"No, it can do no good; besides I'm afoot, and would only cause delay, and thar's been too much o' that already."

"At least, sir, favor me with your name."

"The first white hunter o' old Kaintuck," answered the other, stroking the neck of the fiery beast on which the lady was now sitting.

"What!" exclaimed the other, in a tone of surprise: "Boone! Colonel Daniel Boone?"

"Why, I'm sometimes called colonel," returned the hunter, dryly, still stroking the horse's neck; "but Daniel's the older t.i.tle, and a little the most familiar one besides."

"I crave pardon for my former rudeness, Colonel," said the other, advancing and offering his hand; "but you were a stranger to me you know."

"Well, well, it's all right--I'd have done exactly so myself," answered Boone, grasping the young man's hand with a cordiality that showed no offence had been taken. "And now--a--how do you call yourself?"

"Henry Millbanks."

"Now, Master Millbanks, pray be speedy; for while we talk, our friends may die, and it goes agin nater to think on't," said Boone, anxiously.

As he spoke, he led forward the lady's horse past the other carca.s.s; while Henry, springing upon his own beast, followed after. Having seen them safely out of the ravine, the n.o.ble hunter turned back to wait the arrival of the expected a.s.sistance. He had just gained the center of the thicket, when he was slightly startled again by the growl of his dog, and the tramp of what appeared to be another horse, coming from the direction of Younker's. Hastily secreting himself, he awaited in silence the approach of the new comer, whom he soon discovered to be an old acquaintance, who was riding at a fast gallop, bearing some heavy weight in his arms. As he came up to the carca.s.s of Ella's horse, he slackened his speed, looked at it earnestly, then gazed cautiously around, and was about to spur his boast onward again, when the sound of Boone's voice reached, his ear; requesting him to pause; and at the same time, to his astonishment, Boone himself emerged into the path before him.

"Ha! Colonel Boone," said the hors.e.m.e.n, quickly; "I'm glad to meet ye; for now is a time when every true man's wanted."

"What's the news, David Billings?" inquired Boone, anxiously, as he noticed a troubled, earnest expression on the countenance of the other.

"Bad!" answered Billings, emphatically. "The Injens have been down upon us agin in a shocking manner."

"Heaven forbid thar be many victims!" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed Boone, unconsciously tightening the grasp on his rifle.

"Too many--too many!" rejoined Billings, shaking his head sadly. "Thar's my neighbor Millbanks' family--"

"Well? well?" cried Boone, impatiently, as the other seemed to hesitate.

"Have all been murdered, and his house burnt to ashes."

"All?" echoed Boone.

"All but young Harry, who's fortunately away to a wedding at Wilson's."

"Why, the one you speak of war just now here," said Boone, with a start; "and I sent him back to raise a party to trail the red varmints, who've been operating as you see yonder: Good heavens! what awful news for poor Harry, who seems so likely a lad."

"Yes, likely you may well say," returned the other; "and so war the whole family--G.o.d ha' mercy on 'em! But what's been done here?"

"Why, I suppose Ella Barnwell--Younker's niece, you know--and a likely young stranger who war along with her, called Reynolds, have been captured."

"Ha! well it's supposed Younker and his wife are captives too, or else that thar bones lie white among the ashes of thar own ruins."

"Good heavens!" cried Boone. "Any more, David?"

"Yes, thar's Absalom Switcher and his wife, and a young gal of twelve; and Ephraim Stokes' wife and a young boy of five; who war left by themselves, (Stokes himself being away, and his son Seth at the wedding, as was a son o' Switcher's also) have all bin foully mardered--besides Johnny Long's family, Peter Pierson's, and a young child of Fred Mason's that happened to be at Pierson's house, and one or two others whose names I disremember."

"But when did this happen, David?"

"Last night," replied the other. "It's suspected that the Injens ha bin warting round here, and took advantage of this wedding, when the greater part on 'em war away. It's thought too that thar war a white spy out, who gin 'em information, and led 'em on--as a villainous looking chap war seed about the vicinity not long ago."

"Do they suspicion who war the spy?" asked Boone.

"Why some thinks as how it war that thar accussed renegade, Simon Girty."

"Wretch!" muttered Boone, grasping his rifle almost fiercely; "I'd like to have old Bess, here, hold a short conflab with him. But what have you got thar in your arms, that seems so heavy, David?"

"Rifles, Colonel. I've bin riding round and collecting on 'em for this mad party of Younker's, who went off without any precaution; and I'm now on my way to deliver 'em, that they may start instanter arter the cussed red skins, and punish 'em according to the Mosaic law."

"Spur on then, David, and you may perhaps overtake some o' them; and all that you do, arm and send 'em here as quick as possible--for I'm dreadful impatient to be off."

The colloquy between the two thus concluded, the horseman--a strongly-built, hard-favored, muscular man of forty--set spurs to his horse; and bounding onward toward Wilson's (distant some five miles--the ravine being about half way between the residence of the groom and bride,) he was quickly lost to the sight of the other, who quietly seated himself to await the reinforcement.

In the course of half an hour, Boone was joined by some three or four of the wedding party, who bad been overtaken by Billings, learned the news, accepted a rifle each, bidden their fair companions adieu, and sent them and the horses back to the house of the bride, while they moved forward to meet danger, rescue the living, and seek revenge.

In the course of an hour and a half, Billings himself returned, accompanied by some seven or eight stout hearts; among whom were young Switcher, Stokes, Millbanks, and, lastly, Isaac Younker, who had been roused from the nuptial bed to hear of the terrible calamity that had befallen his friends. Isaac, on the present occasion, did not disgrace his training, the land which gave him birth, nor the country he now inhabited. When the messenger came with the direful news, although somewhat late in the morning, Isaac had been found in his bed, closely folded in the arms of the G.o.d of sleep. On being awakened and told of what had taken place, he slowly rose up into a sitting posture, rubbed his eyes, stared searchingly at his informant, gathered himself upon his feet, threw on his wedding garments, and made all haste to descend below; where he at once sought out his new wife, Peggy, who had risen an hour before; and grasping her by the hand, in a voice slightly tremulous, but with a firm, determined expression on his features, said:

"Peggy, dear, I 'spect you've heard the whole on't. Father, mother, Ella and Reynolds--all gone, and our house in ashes, I'm going to follow, Peggy. Good bye--G.o.d bless you! Ef I don't never come back, Peggy"--and the tears started into his eyes--"you may jest put it down I've been clean sarc.u.mvented, skinned, and eat up by them thar ripscallious Injens;" and turning upon his heel, as his tender-hearted spouse burst into tears, he seized upon same provisions that had graced the last night's entertainment, gave Black Betty a long and cordial salute with his lips, shook hands with his wife's father and mother, kissed Peggy once again, pulled his cap over his eyes, and, without another word, set forth with rapid strides on the eastern path leading to the rendezvous of Daniel Boone.

On the faces of those now a.s.sembled, who had lost their best and dearest friends, could be seen the intense workings of the strong pa.s.sions of grief and revenge, while their fingers clutched their faithful rifles with a nervous power. The greatest change was apparent in the features of Henry Millbanks. He was a fine-favored, good-looking youth of eighteen, with light hair and a florid complexion. The natural expression of his handsome countenance was an easy, dignified smile, which was rendered extremely fascinating by a broad, n.o.ble forehead, and a clear, expressive, gray eye; but now the floridity had given place to a pale, almost sallow hue, the forehead was wrinkled with grief, the lips were compressed, and the smile had been succeeded by a look of great fierceness, aided by the eye; which was more than usually sunken and bloodshot.

But little was said by any of the party; for all felt the chilling gloom of the present, so strongly contrasted with the bright hours and merry jests which had so lately been apportioned to each. Boone called to Caesar and bade him seek the Indian trail; a task which the n.o.ble brute flew to execute; and in a few minutes the whole company were on their way; with the exception of Billings; who, by the unanimous request of all, returned to Wilson's; to cheer, console and protect the females; and, if thought advisable, to conduct them to Bryan's Station--a strong fort a few miles distant--where they might remain in comparative security.

CHAPTER VIII.

THE INDIANS AND THEIR PRISONERS.

While the events just chronicled were enacting in one part of the country, others, of a different nature, but somewhat connected with them, were taking place in another. In a dark, lonely pa.s.s or gorge of the hills, some ten miles to the north of the scene of the preceding chapter, where the surrounding trees grew so thick with branches and leaves that they almost entirely excluded the sunlight from the waters of a stream which there rolled foaming and roaring between the hills and over and against the rocks of its precipitous bed, or, plunging down some frightful precipice, lay as if stunned or exhausted by the fall in the chasm below, mirroring in its still bosom with a gloomy reflection the craggy steeps rising majestically above it--in this dark and lonely pa.s.s, we say, was a party of human beings, to whom the proper development of our story now calls us.

The company in question was composed of eight persons, five of whom were Indians of the Seneca tribe;[5] the others--a thin-faced, gaunt, stoop-shouldered man past the middle age--a rather corpulent, masculine looking woman, a few years his junior--a little fair-haired, blue-eyed, pretty-faced girl of six--were white captives. Four of the Indians were seated or partly reclining on the ground, with their guns beside them, ready for instant use if necessary, engaged in roasting slices of deer meat before a fire that had been kindled for the purpose. The fifth savage was pacing to and fro, with his rifle on his arm, performing the double duty of sentinel and guard over the prisoners, who were kept in durance by strong cords some ten paces distant. The old man was secured by a stick pa.s.sing across his back horizontally, to which both wrists and arms were tightly bound with thongs of deer skin. To prevent the possibility of escape, both legs were fastened together by the same material, and a long, stout rope, encircling his neck, was attached to a tree hard by. This latter precaution, and much of the former, seemed unnecessary; for there was a mild look of resigned dejection on his features, as they bent toward the earth, with his chin resting on his bosom, that appeared strongly at variance with any thing like flight or strife. His female companion was fastened in like manner to the tree, but in other respects only bound by a stout thong around the wrists in front. The third member of the white party, the little girl, was seated at the feet of the old man, with her small wrists also bound until they had swollen so as to pain her, looking up from time to time into his face with a heart-rending expression of grief, fear and anxiety.

Of the Indians themselves, we presume it would be difficult to find, among all the tribes of America, five more blood-thirsty, villainous looking beings than the ones in question. They were only partially dressed, after the manner of their tribe, with skins around their loins, extending down to their knees, and moccasins on their feet, leaving the rest of their bodies and limbs bare. Around their waists were belts, for the tomahawk and scalping knife, at three of which now hung freshly taken scalps. Their faces had been hideously painted for the war-path; but heat and perspiration had since out done the artist, by running the composition into streaks, in such a way as to give them the most diabolical appearance imaginable. On each of their heads was a tuft of feathers, some of which had the appearance of having recently been scorched and blackened by fire, while their arms and bodies were here and there besmeared with blood.

The four around the fire were in high glee, as they roasted and devoured their meat, judging from their nods, and grins, and grunts of approbation, whenever their eyes glanced in the direction of their prisoners--the effect of which was far from consoling to the matron of the latter; who, having eyed them for some time in indignant silence, at length burst forth with angry vehemence:

"Well, now, jest grin, and jabber, and grin, like a pesky set o' natural born monkeys, that's ten times better nor you is any day of your good for nothing, sneaking lives. Goodness, gracious, marsy on me alive!"

continued the dame, whom the reader has doubtless recognized as Mrs.

Younker; "I only jest wish you had to change places with me and Ben here for about five minutes; and ef I didn't make your old daubed, nasty, villainous, unyarthly looking faces grin to another tune, I hope I may never be blessed with liberty agin in creation, as long as I live on the face o' this univarsal yarth!"

"Ugh!" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed the sentinel, turning towards the speaker, as she concluded her fierce tirade, at the same time placing his hand on the tomahawk in his belt with an angry gesture: "Ugh! me squaw kill--she no stop much talky!"

"You'd kill me, would ye? you mean, dirty, ripscallious looking varmint of the woods you, that don't know a pin from a powder horn!" rejoined the undaunted Mrs. Younker, in a vehement tone: "You'd kill me for using the freedom of tongue, as these blessed Colonies is this moment fighting for with the tarnal Britishers? You'd kill me, would ye? Well, it's jest my first nateral come at opinion, as I tolled Ben here, not more'n a quarter o' an hour ago, that you war jest mean enough for any thing, as ever war invented, in the whole univarsal yarth o' creation--so ef you do kill me, I won't be in the leastest grain disappinted, no how."