maneuvers, and artifices resorted to by each to accomplish his ends, were extraordinary. For nearly two hours they dodged and feinted, glided and retreated, without coming any nearer success, and finally made the discovery by accident. Dingle came to the conclusion that whoever his rival was, he was certainly a genuine woodsman, and, if an Indian, one who was well worthy of coping with him. But the consummate tact and skill displayed, led him to suspect the other was a white man, and for this reason he became more careless in his movements. The consequence was that, after he had flitted from one tree to another, he began to doubt whether he had accomplished the movement successfully; and, while thus doubting, he heard his name called.
"Shoot me, if that ain't you, Dick Dingle! Why don't you come out and shake paws with an old friend?"
And the next minute Jim Peterson stepped boldly forth.
"Wal, Jim, I might've knowed that was your ugly picter. Whar'd you come from?"
The two grasped hands, and gave, what Edward Everett terms, the genuine tourniquet shake. They had been brother rangers through Gen. St. Clair's war, and had ever been together, encountering all imaginable dangers, and were the joint heroes of the most wonderful escapes. And when we say that neither had seen the face of the other for over six years, it may well be supposed that their meeting was of the most pleasant kind. As they stood, grasping hands, and smilingly exchanging jocose remarks in their characteristic way, the resemblance between them was most remarkable. In fact, they had often, when in service, been taken for brothers, and their identity was often confounded. The Shawnees, who knew them rather more than they cared about, termed them the "Double Long-Knives." Both were tall, graceful, and sinewy, as straight as arrows, and with faces sparsely bearded, and, to increase the perplexity of separating them, they dressed precisely alike. But Dingle had small, black eyes, and a sharp Roman nose, while Peterson had eyes of a light gray color, and a nose a perfect Grecian in cast.
"Come, Dick, what are you doin' in these parts?" asked Peterson.
"I'm out fur Mad Anthony, as you might know, and have been taking a look at the flat-boat there. Ah! bad business! bad business, Jim!"
"Yas, if you'd have only seed it, Dick, you might say so."
"Do you know anything 'bout it? Who the poor wretches was? – when 'twas done? – how they came to do it? – and who done it?" asked Dingle, excitedly.
"I war on that boat, and the only one who saved his hair."
"The only one, Jim?"
"The only one; and when I got clean off, I jist clapped my hand on my head to see ef my hair was thar still, fur I had strong doubts of it. I was the only one! I took a long jump and a dive fur it."
"How was it, when you was on, that they come in for one of the all-fired decoys?"
"I couldn't hender them;" and Peterson proceeded to give, in a few words, what is already known to the reader.
"Let me ax you one thing," said Dingle, when he had finished. "Do you know whether that renegade McGable had anything to do with this business?"
"He was the decoy himself; but a feller come on board up at the Kanawha who got the poor fools to run into shore."
"Was he a short, squashy-looking imp?"
"He war exactly so."
"Then 'twas Pete Gammock. I know him. He and McGable have hung together fur three – four years that way. That's his plan; he's tried the same trick afore. He goes on the flat-boats, at some place up that way, and purtends he's one of us going down the river to the 'Three Islands', Marysville, or some of the forts. After he gits on, he fixes so as to pull the wool over thar eyes, and when McGable bawls out fur 'em to come ashore, he persuades 'em to do it."
"He'll never do it agin, fur I settled the business with him soon as he owned up he'd come the gammon game. I feel sorry, Dick, mighty sorry fur them poor whites that was sarved that mean trick; but thar was one among 'em that went under, and I ain't ashamed to own it makes me feel watery to think on it. I left her dyin' on board just as I jumped over and the imps clambered up."
Peterson drew the sleeve of his hunting-shirt across his eyes, and Dingle, with respect to his feelings, remained silent a moment, when he returned: "P'r'aps she ain't gone under, Jim; maybe the reds have gone off with her."
"No they haven't; she's out in the river yender somewhar. The reds tomahawked every one. I kinder had a faint hope she might be among 'em, and I've been follerin' them to find out. I seed all the Injuns, and that infarnal McGable among 'em. They had plenty of hair hangin' to their girdles, but they hadn't a captive among 'em. That ar' McGable tried to get Marian Abbot, and because she wouldn't have him, he has done this. I b'lieve he fired the gun that killed her, when I had her in my arm just goin' to jump overboard to take a swim for it. And, Dick, I swear that I'll never rest till that renegade McGable pays for this."
"I jine you in that!" said Dingle, taking his hand. "We'll hunt him together. He's murdered enough of his own blood, and we'll stop it right off."
"I've got to go and tell the old folks of it, and young Mansfield. I know it'll break their hearts, and I'd rather be shot and burnt than do it; but it's got to be done, and I must do it."
"Are you goin' now?"
"Yas, right away. As soon as I see 'em, I'll be back agin. I'll wait fur you down at the fort below."
"And what then, Jim?"
"We'll start off on that hunt," said Peterson, in a low tone, and with this, the two rangers separated, and took different directions in the forest.
CHAPTER IV.
THE FAINT HOPE
There is a scene that we must not dwell upon. There are some that awaken emotions which no pen can describe, no imagination conceive. When Peterson, the ranger, communicated the dreadful intelligence of the fate of Marian to her parents, the shock was terrible. The mother swooned away, and for nearly a week remained more in death than life. The father received the shock like the oak when riven by the thunderbolt – firm and unbending, but still shattered to the very heart. He groaned in spirit, but, for the sake of his wife, bore up with superhuman calmness. But it well-nigh killed him; and his wife, when she was pulled from the grasp of death, felt that she could never, never recover from it. Her heart was broken.
Russel Mansfield bore the affliction like a man. He held up in the presence of others; but there were moments when alone in which he gave way to his great woe. We have no desire to dwell upon this painful scene, but hasten forward.
The resolution of Abbot to emigrate still farther to the west, instead of being weakened by this sad calamity, was strengthened into a determination. Why it was, he would almost have been at a loss to tell. We all know that when death, for the first time, strikes down some one near and dear to us, it is difficult to believe that such is the case; it is a long time before we can bring ourselves to realize it. There is a singular, lingering doubt, the faint shadow of a hope that, after all, it is not death, and that through the subtle power of medicine the lost one will still return to us. And even, after burial, for a long time, there will be moments when we give way to the same extraordinary hope and find ourselves indulging in dreams of fancy in which the lost one is again found.
Those who have had a similar experience to this, will appreciate the feeling that led Abbot and his stricken wife to emigrate to the scene which was so full of horror to them. The same motive strengthened the determination of Mansfield, although his parents now refused to accompany the party. Several of the other families also refused, so that the company bid fair to be alarmingly small. Peterson had whispered to Mansfield the intention of Dingle and himself of seeking out the renegade McGable and revenging themselves upon him, and he was anxious to either join them or be so situated that he could receive the earliest intelligence of their success.
Accordingly, one morning in September, another flat-boat floated away from the village referred to at the commencement of this work, and carrying with it four families only, together with young Mansfield. The weather continued fine all the way, and they experienced no difficulty in reaching their destination. Just before they reached the Sciota, a desperate attempt was made to get them ashore. Mansfield, shrewdly suspecting