THE WOODRANGER

A Story of the Pioneers of the Debatable Grounds

BY

G. WALDO BROWNE

AUTHOR OF “TWO AMERICAN BOYS IN HAWAII,” ETC.

Illustrated by

L. J. BRIDGMAN

NEW YORK A. WESSELS COMPANY 1907

Copyright, 1899

By L. C. Page and Company

(Incorporated)

All rights reserved

TO

Norman Stanley Browne

MY MERRY LITTLE SON HOPING IT WILL INTEREST AND INSTRUCT HIM THIS VOLUME IS MOST AFFECTIONATELY INSCRIBED

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CONTENTS.

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LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.

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[7]

INTRODUCTION.

In order to understand the scenes about to be described, it is necessary to take a hasty glance at the general situation in 1740 of the colonists in the vicinity of the Merrimack River. It should be borne in mind that New England was only a narrow strip of country along the seacoast, and was divided into four provinces,—Rhode Island, Connecticut, Massachusetts, and New Hampshire.

Unfortunately for the welfare of the pioneers in the last-named province, the boundary line between New Hampshire and Massachusetts was a matter of dispute for nearly a hundred years. The difference had arisen from a misconception at the outset in regard to the source of the Merrimack River, which was believed by its early discoverers and explorers to rise in the west and follow an easterly course to the ocean. Accordingly, the province of Massachusetts claimed not only all of the land to the southwest of the other province, but a strip three miles wide along the east bank of the stream to its supposed source in the great lake (Winnepesaukee), including not only the debatable [8]ground of Namaske, but a tract of country to its south and east, called the “Chestnut Country,” on account of the large number of those trees growing there.

In 1719 a part of this territory was settled by a party of colonists from the north of Ireland, known as Scotch-Irish, from their having previously emigrated to that country from Scotland. These settlers, who called their new town first Nutfield and then Londonderry, in honour of the county from whence they had come, supposed that the deeds and grants which they had received from the province of New Hampshire would allow them to hold the debatable ground. They were upright, courageous men and women, but were rigid Presbyterians, and for this reason met with little favour from their equally austere Puritan neighbours from Massachusetts.

In order to colonise the disputed territory, Massachusetts at about this time began a system of granting lands as a reward for meritorious service in fighting the Indians, and among others was a grant to the survivors of the famous “Snow Shoe Expedition” of the tract of land below Namaske Falls, which had gained the disreputable name of Old Harrytown. The leader of the expedition, Captain Tyng, was dead, but in honour of him the new town was named Tyng Township.

In one respect the settlers of Tyng Township were [9]fortunate. They arrived during one of those transitory intervals of comparative peace, which came and went during the long and sanguinary struggle with the Indians like flashes of sunlight on a stormy day. In 1725, following several victories of the whites over their savage enemies, foremost of which was Lovewell’s fight, the chief of the Abnaki Indians, then the leading tribe in New England, signed a treaty of peace at Boston. This treaty was not broken until 1744, and the whole history of Tyng Township is included within these two dates.

As stated above, some of the Scotch-Irish, under grants from New Hampshire, had already settled in the territory granted by Massachusetts to Tyng’s men, and an intense rivalry at once sprang up between the settlements. The English were determined and aggressive, the Scotch stubborn and ready to fight to the bitter end for what they considered their rights, and before long both sides were ready to resort to arms the moment an overt act of their rivals should seem to call for such measures.

G. Waldo Browne.

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THE WOODRANGER.

CHAPTER I. THE DEER’S LEAP.

As the distant baying of a hound broke like a discordant note upon the quiet of the summer afternoon, a youth sprang upright on the pinnacle of a cliff which reared its bald head above the surrounding forest, and listened for a repetition of the unexpected alarm.

The young listener presented a striking figure, the strong physique of limb and body brought into bold relief against the sky, and each feature clearly outlined, as he gazed into space. He was in his nineteenth year, above the medium height, but so symmetrical in form that he did not look out of proportion. His high cheek-bones, clear blue eyes, straight nose, well-curved chin, and firm-set mouth showed the characteristics of the Lowland sons of old Scotland. His name was Norman McNiel.

For nearly an hour he had lain there on the summit [12]of Rock Rimmon, gazing in a dreamy way over the broad panorama of wilderness, while his mind carried him back across the stormy sea to his early home in Northern Ireland, which he had left a year before to come to this country with his young foster-sister Rilma and their aged grandfather, Robert MacDonald, last of the noted MacDonalds of Glencoe.

“It was Archer’s bark!” he exclaimed. “He must have followed me, and now has started a deer from its favourite haunt in Cedar Swamp. Hark! there he sounds his warning again, and never bugle of bold clansman rang clearer over the braes o’ bonny Scotland. He is coming this way! Forsooth! A bonny hunter am I with not a grain of powder in my horn, and the last bullet sent on a fruitless errand after a wild bird. A pretty kettle of fish is this for a McNiel!”

Another cry from the hound at that moment, clearer, louder, nearer, held his entire attention, and sent the warm blood tingling through his veins. Far and wide over the valley rang the deep bass baying of the hound, the wooded hills on either side catching up the wild sound, and flinging it back and forth, until it seemed as if a dozen dogs were on the heels of some poor hunted victim.

The chase continued to draw swiftly nearer and nearer. As if the race had become too earnest for [13]it to keep up its running outcries, only an occasional short, sharp cry came from the hound. Soon this too ceased, and Norman was beginning to fear the chase was taking another course, when the sharp report of a firearm awoke the silence.

A howl from the hound quickly followed, while this was succeeded by a more pitiful cry, and the furious crashing of bodies plunging headlong through the thick undergrowth.

Immediately succeeding the renewed baying of the hound, Norman became aware of the sound of some one pushing his way rapidly through the growth off to his right, and at an acute angle to the course being taken by the deer. The next moment he was surprised to see a human figure burst into the opening at the lower end of the cliff, apparently making for the summit of Rock Rimmon. His surprise was heightened by a second discovery swiftly following the first. The newcomer was an Indian, carrying in his hand the gun with which he had shot at the deer.

Seeing Norman, instead of approaching any nearer the cliff, the red man abruptly changed his course, disappearing the next moment in the forest with the Indian’s peculiar loping gait.

“Christo, the last of the Pennacooks!” exclaimed Norman. “It was he who fired the shot. I—”

He was cut short in the midst of his speculation [14]by the sudden appearance of the hunted deer on the opposite side of the clearing.

Though Rock Rimmon has a sheer descent of nearly a hundred feet on the south, its ascent is so gradual on the north as to make it an easy feat to reach its top. A growth of stunted pitch-pines grew to within fifty yards of Norman’s standing place. The ledge was covered with moss in spots, while here and there a scrubby oak found a precarious living.

Although expecting to get a sight of the deer, as he imagined the fugitive to be, Norman was still considerably surprised to see the hunted creature bound out from the matted pines, and leap straight up the rocky pathway! Close upon its heels followed the hound, no longer keeping up its resonant baying.

The fugitive deer seemed to have a purpose in pursuing this narrow course, as it might have turned slightly to the right or left, and escaped its inevitable fate on the cliff. The large, lustrous eyes, glancing wildly around, saw nothing clearly. The blood was flowing freely from its panting sides, and it was evident its strength was nearly spent. To Norman, who had seen but a few of its kind, there was a human expression in the soft light of its great, mournful eye, and intuitively he shrank back, as he saw the doomed creature approaching.

[15]

In its fatal alarm the terrified animal had not seen him. In fact it seemed to see nothing in its pathway,—not even the precipice cutting off further retreat. As if preferring death by a mad leap over the chasm, it sped to the very brink without checking the speed of its flying feet! Norman held his breath with a feeling of horror at the inevitable fate of the poor creature. The hound, as if realising the desperate strait to which it had driven its prey, stopped. Then, with a last mournful glance backward, and a sharp cry of pain and despair, the deer sprang out over the dizzy brink, its beautiful form sinking swiftly upon the stony earth at the foot of Rock Rimmon!

“THE DEER SPRANG OUT OVER THE DIZZY BRINK.”

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CHAPTER II. THE WOODRANGER AND THE DEER REEVE.

So sudden and strange was the leap to death of the hunted deer, that Norman McNiel stood for a moment stupefied by a sense of horror at the strange sight. The hound, a magnificent animal, as if sharing its master’s feeling with an added shame for the part it had taken in the matter, crept to his side, and sank silently upon the rock at his feet.

“He escaped you, Archer,” said the young master, patting the dog on its head, “and me, too, for that matter. But I cannot see that either was to blame. The poor creature met his fate bravely.”

Then, to satisfy himself that the deer was really killed, he approached to the extremity of the cliff, and peered into the depths below. He discovered, at his first glance, the mutilated form of the creature. There could be no doubt of its death. The sound of footsteps at that instant arrested his attention. Looking from the shapeless body of the deer, he saw two men pushing their way through the dense [17]growth skirting the bit of clearing at the foot of the ledge.

The foremost of the newcomers was an entire stranger to him, though he guessed that he belonged to the Tyng colonists, who had settled below the falls. He wore a suit of clothes made from the coarse homespun cloth so common among the Massachusetts men, and his firearm was of the English pattern usually carried by them. He was not much, if any, over thirty years of age, with a countenance robbed of its slight share of good looks by a stubble of reddish beard.

His companion, whom Norman remembered as having seen once or twice the previous season, was several years the senior of the other, and of altogether different appearance. He was clad in a well-worn suit of buckskin, the frills on the leggins badly frayed from long contact with the briars and brushwood of the forest. His feet were encased in a pair of Indian moccasins, while he wore on his head a cap of fox skin, with the tail of the animal hanging down to the back of his neck. Though bronzed by long exposure to the summer sun and winter wind, scarred by wounds, and rendered shaggy by its untrimmed beard, his face bore that stamp of frank, honest simplicity which was sure to win for the man the respect and confidence of those he met. The silver streaks in the hair falling in profusion [18]about his neck told that he was passing the prime of life. Still there was great strength in the long, muscular limbs, and, while he moved generally with a slow, shuffling gait, he was capable of astonishing swiftness of movement whenever it was called for.

He showed his natural instinct as a woodsman by the noiseless way in which he emerged from the forest, in marked contrast to the slouching steps of his companion. Stuck in his belt could be seen the handle of a serviceable knife, while he carried a heavy, long-barrelled rifle of a pattern unknown in this vicinity at that time. The weapon showed that it had seen long and hard service.

Norman was about to speak to him, when the other exclaimed, in the tone of one announcing an important discovery:

“Look there, Woodranger! if you want to believe me. It’s the critter that got the shot we heerd, and it’s a deer as I told ye. A shot out o’ season, too, mind ye, Woodranger. Ef I could clap my eyes on the fool he’d walk to Chelmsford with me to-morrer, or I ain’t deer reeve o’ this grant o’ Tyng Township, honourably and discreetly ’p’inted by the Gineral Court o’ the Province o’ Massachusetts.”

“It seems to me, Gunwad,” said his companion, speaking in a more deliberate tone, as he advanced to the deer’s mutilated form, “that the creetur must have taken a powerful tumble over the rock hyur. [19]I reckon a jump off’n Rock Rimmon would be nigh ’bout enough to stop the breath o’ most any deer.”

“What made the deer jump off’n the rock, Woodranger? It was thet air dog at its heels! And ef there ain’t a hunk o’ lead in the critter big ernough to send the man thet fired it to Chelmsford I’ll eat the carcass, hoofs, horns, and, hide.”

With these words he bent over the still warm body of the deer, and began a diligent search for some sign of the wound supposed to have been made by the shot.

Woodranger dropped the butt of his rifle upon the ground, and stood leaning on its muzzle, while he watched with curious interest the proceeding of his companion.

Gunwad’s search was not made in vain, for a minute later he held up between the thumb and forefinger of his left hand, which was reeking with blood from its contact with the dead deer, the bullet he had hoped to find.

“What do you think of it now?” he demanded, showing by his tone and manner that he was highly pleased with his discovery. “What do ye call thet?”

“I suppose it would require no great knowledge o’ warfare to pronounce it a bullet,—leastways a pellet o’ lead fit for the weepon o’ a red. It was never the bullet o’ a white man’s gun. But that [20]does not enter into the question. That bullet was not the death o’ this deer.”

“You’re talking at random now. Mebbe it didn’t kill the deer, but ef the dog hadn’t driven the critter over the rock, thet lead would hev fixed it for salting.”

“I’m not so sure o’ that, friend Gunwad. If you’ll look a leetle cluser you’ll see that the bullet didn’t touch any vital. It sort o’ slewed up’ards and side—”

“Much has thet got to do erbout it!” broke in Gunwad, beginning to show anger. “I shall begin to think ye air consarned in the matter. Fust ye say it wasn’t the bullit o’ a white man, and I should like to know what cause ye hev for saying thet.”

“It was never run by any mould,” replied Woodranger, calmly, as he took the bullet in his hand; “it was hammered out.”

“Say!” exclaimed Gunwad, suddenly changing the drift of the conversation, “Ye’re a sharp one, Woodranger. They say ye’re the best guide and Injun trailer in the two provinces. Help me fasten this bizness on that Injun at the Falls, and I’ll gin ye the best pair o’ beaver skins ye ever sot eyes on for years.”

“You mean Christo,” said the other.

“I reckon he’s the only red left in these parts, and ’arly riddance to him! Jess show thet is an [21]Injun bullit, and I’ve settled his ’count, sure’s one and one make two.”

“That savours too much o’ wanton killing, Gunwad. I ain’t no special grudge ag’in this Christo, though it may be I have leetle fellowship for the race. There be honest men, for all I can say, among the dusky-skins, and Christo may be one o’ ’em. At any rate till I ketch him in red devilryment I’m not going to condemn him. Ah, Gunwad, I ’low I live by the chase, and if I do say it, who has no designment to boast o’ the simple knack o’ drawing bead on wildcat or painter, bear or stag, Old Danger never barks at the same creetur but once; but he never spits fire in the face o’ any creetur that can’t do more good by dying than living.”

“Look here, Woodranger!” exclaimed Gunwad, impatiently, “I can see through yer logic. Ye air ag’in this law o’ protecting deer.”

“I’m ag’in the law that’s ag’in man. ’Tain’t natur to fill the woods with game, and then blaze the trees with notices not to tech a creetur. Mind you, I’m ag’in wanton killing, and him don’t live as can say I ever drew bead on a deer out o’ pure malice. I have noticed that it’s the same chaps as makes these laws as are the ones to resort to wanton destruction. To kill jess for the fun o’ killing is wanton. It is the great law o’ natur for one kind to war on another, the strong on the weak, from the biggest brute to [22]the smallest worm, and man wars on ’em all. If he must do so, let there be as much fairness as is consistent with human natur. No, I’m not a liker o’ the law that professes to defend the helpless, but does it so the wanton slayer can get his glut o’ slaughter in a fall’s hunt. I—”

The Woodranger might have continued his rude philosophy much longer had not a movement of the hound on the cliff attracted their attention, and both men glanced upward to see, with surprise, Norman McNiel looking quietly down upon them.

“Hilloa!” exclaimed Gunwad, divining the situation at once, “here is the deer slayer, or I’m a fool. Stand where ye air, youngster!” raising his gun to his shoulder, as he spoke.

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CHAPTER III. NORMAN MEETS HIS ENEMY.

“Don’t make any wanton move,” warned Woodranger. “If I’m not mistaken the younker is one o’ the Scotch settlers on the river, and he’s a likely lad, or I’m no jedge o’ human natur’.”

“I jess want him to know he ain’t going to play Injun with me,” replied Gunwad. Then, speaking in a louder key to Norman, he said:

“Climb down hyur, youngster, and see thet ye air spry erbout it, for I don’t think o’ spending the night in these woods.”

“I will be with you in a moment,” said Norman, starting toward the west end of the cliff, where he could descend with comparative ease. He had overheard enough to understand that Gunwad would prove no friend to him, though he did not realise the deer reeve’s full intent.

“One o’ ’em condemned furriners!” muttered Gunwad. “I’d as soon snap him up as thet copper-skin. Hi, there, youngster! be keerful how ye handle thet shooting-iron,” as Norman inadvertently lifted the [24]weapon toward his shoulder in trying to avoid a bush.

“You have nothing to fear, as it isn’t loaded. I—”

“Isn’t loaded, eh?” demanded the deer reeve. “Let me take it.”

Norman handed him the firearm, as requested, and then turned to look at Woodranger, who was watching the scene in silence, with a look in his blue eyes that it was difficult to read.

“I reckon I’ve got all the evidence I shall need,” said Gunwad, after hastily examining the gun. “You’ll need to go with me to Chelmsford, youngster, to answer the grave charge of shooting deer out o’ season. It’ll only cost ye ten pounds, or forty days’ work for the province. Better have waited ernother day afore ye took yer leetle hunt!”

“I have shot no deer, sir,” replied Norman. “Neither have I hunted deer.”

“Don’t make yer case enny wuss by trying to lie out o’ it. The circumstances air all ag’in ye. Air ye coming erlong quiet like, or shall I hev to call on Woodranger to help me?”

“Where are you going to take me?” asked Norman, feeling his first real alarm. “Grandfather will be worried about me if I go away without telling him—”