but I never grow weary of talking about it. It makes me think of the revenge I have taken, and it nerves my arm anew. Boy,” and the speaker touched the youth’s shoulder with much tenderness, “boy, I was goin’ to say that I hope the Indians will never do you such an injury.”

“I hope not, Wolf Cap; but I hate them all the same.”

The frontiersman did not reply for a moment, but looked across the river longingly and sad.

“Harvey,” he said, suddenly starting up, “we have been separated for four days. Have you heard of him?”

“Of——” the young scout hesitated.

“Of Jim Girty, of course.”

“No; but we may obtain some news of him in a few moments.”

3“In a few moments? I do not understand you.”

“I will tell you. I am here by appointment,” said the youth. “In a few moments I hope to meet a person who will give me valuable information concerning the hostiles. She——”

“A woman?” interrupted the oldest scout. “Boy, you must not trust these Indian girls too far.”

“How do you know she is an Indian girl?” asked Harvey Catlett, starting.

“Because there are precious few white girls in these parts. Don’t trust her further than you can see her, Harvey. I would like to take a squint at the dusky girl.”

The youth was about replying when the dip of paddles fell upon his practiced ears, and Wolf Cap started back from the water’s edge, for he, too, had caught the sound.

“Indians!” he said, and the click of his rifle was not heard six feet away, but the youth’s painted hand covered the flint.

“No enemy at any rate,” he whispered, looking in the scout’s face. “Stay here till I return. It is Little Moccasin.”

Without fear, but cautiously, Harvey Catlett, Wayne’s youngest and trustiest trailer, glided to the edge of the water, where he was joined by a canoe containing a single person.

His giant companion rose, and, full of curiosity, tried to distinguish the features of the canoe’s occupant, who was met with a tender welcome at the hands of the young scout.

But the sun had entirely set, and the couple formed dark silhouettes on a ghostly background.

For many minutes the conversation continued at the boat, and the impatient Wolf Cap at last began to creep forward as if upon a napping foe.

“I want to get a glimpse at that girl,” he was saying to his eager self. “If I think she is soft soapin’ the young feller, why, this shall be their last meetin’.”

The young couple did not suspect the scout’s movements, and as he crouched not twenty feet from the boat and within ear shot, he was surprised to hear Catlett say:

“I’ll let you go when I have shown you to my friend. He wants to see you. Come, girl.”

Wolf Cap saw a lithe, girlish figure slip nimbly from the canoe, and when the youth turned his face toward the forest, as if to speak his name, he rose.

“Here I am,” he said. “Forgive me, boy, but I’ve been watchin’ you. Couldn’t help it, as you talked so long. So this is Little Moccasin?”

As the border man uttered the euphonious title he stooped, for he was almost unnaturally tall, and peered inquisitively into the girl’s face.

It was a pretty face, oval and faultlessly formed. The skin was not so dark as a warrior’s, and the eyes were soft and full of depth. Wolf Cap did not study the close-fitting garments, well beaded and fringed, nor did he glance at the tiny, almost fairy-like moccasins which she wore.

It was the face that enchained his attention.

All at once his hand fell from Little Moccasin’s shoulder, and he started back, saying in a wild, incautious tone:

“Take that girl away, Harvey! For heaven’s sake don’t let her cross my path again! And if you know what is good for yourself—for Wayne and his army—you will keep out of her sight. Is she not goin’?”

The excited scout stepped forward with quivering nerves as he uttered the last words.

“Yes, sir,” said the youth quickly, but throwing himself between the forest beauty and Wolf Cap. “She is going now.”

“And will you promise never to see her again?”

“We’ll talk about that at another time. Come.”

The last word was addressed to Little Moccasin, upon whose face an expression of wonderment rested, and Harvey Catlett led her to the canoe.

For several minutes he held her hand, talking low and earnestly the while, and then saw her send her light craft into the deep shadows that hung over the water.

When the sound of her paddles had died away the young scout turned to inquire into Wolf Cap’s unaccountable conduct; but to his surprise the rough borderman was not to be seen.

But Harvey Catlett was not long in catching the sound of receding footsteps, and a moment later he was hurrying forward to overtake his companion.

He soon came upon Wolf Cap walking deliberately through the forest, and hastened to address him.

“Here you are! Wolf Cap, I want to know who Little Moccasin is.”

The borderman did not stop to reply, but looked over his left shoulder and said, sullenly:

“I don’t know! Do you?”

Harvey Catlett was more than ever astonished; but a moment later, if it had not been for the dangerous ground which they were treading, he would have burst into a laugh.

CHAPTER II.

AN ERRAND OF MERCY.

Abner Stark, or Wolf Cap, was a man well known throughout Ohio and Kentucky in the border days of which we write. Moody and sullen, but at times possessed with a humor that seemed to reflect happier days; he was cherished as a friend by the Wetzels, Boones, and Kentons of the early west.

He had served as a scout under Harmar, St. Clair and Scott, and was among the first to offer his valuable services to General Wayne.

4It is needless to say that they were eagerly accepted, and in the campaign of 1793 that witnessed the erection of forts Recovery and Defiance, he had proved of great worth to the invaders.

Ten years prior to the date of our story the Shawnees, led by James Girty, crossed the Ohio and fell like a pack of wolves upon Abner Stark’s Kentucky home.

The settler, as we have already heard him narrate to young Catlett, was absent at the time, but returned to find his house in ashes, and the butchered remains of his family among the ruins. He believed that all had perished by the tomahawk and scalping knife.

By the hatchet buried in the tree which was wont to shade his home, he recognized the leader of the murderous band. From the awful sight he stepped upon the path of vengeance, and made his name a terror to the Indians and their white allies.

His companion on the occasion described in the foregoing chapter, was a young borderman who had distinguished himself in the unfortunate campaign of ’91. Handsome, cunning in woodcraft, and courageous to no small degree, an expert swimmer and runner, Harvey Catlett united in himself all the qualities requisite for the success of his calling. He was trusted by Wayne, from whose camps he came and went at his pleasure, questioned by no one, save at times, his friend Wolf Cap.

We have said that the singular reply given by Wolf Cap to the young scout shortly after the meeting with Little Moccasin almost provoked a laugh. The situation smacked of the ridiculous to the youthful borderer, and the time and place alone prevented him from indulging his risibles.

But when he looked into the old scout’s face and saw no humor there—saw nothing save an unreadable countenance, his mirth subsided, and he became serious again.

“We will not follow the subject further now,” he said; “I want to talk about something else—about something which I heard to-night.”

His tone impressed Abner Stark, and he came to a halt.

“Well, go on, boy,” he said, his hard countenance relaxing. “If you did get any news out of her, tell it.”

“The lives of some of our people are in danger,” Catlett continued. “Several days since a family named Merriweather embarked upon the Maumee near its mouth. Their destination is Wayne’s camp; they are flying to it for protection.”

“Straight into the jaws of death!”

“Yes, Wolf Cap. If they have not already fallen a prey to the savages, they are struggling through the woods with their boats, which could not stem the rapids.”

“How many people are in the company?” Stark asked.

“Little Moccasin says eight.”

“Women and children, of course?”

“Yes.”

“And is this known by the Indians?”

“Unfortunately it is.”

For a moment the avenger did not reply.

He appeared to be forming a plan for the safety of the imperilled family, and the young scout watched him with much anxiety.

“I don’t know the Merriweathers; never heard of them,” Wolf Cap said, looking up at last. “They are in great danger. There are women and children among them. I had a family once. We must not desert the little band that is trying to get behind Mad Anthony’s bayonets. God forbid that Abner Stark should refuse to protect the helpless from the tomahawk.”

“And here is one who is with you!” cried Harvey Catlett. “Let us go now.”

“Yes. We must not see Wayne before we have offered help to the Merriweathers. Are we not near the tree?”

“Nearer than you think. Look yonder.”

The speaker pointed to a tree whose great trunk was just discernible, and the twain hastened toward it.

About six feet from the ground there was a hole large enough to admit a medium sized hand, and Wolf Cap was not long in plunging his own into its recesses.

He withdrew it a moment later with a show of disappointment.

“Nothin’ from Wells and the same from Hummingbird,” he said, turning to Catlett.

“We are too soon, perhaps,” was the answer.

“They will be here, then. We may need their assistance. Hummingbird or Wells?”

“The first that comes.”

“That will do. Write.”

The young scout drew a small piece of paper from his bullet pouch, and wrote thereon with a pointed stick of lead the following message:

“To the first here:

“We have gone down the Maumee to protect a white family flying to Wayne. Follow us. No news.”

The message was dropped in the forest letter box, and the disguised scouts set out upon their errand of mercy and protection.

One behind the other, like the wily Indians whom they personated, they traversed the forest, now catching a glimpse of the starlit waters of the Maumee, and now wrapped in the gloom of impenetrable darkness.

Not a word was spoken. Now and then an ear was placed upon the earth to detect the approach of an enemy should any be lurking near their path. With the woodman’s practiced care they gave forth no sound for listening savages, and with eager hopes continued to press on.

The tree, with its silent call for help, was soon left behind, and the scouts did not dream that the robber was near.

5Not long after their departure from the spot, a figure halted at the tree, and a dark hand dropped into the letter box. With almost devilish eagerness the fingers closed upon the paper that lay at the bottom of the hole, and drew it out.

“A paper at last,” said the man in triumphant tones. “I knew I would find it sometime.”

The next moment the thief hurried towards the river with the scouts’ message clutched tightly in his hand.

Wolf Cap and Harvey Catlett would have given much for that man’s scalp, for at the time of which we write he was the dread of every woman and child in the Northwestern Territory.

His name was James Girty, and his deeds excelled in cruelty his brother Simon’s.

CHAPTER III.

THE TERRIBLE DISCOVERY.

Leaving the characters of our story already mentioned for a brief time, let us turn our attention to the devoted little band of fugitives who were flying through the gauntlet of death to Wayne’s protecting guns.

While Harvey Catlett was conversing with Little Moccasin, watched with a jealous eye by the tall scout, a large but light boat was nearing the foot of the famous Maumee rapids.

It kept in the center of the stream, as if its occupants believed that danger lurked along the shadowed banks, and consultation was carried on in whispers.

The boat thus slowly ascending the stream contained eight persons. Four were men, strong, active and with determined visages; the others consisted of a matron, a girl of eighteen, and two children whose ages were respectively twelve and fourteen.

Abel Merriweather, the matron’s husband and the father of the interesting ones grouped about her, was the oldest person in the craft; his male companions were George Darling, his nephew, an Englishman called John Darknight, and a young American named Oscar Parton.

To Darknight the navigation of the Maumee was well known, as he had spent much time upon its bosom, and he was serving the Merriweathers in the capacity of guide.

Abel Merriweather, a little headstrong and fearful, had overruled the counsel of true friends. He believed that his family was in danger while the roof of the cabin near the mouth of the Maumee sheltered it. The muttered growls of war made him timorous, and he saw no safety anywhere save behind the bayonets of Wayne. Therefore, in company with his nephew and Oscar Parton, who was his daughter Kate’s acknowledged suitor, and with John Darknight for a guide, he had embarked upon the perilous attempt of reaching Fort Defiance with his loved ones.

“Of course we cannot stem the rapids,” the guide said in response to a question from young Darling. “Our portage must now begin.”

As he spoke the boat began to approach the left bank of the stream.

“We are nearing the wrong bank,” said Parton.

“Of course we are,” the settler replied, noticing the boat’s course, and he turned upon the guide:

“What does this mean?” he demanded, with his usual brusqueness.

“Nothing dangerous, sir. You see that we can best journey up the left bank of the river. The Indians are massing in the south.”

“But I have been advised by the scouts of Mad Anthony to go up the right bank.”

“You have?”

“Yes, sir. If I understand you, you have not been in these parts for a month, while my informants and advisers were here but a week since.”

The guide did not reply for a minute, during which the boat continued toward the dusky shore, for his hand was upon the rudder.

“Pardon me, John,” the settler said; “but I feel constrained to listen to the scouts, one of whom was William Wells himself.”

“Wells, eh?” said Darknight, with a sneer. “Between you and I, Merriweather, I would not trust that Injun-bred fellow farther than the length of my nose.”

“I consider him a true man,” said Kate, the daughter, who had overheard the latter part of the conversation between her father and the guide.

“He doesn’t look like a rogue, and I am sure that he would not advise us wrongly on purpose.”

John Darknight did not reply to the girl’s remarks; but relapsed into sullenness, and doggedly turned the prow of the boat to the other shore.

“What do you think now?” whispered George Darling in the settler’s ear.