CHAPTER I.

It was a hot, sultry morning in the latter part of August, 1811.

A dugout canoe containing two occupants was swiftly speeding down the Scioto, at a point near which the city of Columbus now stands.

The clear green water wimpled musically at the bow of the vessel, and a frothy wake bubbled and eddied at the stern. The surface of the stream lay cool and dark in the shadow of the overhanging trees; but where the red rays of the rising sun shot through the dense foliage and fell upon the pulseless bosom of the sluggish tide, they gave it the metallic luster of burnished copper. Great trees ranged themselves as stalwart sentinels along the shores, a part of the grand army that stretched away to the far distance on either hand. Their leaves were dark-green and glossy. Yellow and purple wild flowers lifted their fair faces to the morning sun and nodded a welcome. Feathered songsters fluttered among the gray boughs and chirped and warbled merrily. A venturesome fish popped several feet out of the water—just ahead of[8] the swiftly flying dugout—and flashed its silver scales in a tantalizing manner.

The occupants of the canoe gave little heed to the beauties of the scene. Seated in the bottom of their quivering, rocking craft, they rapidly and rhythmically dipped their light paddles. At each stroke the frail vessel lifted itself and sprang forward, like a thing of life. The forest receded from the western bank of the river, and low-lying fields of tall, rank corn took its place. Walled in by the growing maize, lay the straggling village of Franklinton—a cluster of rude log-huts. Cleared spaces appeared in the woods upon the eastern shore; and several cabins stood out against the background of encircling trees—the germ, the nucleus of the Capital City of to-day.

The two paddlers looked neither to the right, nor to the left, but laboriously bent to their work. Suddenly a man parted the bushes upon the western shore and, stepping down to the water’s edge, called lustily:

“Hello! That you, Ross Douglas?”

“Yes,” answered the man in the stern of the dugout. “What do you want?”

Both paddlers ceased their efforts and allowed the craft to drift with the lazy current.

“W’y, y’r dog come to my cabin this mornin’—all wet an’ draggled as though he’d swum the river,” returned the voice from the shore. “He ’peared to be tuckered out an’ hungry—an’ went whinin’ ’round as if he was huntin’ fer you. I fed[9] him, an’ then tied him up in the cabin. Do you want him?”

The paddler in the bow of the canoe turned his head and looked at his companion, at the same time uttering a grunt of surprise and incredulity.

“You may keep him until I come back,” called the man who had answered to the name of Ross Douglas, lifting his paddle and preparing to resume his journey.

“Hold on there, Ross!”—shouted the individual on shore. “What do you mean—where’re you goin’?”

“Going to join General Harrison’s army at Vincennes.”

And the suspended paddles dipped, and the dugout leaped forward.

“Stop, I say!” bellowed the man who had hailed the voyagers, running along the shelving sands and gesticulating wildly. “Ross Douglas, you ain’t a goin’ to run off like that an’ leave an ol’ friend, without shakin’ his paw an’ biddin’ him good-by—I’m danged if you are! Stop, ’r I’ll send a bullet spinnin’ out there—I will, by Sally Matildy!”

“But I’m in a hurry,” Douglas laughed good-humoredly.

“It don’t make no differ’nce,” persisted the other. “Come in here.”

“Turn the prow toward shore, Bright Wing,” Douglas said in a low tone to his companion.

“Ugh!” grunted the latter—and obeyed.

[10]

A few moments later the canoe beached itself and the two paddlers sprang ashore. The one who had occupied the bow of the craft was an Indian—young, lithe, and strong. His forehead was high and narrow; his nose, slightly aquiline. His eyes were small, black, and piercing; his brawny chest and muscular arms were bare. His straight, blue-black hair—braided and ornamented with beads and perforated shells and coins—reached his waist. Breeches, leggings, and moccasins of tanned buckskin constituted his dress. In his belt were tomahawk and scalping-knife; and he carried a heavy rifle. He belonged to the Wyandot tribe, and was an adopted son of the noble chief, Leatherlips.

The Indian’s companion was an American—tall, active, and sinewy. His complexion was swarthy; his steel-gray eyes were bold and keen. But the stern cast they gave to his countenance was relieved by a pair of smiling lips, indicating gentleness and great good-nature. A mass of soft brown hair clustered in short ringlets about his temples and rippled down upon his broad shoulders. The well-fitting suit of buckskin that he wore revealed the rounded contour of his shapely limbs; and the broad-brimmed soft hat that surmounted his silky curls set off his dark beauty to the best advantage. His weapons were of the finest workmanship, and gave evidence of the loving care their owner bestowed upon them. Apparently he was about twenty-eight years old.

The man who had hailed the two voyagers—and whom they now stood facing—was a typical backwoodsman[11] of middle age. His face was oppressively ugly—prominent nose, wide mouth, and pale-blue, watery eyes. His hair was scant and straw-colored; his body and limbs, were long, lank, and ungainly. His garb was in keeping with his character—hunting shirt and breeches of coarse linsey-woolsey, heavy cowhide boots, and peaked fur-cap. He was a grotesque, incongruous bundle of bones and sinews—a whimsical, eccentric hunter and trapper. But a more valiant, loyal, and loving heart, than Joe Farley had, never beat in man’s bosom.

Now he stood leaning upon his long rifle, a quizzical smile illuminating his rugged features.

“What do you want, Joe?” Douglas demanded briskly.

“Want to know where you’re bound fer,” came the drawling reply.

“I told you—to Vincennes, to join Harrison’s army,” Ross answered, a shade of annoyance in his tone.

“You don’t mean it?”

“But I do.”

“Is the Injin goin’, too?”

“Ugh! Me go, too,” said the redman, drawing himself up proudly.

“Seems to me it’s goin’ to be a strange sort o’ war,” Farley chuckled dryly. “Injins an’ white men on one side—an’ white men an’ Injins on t’other. ’Cause that’s what it’s comin’ to. The danged Britishers has got the’r fingers in the pie ag’in—an’[12] ther’ ain’t no tellin’ where the thing ’ll stop. So, Bright Wing, you’re goin’ out to fight ag’in your own people, are you?”

“Not my people,” grunted the Indian, his black eyes flashing. “Me Wyandot—me fight Shawnees.”

“It don’t make no differ’nce—they’ve got red skins,” Joe remarked.

“Ugh! You much big fool!”

And the impulsive young warrior’s hand involuntarily sought the handle of his tomahawk.

Farley’s face flushed, and he cried sharply:

“Keep y’r hand off y’r hatchet, redskin. That’s a game two can play at.”

Quickly Douglas stepped between the two and, turning upon Farley, said sternly:

“Joe, you may not be a fool, but you’re acting the part of one, at any rate. You know as well as I that the Wyandots are the friends of the Americans, that the Shawnees are the allies of the British. Of course, there are traitors in both tribes; but what I have stated is true in the main. Bright Wing is my comrade—your friend. If you’re a man, you’ll beg his pardon.”

“An’ that’s jest what I’m goin’ to do,” Farley shamefacedly muttered. “’Pears that I’ll never git to understandin’ Injins. They’re so danged touchy.”—This in an aggrieved tone.—“But I had no business to be tormentin’ Bright Wing—he’s a redskin with a white man’s heart in his breast.[13] Injin, here’s my hand. I didn’t mean to hurt y’r feelin’s.”

“All right—me know,” murmured Bright Wing in guttural accents.

Then he moved aside and seated himself upon the prow of the canoe.

“Now, Joe, we must be off,” Ross began hurriedly.

“You mean what you’ve said—you’re goin’ to jine the army?” Farley interrupted.

Douglas nodded.

“Goin’ to leave y’r land an’ everything an’ go off to fight Injins—an’ Britishers, maybe?”

“The land will keep,” Ross laughed. “Little good it does me, at any rate. I have never cut a stick of timber upon it.”

“That’s what I mean,” replied the other earnestly. “You ort to stay an’ clear it up an’ make a home of it. Quit y’r huntin’ an’ traipsin’ ’round with such fellers as me an’ Bright Wing, an’ settle down. It don’t make much differ’nce what I do. But you’ve got book learnin’ an’ good sense. You’re wastin’ y’r time.”

“I’m well pleased with the life I lead, Joe.”

“That’s jest the trouble—you’re too well pleased with it.”

“I promise you I’ll reform when I return.”

“An’ you’re goin’ away an’ leave that little sweetheart o’ your’n?”

“You mean Amy Larkin?”

“Of course.”

[14]

“Yes, I must leave her. But I shall be back soon—in a few months, perhaps. Then I’ll marry her and settle down—become a model husbandman.”

“You’re puttin’ off till to-morrer what you ort to do to-day.”

“What do you mean, Joe?”

“You know ol’ man Larkin don’t like you none too well—jest on account o’ y’r shiftless ways, as he calls it?”

“I am aware that he doesn’t look upon me as a promising son-in-law—yes.”

“An’ he does think a heap o’ George Hilliard?”

“Y-e-s.”

“Well, you won’t be gone a month till George Hilliard ’ll be standin’ in y’r shoes.”

“I have no fears on that score.”

“All right!—but you’ll see. Gals is gals—they’re all false an’ fickle. A bird in the hand’s worth two in the bush, Ross. You’d better stay here an’ be gittin’ a cage ready fer y’r bird. Ol’ Sam Larkin’s got a heap o’ good land—an’ a heap more money. He’s rich. An’ Amy’s a purty nice gal—an’ the only child. You don’t want to let all that slip through y’r fingers, my boy.”

“You’re talking nonsense, Joe. Amy loves me—she don’t care a fig for George Hilliard. I’ll marry her on my return, with or without her father’s consent. Hilliard is a Canadian—an English sympathizer. Mr. Larkin will not forget that. Besides, if we have another war with Great[15] Britain—as appears likely—this neighborhood will become too warm for the forehanded George. I care nothing for Amy’s prospective fortune, but I love her. And I’m going to marry her, no matter who may oppose.”

The young man’s chest heaved, and defiance to the whole world shone in his gray eyes.

“It’s a good thing to have plenty o’ grit an’ confidence,” Farley chuckled; “but ther’s a chance o’ havin’ too much o’ even a good thing—I swan ther’ is! An’ lawzee! Hain’t I had the ’xperience? Many’s the purty, rosy-cheeked gals I could ’ave got in my younger days. W’y, they used to tag after me an’ pester me ’most to death. I’ve had more’n a dozen of ’em dead in love with me at one time—fairly scratchin’ each other’s eyes out, quar’lin’ ’bout which one ’ld git me. All of ’em love-sick over my beauty—my purty form an’ features. But I jest stuck my nose up in the air an’ passed ’em by. An’ see me to-day! I’m an everlastin’ warnin’—a livin’ monument to disap’inted love an’ dangnation foolishness. Ther’ ain’t a piece o’ linsey-woolsey in the whole settlement that’ll even look—Snakes an’ garters! What’s that?”

Both white men started. The Indian stolidly maintained his position upon the prow of the canoe; but his ready finger rested upon the trigger of his gun. A heavy body came crashing through the weeds and bushes upon the bank. Then the vines and branches parted; and, with a hoarse yelp of joy, a large dog sprang into the open and crouched at[16] Douglas’s feet. He was a magnificent black-and-tan animal, lithe and strong as a panther—an immense bloodhound. He was wet and muddy; and as he lay at his master’s feet, he rolled his red-rimmed eyes and panted and whined. A piece of thong was about his neck, to which was fastened a short sharpened stake.

“Well, if that don’t beat my reckonin’!” bawled Farley, opening his wide mouth and hawhawing heartily. “How in the name o’ Julius Cæsar did that dog ever git loose? That stake was druv in the hard floor o’ my shack, deep enough to hold a bull—it was, by the Queen o’ Sheba! An’ he’s pulled it up. But how in the plague did he git out o’ the cabin? Must ’ave crawled up the chimbly—by cracky! ’Cause I latched the door as I come out—I’m certain of it. Dang-it-all-to-dingnation! But it does beat all!”

The dog now attempted to raise his head and lick his master’s hand. Failing in this, he slowly arose to his feet, tremulously wagged his tail, and beseechingly fastened his eyes upon Ross’s face. Then he whined.

“Down, Duke!” Douglas commanded sternly.

The dog obeyed; but rolled his great eyes upward toward the being he loved and worshiped, as though begging pardon for his misconduct.

“Joe, I want you to take him back to your cabin and keep him until I return. I tried to run away from him this morning, but he has trailed me—although I traveled by water. I left him at the[17] Wyandot village above here. Take him away, Joe; I can’t bear to leave while he’s looking at me like that.”

And there was a quaver in Ross Douglas’s voice.

“Duke him much good dog—him heap big brave,” volunteered Bright Wing, nodding vigorously.

“Quick, Joe—take him away,” Ross said huskily.

“I ain’t a-goin’ to do it,” replied Farley, with a stubborn shake of the head.

“Why?” Ross inquired in surprise.

“’Cause the dog loves you an’ ort to go with you—that’s why. He’ll jest natur’ly pine away an’ die if you leave him behind you.”

“But I can’t take him with me,” Douglas argued; “he would be in the way—he would get himself and me into trouble.”

“Ther’s another reason why I won’t take him back to my cabin,” Joe remarked, his pale eyes twinkling.

“What is it?”

“Jest this: If you’re goin’ to war, I’m goin’ with you. I hain’t got a chick n’r child to leave—an’ I’m goin’.”

“You?”

“Yes.”

“With Bright Wing and me?”

“Fer sure.”

“I thought you were opposed to my going?”

[18]

“I was—an’ I am yit. But if you go, I go, too.”

“Perhaps we don’t desire your company.”

A smile fluttered about the corners of Ross’s mouth.

“It don’t make no differ’nce,” was the dogged reply; “I’m goin’ anyhow. So move y’r things ’round in the dugout an’ make room fer us. I’m all ready. Ding-it-all-to-dangnation! I can’t stay here an’ see you go—an’ I won’t.”

“Shall we take him, Bright Wing?” Douglas mischievously inquired.

“Ugh!” exploded the Indian. “Joe him got heap long gun—him shoot much straight. Him go. Three braves kill sight more bad Shawnees than two. Joe go.”

“Very well,” Ross said slowly, with assumed reluctance in his tone, “you shall go, Joe. Is there anything you want to bring from your hut?”

“Nothin’.”—With a decided shake of the head.

“In you go, then—and let’s be off.”

A few minutes later there were “three men in the boat—not counting the dog,”—and they were moving rapidly down the stream, in the shade of the overhanging trees. When some two or three miles below the village of Franklinton, Douglas addressed a few words in the Wyandot tongue, to the Indian, who again occupied the bow of the canoe. Bright Wing nodded and immediately turned the prow toward a little cove upon the eastern shore. A moment later the boat grated upon the sandy beach, and Ross sprang ashore.

[19]

“Keep Duke with you,” he cried as he ran lightly up the bank. “I’ll not be gone long.”

“Say! wher’ you goin’ now?” Farley called after him. But the young man did not deign to reply.

“I was a fool to ask the question,” Joe muttered to himself. “Might ’ave knowed he was goin’ to bid his sweetheart good-by. I jest fergot fer a minute we was opposite to ol’ Sam Larkin’s place. Down, Duke, an’ behave y’rself. Y’r master don’t need you in this affair. Oh, jeminy—no! Two’s company an’ three’s a congregation, when it comes to love-makin’. Hain’t I been through it, hey? Gol-fer-ginger! What a heart-breaker I was! S’pect I’ll never git fergiveness fer the way I’ve used the women. Dang-it-all-to-dingnation! W’en a man begins to git old, his youthful sins an’ follies all comes back to him. Mine ha’nts me o’ nights till I can’t sleep. An’ I can’t eat, neither. First thing I know I’ll worry an’ fret over the cruel way I’ve used the women folks, till my beauty’ll begin to fade—an’ like as not peter out entirely. An’ I wouldn’t ’ave that happen fer nothin’. Gol-fer-socks no! Say, Injin, ’ave you got any tobacker?”

Without a word Bright Wing opened the pouch at his side and gave the lugubrious Farley a handful of tobacco. The latter filled his short-stemmed pipe, lighted it, and puffed away in silence for some time.

The bloodhound lay watching the place where his master had disappeared. Presently he half[20] arose, shook his pendulous ears and growled ominously. Then, ere he could be restrained, he leaped from the canoe and dashed up the bank, into the woods. With an exclamation of surprise and anger, Joe stumbled ashore and set out in pursuit of the dog, closely followed by Bright Wing.

On leaving his friends, Ross Douglas entered the forest and hurried along a dim path, until he reached the edge of a clearing a few hundred yards from the river. In the center of this cleared space, and upon a slight elevation of ground, stood a double log-cabin with a hall or passage between the two rooms. The house stood facing the river; and the doors and windows were open. Back of the building was a field of corn surrounded by a fence of brush and poles, and in front of it lay a small patch of potatoes and garden vegetables.

Ross shaded his eyes with his hand and looked from his cool retreat, across the sun-baked clearing, toward the cabin. Presently a face appeared at one of the small windows. Douglas stepped forward and beckoned. Then he hastily sprang back among the trees. The face quickly disappeared from the window; and a few seconds later a young woman emerged from the door and tripped nimbly down the path leading to the fringe of woodland along the river-shore. She was neatly clad. Her frock was of linsey-woolsey; her shoes were of calfskin. A wide-brimmed straw hat set jauntily upon her brown hair added to the piquancy of her fair oval face. Her cheeks were rosy; her teeth, white, and even.

[21]

Entering the wood she called softly:

“Ross, where are you?”

“Here, Amy,” he answered in a low joyful tone, stepping from his place of concealment and hurrying toward her.

With a glad cry she sprang into his outstretched arms, and hid her blushing face upon his shoulder. For a full minute he strained her to his breast, and neither spoke. When at last she raised her face it was wet with tears; and a catch was in her voice as she said:

“And you are going, Ross?”

“I must go, darling,” he replied softly.

“Why must you go and leave me here alone?” she cried. “Why must you run into danger, Ross? Stay here with me—please do! You may never come back.”

“There—there, little one!” he whispered soothingly. “Of course, I shall come back. Then we’ll be married; and I’ll settle down on my piece of land and never leave you again.”

“But you may—may get—killed,” she sobbed.