The Frontier Angel: A Romance of Kentucky Rangers' Life

"How are you going to get, then, the information of which you speak?"

"Just ax her the next time I see her. She knows me, and we've often talked together. She come and told me the other night 'bout the reds comin' down this way, and said I must go up and look 'round."

"Well, Dingle, find out what you can; I've no doubt you will. Perhaps it is time we separated, as there is enough for all to do. Mansfield, I believe, wishes to speak with you. Ah! here he comes."

Mansfield approached. His inquiries at first were the same as Abbot's, and receiving the same answers, he continued:

"How soon, Dingle, do you suppose the attack will be made?"

"To-night, sir."

"So Peterson said, and I suppose you must be right. You have no fears of the result?"

"No, sir; the Shawnees always attack in the night-time. I understand their capers. Ef it wa'n't for Frontier Angel, there would be a hard scratch, for we wouldn't have been fixed up so snug for 'em. I shouldn't wonder if thar' wa'n't much fight after all, when they find how things is."

"If they are to attack to-night, they cannot be far off?"

"No; they ain't many miles out of the way. It's now 'bout noon. They'll send thar' scouts ahead, and when the news reaches them that they are anxiously expected, they'll hurry up and git along afore dark."

"What will be their object in doing that?"

"You'll see; they'll hoot and yell, and make speeches to scare us, and make believe there's a heap of 'em. They'll order us to surrender, or they'll blow us to flinders. You'll larn sunkthin', you will. Freeze me to death, if you don't."

The afternoon gradually wore away, and the words of Dingle were found to be true. Vigilant sentinels were watching every point in the wood, and, at last, they discovered several Indians reconnoitering them. Every inhabitant was gathered into the block-house. All the men fully armed and anxious for the affray. Dingle and Peterson volunteered to enter the wood and spy out the movements and intentions of their enemies; but the commander would not permit it. He believed they could not escape being drawn into ambush, by the outlying scouts. Besides, he could not see what good could result from such an attempt. He peremptorily forbade any man recklessly exposing himself, or to attempt to execute any undertaking without orders.

Near the middle of the afternoon, some six or seven Indians were continually seen, flitting from tree to tree, and approaching the settlement as nigh as they dared. They seemed to make no attempt to conceal themselves, and often boldly exposed themselves upon the edge of the clearing. They viewed the settlement from every point possible for them to reach, and could not avoid the discovery that the whites were abundantly prepared for the assault.

Growing bolder and bolder, at the continued silence within the block-house, one of the Indians strode fearlessly out into the clearing, and stepping upon a large stump, shook his hand in a warning manner toward it. That instant there was the sharp crack of a rifle, the Indian made a hurried jump from the stump and hobbled away into the wood. As he did so he could not help hearing the loud laugh that greeted his exit.

"Guess he run a splinter in his foot!" remarked Peterson, who had fired the shot.

"Forgot sunkthin', I guess," added Dingle. "Hello! the reds have come!"

Others were now visible, and the number increasing, the wood appeared to swarm with them. They passed and repassed, and finally the majority appeared upon the edge of the clearing. Here they remained stationary a moment, and then entered the wood again.

"Heavens! there are five hundred of them!" exclaimed Mansfield, in consternation.

"Git out!" laughed Peterson; "don't you understand that trick? They're showin' themselves half a dozen times over to scare us into knocking under. Thar's just 'bout a hundred of 'em, not one more, and they ain't a little scart themselves."

"Who is at the head of them?"

"Do you see that feller standin' off at one end like? kinder hid behind that tree?"

"Yes; but he isn't dressed like a chief."

"'Cause he ain't a chief, nohow. Don't you know him?"

"No, I never saw him before."

"I reckon you have. That ar' gentleman is Mr. Thomas McGable, that you've been wantin' to see so long."

At mention of this notorious renegade's name, there was a sensation among the whites. Abbot, Mansfield, and others strained to get a view of him through the loop-holes, and expressions of indignation were freely made.

"How nice I could pick him off," whispered Peterson to Mansfield, and he ran his eye along the glistening barrel of his rifle.

"Don't do it – don't do it," admonished our hero. "Remember your promise to Abbot."

"You needn't be afraid; shootin' would be too good for him. He's bound to know what the white men think of him afore he dies."

The marching, filing, and counter-marching continued a considerable time, when the commander within the block-house was heard to say:

"Hello! we're going to hear something."

"Just as I s'pected," said Dingle. "McGable's goin' to exhort us."

The renegade made his appearance, holding a white handkerchief suspended on a stick over his head, as a flag of truce. He walked forward, waving the fluttering signal conspicuously, until about half way between the forest and the block-house, when he mounted one of the stumps which were so numerous about him, and then he made a speech. First, he advised them as a friend to surrender; demonstrated the utter foolishness of hoping to resist such an overwhelming force as he had at his back, and pledged his honor that they should be treated humanely. Warming with his subject, he informed them what a mighty man he was; what he had done, and what he would do, and how all white men knew better than to resist him. If his summons to surrender were not heeded, he would blow the whole settlement sky-high, and tomahawk every man, woman, and child!

We regret we have not space to give this remarkable speech verbatim. It was so long and windy that we feel compelled to be satisfied with the above synopsis.

After the renegade had finished, he seated himself upon the edge of the stump, and waited for the commander's answer. The latter, without keeping him waiting, stepped boldly out upon the platform, and shouted in a voice, every syllable of which, Jenkins, who was several miles away in the forest, afterward averred he distinctly heard:

"Tom McGable! You may attack and be hanged!"

CHAPTER X.

IN WHICH THERE IS A FURTHER ACCOUNT OF THE SHAWNEES, THE SPEAKERS, AND JENKINS

After receiving the summary reply of the commander of the block-house, McGable arose, and without a word walked toward the wood. Here he seemed to spend a short time in consultation with the Indians; for they immediately after separated and disappeared among the trees.

"What does that mean?" asked Mansfield.

"They've drawn off, and will wait till night 'fore they try any of their games," replied Peterson. "We ain't done with 'em yet."

Such seemed to be the impression of all the others who had had any experience in Indian warfare. The Indians were too eager and well-prepared to be satisfied with anything short of an attempt to carry the block-house.

The night set in cold and stormy. The rain poured down in torrents, and the wind hurled it rattling against the block-house. The air, too, was of inky darkness, and the dismal sighing of the forest, the dull, murmuring roar of the Ohio, made the scene gloomy enough to the settlers. Had it not been for the incessant lightning, the time could not have been more favorable for the assault of the Indians. But the sharp, trembling streams of fire played constantly overhead, lighting up the forest and clearing as if at noonday, and the "near crashing of the thunderbolt" seemed to inspire the timid with a sort of valor – a peculiar bravery that they were strangers to at other times.

Dingle, Peterson, and the most experienced Indian-fighters never removed from their stations at the loop-holes during the night. The terrible storm that prevailed was of incalculable benefit to the whites in another particular. It prevented their assailants from using that most dreaded of all agencies – fire, in the assault.

The sentinels mentioned kept a continual watch from all sides of the block-house upon the wood and clearing. They knew too well that the continued silence of their enemies was more dangerous than open demonstration. Some deep-laid plan was hatching which was expected momently to develop itself.

Now and then a few syllables were exchanged between those within, but these fragments of conversation only seemed to make the gloom more impressive. No lights were burning, and none could see his neighbor. The men had all been assigned stations by the commander, which they did not offer to leave or exchange, while some of the women and younger portion, overcome by watching and the confined air, gave way to their drowsiness and slept feverishly and fitfully.

The hours between midnight and morning are the invariable ones selected by the North American Indian for making his attack upon his enemy. This strange being, so similar to the wild animal in more than one respect, seems to have learned many a lesson from him. Darkness, the stealthy approach and blow; the inevitable yell and leap in death; the howl of rage and disappointment; the chilling war-whoop; the persisting trailing of an enemy; the patient, silent watch; the black passions of revenge; the reveling in blood; all these are passions common to and a part of both.

It was at that hour, just beyond midnight, the most weird and gloomy of all, when a sort of stupor or indifference had fallen upon all except the most experienced, that Dingle gave the intelligence of the Indians having been seen upon the clearing, in the rear of the block-house. Almost at the same instant, Peterson added that they were also upon the front. Their course of action was now suspected at once; it was to attack the rear until the attention was concentrated in this direction, when a rush would be made upon the front, and an attempt to scale the palisades.

Every man was now upon the alert. The lightning, as if ordered of Providence, inflamed more incessantly, and nearly every step of the approaching savages could be seen. Some twenty were halting just beneath the edge of the wood, and evidently waiting for a moment of darkness in which to make a rush.

"H'yer they come!" said Peterson.

The same instant all saw them half way across the clearing, and almost immediately a dozen spouts of flame flashed from as many port-holes, and nearly half the Indians leaped wildly in the air and rolled quivering to the ground. The others wavered for a moment, and then scattered and took to the wood again.

"H'yer they am now, sartain!" called out Dingle.

The real attack was now attempted. Nearly the whole pack, yelling like so many tigers, rushed forward, and came up against the palisades like a hurricane. Here, as their heads appeared, by the aid of the friendly lightning, they were shot down by the cool and deliberate fire of the whites. The firing was as incessant as the lightning, and told with frightful effect upon the assailants. But the Shawnees are brave, when excited, and they maintained the assault most determinedly. McGable was soon seen several times, and three of the soldiers, as they afterward said, aimed nearly all of their shots at him. But fate seemed to protect him.

As the darkness blazed forth with the living fire, the block-house loomed forth, clear and defined, standing as it did, like a large, dark, motionless animal brought at bay by his dogged pursuers, and from whose hundred eyes the red bolts of destruction were hurled incessantly and wrathfully.

The Shawnees continued their desperate attempts to scale the palisades, growing more furious and revengeful at their repeated failures. But the steady, continual fire of the whites made dreadful slaughter, and they finally broke and fled in the wildest confusion to the wood. The shots from the block-house continued as long as a single Indian was visible.

"What do they now propose to do?" asked Mansfield.

"To git home 'bout as quick as their legs will let them."

"Good! Our success has been better than we could have hoped."

"Don't git excited now, 'cause it ain't noways sartin they've left yet."

"It makes no difference whether they have or not; it is all the same to us. We haven't lost a single man, while they have had twenty killed. They can't make a more vigorous attack than this last one, and they cannot possibly meet with a more complete repulse."

"I tell you that ef it hadn't been for the rain and the lightning, we'd have found things considerably summat different. In the first place, we wouldn't had the light to shoot by, and in the next they would've had some chance to give us a taste of what they had larned to do with fire."

"They've gone for home," said Dingle, decisively; "they won't bother us again very soon."

So it proved. An hour or two later, it began to become gray and misty in the east, the rain ceased falling, and gradually the light of morning stole over the wood and settlement. As the day broke, the scene was dismal and cheerless. The appearance of the forest, after a cold storm of rain has passed over it, always seems to wear its most disagreeable look. The dripping twigs, the branches loaded overhead with water, every rustle of which brings it down in torrents. The cold, sticky leaves, the wet, shining bark of the trees, and the chilling wind that soughs through the wood, all induce a feeling of desolation and dislike.

Such appeared the forest the morning after the attack. In the clearing, the bare, charred stumps seemed blacker than usual, and the beautiful river was now turbulent and muddy. Not a sign of the savages was seen. They had disappeared, carrying with them their dead and wounded; and the only vestiges of the conflict were numerous red spots in the clayey earth which the storm had not completely washed away.

Before it was light, Dingle and Peterson entered the wood to ascertain whether the Shawnees had really fled or not. They now made their appearance with the intelligence that they were not in the neighborhood, and there was no further cause for fear. The settlers, thankful and joyous, poured out of the block-house, carrying back their furniture and valuables, and by noon the settlement wore its usual appearance again.

One of the sentinels reported to the commander about this time, that there was still an Indian in the wood, apparently bent upon mischief.

"Draw bead and shoot him the first chance you get," was the reply.

With this determination, the sentinel betook himself to watching again. He was the only person acting in that capacity at this time, the commander deeming the assurance of Dingle and Peterson of enough weight to allow his men a good half day's rest.

Occasional glimpses of the supposed savage could be obtained; but it was a long time before the sentinel could bring his rifle to bear upon him. He dodged and flitted so rapidly that it seemed impossible; but becoming impatient and provoked, the sentinel at last raised his gun, took a quick aim at what he supposed to be his head, and blazed away.

"Consarn your old picter, who you shooting at?" called out the indignant Jenkins, as he stepped into the clearing.

The sentinel dropped his gun in amazement, and stared all agape at the speaker as he recognized him. Jenkins supposing his silence the result of fear, suddenly became valiant and again demanded,

"Say, who you shooting at? S'pose you'd have hit me. Smart, ain't you. You needn't look so innocent and drop that gun, and pretend you didn't do it. I seen you take aim and shoot, and I'll pay you for it, danged if I don't!"

By this time Peterson and several others appeared on the platform, and understanding how matters stood, their laughter was loud and continued. Jenkins indeed presented a comical and curious appearance. Naturally thin and bony, he now seemed doubly elongated, from the fact that his clothes were completely saturated, and clung tightly to his limbs. As he straddled indignantly forward, they flapped together, and it would have been no great stretch of imagination to suppose him a post gliding over the ground.

"Can't you answer? Who you shooting at?"

"Why at you, of course," replied the commander, striving vainly to restrain his gravity. Jenkins was heard to give a loud "umph!" and seen to shake his hand in a warning manner, when he was admitted into the gate and strode hurriedly toward the fort. The sentinel, who had gained his senses by this time, enjoyed the fun as much as the others, and determined to carry the joke through. He made no reply for the very purpose of giving Jenkins the idea he was sorely frightened at his mistake.

The indignant Jenkins soon made his appearance upon the platform, and observing the cowering sentinel shrinking behind the others, called out,

"You're the man, yes, sir! Come out here, and get half killed!"

"That's right, Jenkins, give it to him. He'll larn better than to fire at you agin," said Dingle, with an appearance of just indignation.

"Go in, long-legs, and hammer him," repeated the others.

"Yes! come out here and take it, you old coward, you!" shouted Jenkins, stepping around and rubbing his fore-arms as though he were rolling up his sleeves. "Come out here, I tell you!"

The men now pushed the trembling man from behind them, and retreated so as to leave the two in an open space and facing each other. The sentinel now put off all semblance of fear, and demanded in a gruff tone,

"What do you want?"

"Why, I want you to stand still while I hammer you half to death!"

"Hammer away, but if your head isn't cracked before five minutes, I'll stand treat, boys."

The astonishment shown by Jenkins at this unexpected change was ludicrous in the extreme. His hands suddenly unclinched, and he stammered out,

"What – what did you say?"

"Why, come on and fight," replied the sentinel, blustering as vigorously as did Jenkins at first.

"You shot at me, didn't you?"

"Yes; and will do it again, too."

"I don't think it was the right thing. I wouldn't do it to you."

"Because you are afraid."

"No, – I don't think I would."

"Well, what of it?"

"I s'pose you didn't do it on purpose, and I won't say anything about it this time. But you mustn't do it again."

"Yes I will, if I want to. I shot at you, and am sorry I didn't hit you. Come, I thought you was going to whip me."

"Yes, Jenkins, give it to him. You said you were going to," cried the others.

"I don't s'pose he done it on purpose," he replied, turning toward the others.

"Yes I did, I told you so, and would as lief do it again as not."

"Jerusalem! here I'm standing in my wet clothes and catching cold every minute. This'll never do!"

And in spite of the jeers and laughs of the others, Jenkins with an anxious look, hurried away to "change his clothes."

CHAPTER XI.

A PRIZE GAINED AND LOST

Jenkins, as it afterward turned out, was in the wood reconnoitering the fort when the shot was fired which had well-nigh been so fatal to him. His object in doing this was to find out, before venturing to show himself, whether the Shawnees or whites held possession of the settlement. He had made the discovery of the attack when but a few miles off, and hearing the guns and becoming alarmed for his own safety, he ascended a tree and remained there until every Indian had departed from the neighborhood.

Some time after the closing scene of the last chapter, the sentinel confessed to Jenkins that he mistook him for an Indian when he fired, and he begged forgiveness for his great mistake. It is needless to say that the pardon was freely granted, and good humor held reign among them all.

The day after the attack and repulse, Dick Dingle, for the first time in his life, was taken sick. He was not dangerously so, but so severely that he was compelled to remain within doors. This happened unfortunately for Peterson, for the two had determined to pursue the retreating Indians for the purpose of capturing the renegade. A short consultation was held, when Peterson announced that he should make the attempt himself, accompanied only by Mansfield, who was all eagerness to join him.

Accordingly at noon, the two passed out of the gate and commenced the expedition by plunging into the forest. The trail of the retreating Shawnees was so recent that it had not been obliterated by the rain, and it was easily followed. It led up the river a couple of miles, when it crossed to the Kentucky shore and took a northwest direction directly toward Mad river.

Our friends had not proceeded far when Peterson assured Mansfield that they were gaining rapidly upon the savages. The latter, encumbered by their dead and wounded, were making their way very slowly through the wood, and evidently had no thoughts of pursuit. An hour or two later Peterson remarked,

"We're goin' too fast, Mansfield; we'll run our heads into some trap afore we know it. Let's set down a while."

The two seated themselves upon a fallen tree and engaged in conversation.

"If we don't stop we'll be up with them afore night," said Peterson.

"And why shouldn't we?"

"Because – sh! there's some one back of us now."

Before they either had time to conceal themselves, the bushes parted, and the mysterious Frontier Angel stood before them.

"What are you doing here?" she asked quietly.

"Looking for that renegade," replied Mansfield.

"Do you know how far the Shawnees are away?"

"Can't be very fur, I think," replied Peterson.

"They are encamped a half-mile from here, and have sent scouts back upon their trail to see who pursues. If you remain here twenty minutes longer you will be seen and shot."

"Whew! that's more than we bargained for," remarked Peterson; "if it's all the same, we'll decline at present and slide."

"Do you know anything of McGable – "

Our hero stopped, for she had disappeared as quickly and quietly as she came.

"It won't do to wait hyer – reds is about," admonished Peterson.

No time was lost by our friends in seeking safety. The trail of the retreating body was so broad and palpable that there was little fear of their pursuit being noticed. The scouts sent back would take the direction of the back trail, and keep alongside of it to ascertain whether any force was following them. If so, an effort would be made to draw them in ambush. They had no suspicion, and cared nothing for such pursuit as was really made.

Peterson and Mansfield proceeded in a direction at right angles with the main travel, for several hundred yards, where they secreted themselves. Here they remained for over an hour. By this time it was well toward night, and they ventured forth to resume the Shawnee trail again. After reaching it, they followed it a considerable distance, when finding that the Indian camp could be but a short distance away, they halted and again made off in a side direction.

It was while doing this, and when several hundred feet from it, that Peterson, who was slightly in advance, suddenly halted and raised his hand over his head as a signal for Mansfield to remain quiet. Both stood motionless a moment, when Peterson took several stealthy steps forward and motioned for Mansfield to come to his side. The latter did so, his looks showing more than words, the curiosity he felt. The ranger, by way of reply, pointed ahead, and downward. Mansfield followed the direction of his finger, and he felt every nerve thrill within him, as he saw a few feet in advance, the extended and sleeping form of the renegade, McGable.

"We've got him at last!" whispered Peterson exultingly.

The man, from all appearances, had lain down to rest a short distance from the camp to escape the hubbub and confusion occasioned by the presence of so many wounded and dying. That he was entirely unsuspicious of personal danger was evident from this fact.

Mansfield was too excited and fearful of awakening him to even whisper or suggest anything to Peterson. The latter, coolly and deliberately, stepped forward and removed the rifle from the nerveless embrace of McGable; then, stooping gently, pulled his knives from his girdle. This done, Peterson cocked his own gun, and holding it pointed toward the breast of the renegade, said: