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- Herausgeber: Booksell-Verlag
- Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
- Sprache: Englisch
In "The Wolf Demon; or, The Queen of the Kanawha," Albert W. Aiken masterfully weaves a captivating tale that straddles the line between gothic horror and frontier adventure. Set against the backdrop of early 19th-century West Virginia, the narrative artfully combines folklore and myth, delving into the dark, supernatural elements that haunt the Kanawha Valley. Aiken'Äôs vivid prose and atmospheric descriptions evoke a sense of place that is both haunting and immersive, inviting readers to navigate through treacherous landscapes, encounters with malevolent spirits, and the trials of human resilience amidst the struggles for power and survival in the wilderness. Albert W. Aiken, a prolific author known for his contributions to adventure and sensational literature, often drew inspiration from the folklore and social conditions of his time. His deep engagement with the fears and fantasies of American frontier life, coupled with personal experiences in the western territories, imbues this novel with a unique authenticity. Aiken's ability to capture the complexities of human nature and the darker aspects of society reflect the broader literary trends of the era. Recommended for readers who relish a blend of horror and historical adventure, Aiken'Äôs work invites a deeper exploration into the cultural and psychological themes of its time. "The Wolf Demon" not only entertains but also challenges readers to confront the eerie resonances of legend and the unsettling shadows of the human psyche.
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Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2019
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The Wolf Demon; or, The Queen of the Kanawha
Table of Contents
CHAPTER I.THE MARK ON THE TREE.
Two rifle-“cracks” broke the stillness of the wilderness, that stretched in one almost unbroken line from the Alleghany and Blue Ridge peaks to the Ohio river. The reports re-echoed over the broad expanse of the Kanawha and Ohio rivers, for the shots were fired near the junction of the two streams—fired so nearly at the same time that the two seemed almost like one report.
Then, before the smoke of the rifles had curled lazily upward in spiral rings on the air, came a crash in the tangled underbrush, and forth into a little open glade—the work of Nature’s master hand—dashed a noble buck. The red stream bursting from a wound just behind the shoulder and staining crimson the glossy brown coat of the forest lord, told plainly that he was stricken unto death.
The buck gained the center of the glade, then his stride weakened; the dash through the thicket was the last despairing effort of the poor brute to escape from the invisible foes whose death-dealing balls had pierced his side.
With a moan of pain, almost human in its expression, the buck fell upon his knees, then rolled over on his side, dead.
The brute had fallen near the trunk of a large oak tree—a tree distinguished from its neighbors by a blazon upon its side, whereon, in rude characters, some solitary hunter had cut his name.
Scarcely had the death-bleat of the buck pierced the silence of the glen, when two men came dashing through the woods, each eager to be the first to secure the game.
One of the two was some twenty yards in advance of the other, and reached the body of the dead buck just as his rival emerged from the thicket.
Placing his foot upon the buck, and rifle in hand, he prepared to dispute the quarry with the second hunter, for both men—strangers to each other—had fired at the same deer.
The hunter who stood with his foot upon the buck, in an attitude of proud defiance, had reloaded his rifle as he ran and was prepared to defend his right to the game to the bitter end.
In person, the hunter was a muscular, well-built man, standing some six feet in hight. Not a clumsy, overgrown giant, hardly able to bear his own weight, but a man as supple and as active as a panther. He was clad in buck-skin hunting-shirt and leggins, made in the Indian fashion, but unlike that fashion in one respect, and that was that no gaudy ornaments decorated the garments. Upon the feet of the hunter were a pair of moccasins. A cap rudely fashioned from a piece of deer-skin, and with the little flat tail of the animal as an ornament, completed the dress of the hunter.
The face of the man was singular to look upon. The features were large and clearly cut. The cold gray eye, broad forehead, and massive, squarely-chiseled chin, told of dauntless courage and of an iron will. A terrible scar extended from the temple to the chin on the left side of the face.
The hunter was quite young—not over twenty-five, though deep lines of care were upon the face.
The second hunter, who came from the tangled thicket, but paused on the edge of the little glen on beholding the threatening attitude of the hunter who stood with his foot on the deer, was a man who had probably seen forty years. He, too, like the other, was of powerful build, and his muscular frame gave promise of great strength.
He was dressed, like the first, in the forest garb of deer-skin, but his dress was gayly fringed and ornamented.
In his hand he bore one of the long rifles so common to the frontier settler of that time, for our story is of the year 1780.
The clear blue eye of the second hunter took in the situation at a glance. He readily saw that the man who stood so defiantly by the deer was not disposed to yield his claim to the animal without a struggle. So the second hunter determined upon a parley.
“Hello, stranger! I reckon we’re both after the same critter,” said the hunter who stood on the edge of the little glade.
“Yes; it ’pears so,” replied the other, who stood by the deer.
There was something apparently in the voice of the last comer that impressed the first favorably, for he dropped the butt of his rifle to the ground, though he still kept his foot upon the deer’s carcass.
“Well, stranger, we can’t both have the game. I think I hit him, an’ of course, as it is but nat’ral, you think so, too. So I reckon we’d better find out which one of us he belongs to; ’cause I don’t want him if my ball didn’t finish him, an’ of course, you don’t want him if he’s mine by right,” said the second hunter, approaching the other fearlessly.
“You’re right, by hookey!” cried the other, yielding to the influence of the good-humored tone of the other.
“Let me introduce myself, stranger, ’cos you seem to be a new-comer round hyer,” said the old hunter. “My name’s Daniel Boone; mayhap you’ve heard of me.”
“Well, I reckon I have!” exclaimed the other, in astonishment. “Thar’s few men on the border but what have heard on you. I’m right glad to see you, kurnel.”
“How may I call your name?” asked Boone, who had taken a fancy to the brawny stranger.
“Thar’s my mark—my handle,” said the stranger, pointing as he spoke to the name carved on the tree-trunk by which the deer had fallen; “that’s me.”
Boone cast his eye upon the tree.
Such was the inscription blazoned upon the trunk of the oak.
“You see, kurnel, the buck evidently thought that it was a ball from my rifle that ended him, ’cos he laid down to die right under my name,” said the hunter, with a laugh.
“Abe Lark!” Boone read the inscription upon the tree aloud.
“Yes, that’s me, kurnel; your’n to command,” replied the hunter.
“Stranger in these parts?” questioned Boone.
“Yes,” replied the other; “I’ve jest come down from the north. I camped hyar last night, an’ this morning I jest put my mark onto the tree, so that folks might know that I was round.”
“I’m right glad to meet you,” and Boone shook hands warmly with the stranger hunter. “And while you’re in these parts, just take up your quarters with me. I’m stopping down yonder, at Point Pleasant, on a visit to some friends of mine.”
“Well, I don’t mind, kurnel; I’ll take your invitation in the same good spirit that you offer it,” said Lark.
“Now for the deer; let’s see who the animal belongs to,” cried Boone, kneeling down by the carcass.
“Why, kurnel, I resign all claim. It ain’t for me to dispute with Kurnel Boone!” exclaimed Lark.
“Resign your claim?” cried Boone, in astonishment. “Not by a jugful. I’ll wager my rifle ag’in’ a popgun that you’re as good a hand at the rifle as myself. It’s just as likely to be your deer as mine.”
Then the two carefully examined the carcass. They found the marks of the two bullets easily; both had struck the animal just behind the shoulder, but on opposite sides. It was difficult to determine which had inflicted the death-wound.
“Well, now, this would puzzle a lawyer,” muttered Boone.
“S’pose we divide the animal, share and share alike,” said Lark.
“That’s squar’,” replied Boone. “We’ll take the buck in to the station. By the way, what’s the news from the upper settlements?”
“Well, nothing particular, ’cept that the red devils are on the war-path ag’in,” replied Lark.
Boone was astonished at the news.
“On the war-path ag’in, eh? What tribe?”
“The Shawnees and the Wyandots.”
“The Shawnees and the Wyandots!” cried Boone: “then we’ll see fire and smell gunpowder round these parts before long.”
“I shouldn’t wonder,” said the other.
“Well, I’m glad that you have brought the news. We’ll be able to prepare for the imps.”
“You can depend upon it,” said Lark; “a friend of mine has been right through the Shawnee country. They are coming down onto the settlements in greater force than was ever known before. They’ve been stirred up by the British on the border. I did heer say that the British Governor agrees to give so much apiece for white scalps to the red savages.”
“The eternal villain!” cried Boone, indignantly.
“The Injuns are a-goin’ to try to wipe out all the settlements on the Ohio. It will be a blood-time while it lasts,” said Lark, soberly.
“We’ll have to face it,” replied Boone. “Did your friend hear what chief was goin’ to lead the expedition ag’in’ us on the south?”
“Yes; Ke-ne-ha-ha.”
“The-man-that-walks,” said Boone, thoughtfully. “He’s one of the best warriors in all the Shawnee nation. Blood will run like water along our borders, I’m afeard.”
“Yes, and the renegade, Simon Girty, is to guide the Injuns.”
“If I had him within reach of my rifle once, he’d never guide another Injun expedition ag’in’ his own flesh and blood,” said Boone, and his hand closed tightly around the rifle-barrel.
“I was jest on my way to the settlement at Point Pleasant when I started up the buck this morning,” said Lark.
“Well, I’m right glad that it happened as it did, ’cos I shouldn’t have had the pleasure of meetin’ you,” said Boone. “Now, s’pose we swing the buck on a pole an’ tote it in to the station. I reasonably expect that there’ll be some white faces over yonder when they hear that Ke-ne-ha-ha an’ his Shawnees, to say nothin’ of Girty, are on the war-path.”
“There ought to be good men enough along the Ohio to whip any force these red devils can bring,” said Lark.
“Well, they’re awful scattered, but I reckon that now that we know what’s goin’ on, we can get men enough to give the Shawnees all the fighting that they want.”
Then the two slung the buck on a pole and started to the station known as Point Pleasant.
CHAPTER II.THE SECRET FOE.
In the pleasant valley of the Scioto, near what is now the town of Chillicothe, stood the principal village of the great Shawnee nation—the Indian tribe that could bring ten thousand warriors into the field—deadly enemies of the pale-faced intruder.
All was bustle within the Indian village. To one used to the Indian customs, it would have been plain that the red-skins were preparing for the war-path.
The village was alive with warriors. Gayly-painted savages, decked with ocher and vermilion, strutted proudly up and down, eagerly waiting for the time to come when, like tigers, they could spring upon the pale-faces and redden their weapons with the blood of their hated foes.
Over the village ruled the great chief, Ke-ne-ha-ha, or “The-man-that-walks”—so termed, first, because he was reputed to be the fastest runner of any red braves in the Ohio valley, Shawnee, Wyandot or Mingo; second, that when a youth, on his first war-path against the Hurons, he had stolen by night into the midst of a Huron village, literally walked among the sleeping warriors, and brought back to his comrades the scalp of a great Huron chief, whom he had dispatched without alarming the sleepers—the greatest warrior in all the Shawnee nation—a chief wise in council, brave on the war-path, and wily as the red fox.
In the village of the red-men were two whose skins were white, though they were Indians at heart. The two were renegades from their country and their kin.
These two stood together by the river’s bank, and idly watched the daring and howling warriors. They were dressed in the Indian fashion, and were sinewy, powerful men in build.
The taller of the two, whose hair and eyes were dark, was called Simon Girty. At one time he had been reputed to be one of the best scouts on the border, but, for some reason, he had forsaken the settlements and found a home with the fierce red-men of the forest-wild, giving up home, country, friends, every thing. He had been adopted into the Indian tribe, and none of his red-skinned brothers seemed to bear as deadly a hatred to the whites as this renegade, Simon Girty.
His companion was not quite so tall, or as stoutly built. He was called David Kendrick, and was an adopted son of the Shawnees, as Girty was of the Wyandots.
“This is going to be a bloody business,” said Girty, as he surveyed the yelling Indians, who were busy in the “scalp-dance.”
“Yes, our chief, Ke-ne-ha-ha, has sworn to break the power of the whites along the Ohio. The braves are well provided with arms by the British Governor. Kentucky never saw such a force upon her border as this will be,” replied the other.
“The more the better,” said the renegade, Girty, moodily.
Then a howl of anguish rung through the Indian village. The braves stopped their sports to listen. They knew the signal well: it was the wail for the dead. It told that some Shawnee warrior had gone to the spirit-land.
The cry of anguish came from a party of braves entering the village from the south. In their midst they bore what seemed, to the eyes of the renegades, a human body.
The warriors deposited their burden before the door of the council-lodge.
Attracted by the death-note, Ke-ne-ha-ha, the great chief of the Shawnees, came from his lodge.
The chief was a splendid specimen of a man. He stood nearly six feet in hight, and was as straight as an arrow. He was quite light in hue for an Indian, and his features were intelligent and finely cut.
Astonishment flashed from his eyes as he gazed upon the face of the dead Indian, around whom, at a respectful distance, were grouped the Shawnee warriors.
The chief recognized the features of the brave known as Little Crow, a stout warrior, and reputed to be one of the best fighting-men in all the Shawnee nation.
“Wah!” said the chief, in a tone that betrayed deep astonishment, “the soul of the Little Crow has gone to the spirit-land—he rests in Manitou’s bosom. Let my braves speak—who has taken the life of the Shawnee warrior?”
“Let the chief open his ears and he shall hear,” replied one of the braves, a tall, muscular warrior, known as Watega. “Little Crow went forth, last night, to hunt the deer in the woods of the Scioto. He was a great warrior; his arm was strong—his feet swift on the trail. He told his brothers that he would return before the spirit-lights (stars) died. He did not come. His brothers sought for him. By the banks of the Scioto they found him, but the hatchet of a foe had taken the life of the Little Crow.”
Then the chief knelt by the side of the body and examined the wound in the head; the clotted blood marked the spot.
The head of the chief had been split open by a single blow, and that dealt by a giant’s hand. The wound had apparently been made by a tomahawk, and, as the chief guessed, the dead man had been attacked suddenly, and from the rear.
“Did my warriors find no trail of the enemy who took the life of their brother?” asked the chief, still keeping his position by the body, and with a puzzled look upon his face.
“Wah!—the Shawnee braves have eyes—they are not blind, like owls in the light. When they found the Little Crow dead, they looked for the track of the foe. They found footprints by the body, but the trail came from nowhere and went nowhere.”
“And the footprints—Indian or pale-face?”
“Pale-face, but the moccasins of the red-man,” answered the brave.
The brow of the chief grew dark. A white foe so near the village of the Shawnee, and so daring as to attack and kill one of the best warriors of the tribe, apparently without a struggle, must needs be looked after.
“My braves must hunt down the pale-face that wears the moccasin of the Indian and uses the tomahawk,” said the chief, gravely.
Then Ke-ne-ha-ha drew aside the blanket that was wrapt around the body of the dead brave. A cry of horror broke from the lips of the great chief, and was re-echoed by the surrounding Indians when they gazed upon the naked breast of the dead warrior.
“The totem of the Wolf Demon!” exclaimed the chief.
The circle of friends gazed upon the mysterious mark in silent consternation. Their staring eyes and fear-stricken countenances showed plainly how deeply they were interested.
And what was the totem of the Wolf Demon?
On the naked breast of the brawny dead chief were three slashes, apparently made by a knife, thus:
And the blood, congealing on the skin, formed a Red Arrow.
It was the totem of the Wolf Demon—the invisible and fatal scourge of the great Shawnee nation. Thus he marked his victims.
The chief arose with a troubled look upon his haughty face.
“Let my people sing the death-song, for a brave warrior has gone to the spirit-land. Ke-ne-ha-ha will seek the counsel of the Great Medicine Man, so that he may learn how to fight the Wolf Demon, who has stricken unto death the great braves of the Shawnee nation, and put the totem of the Red Arrow upon their breast.”
Sorrowfully the warriors obeyed the words of the chief, and soon the sound of lamentation wailed out loud on the air, which, but a moment before, had resounded with the glad shouts of triumph.
Slowly and with knitted brows Ke-ne-ha-ha betook himself to the lodge of the old Indian who was the Great Medicine Man of the Shawnee tribe.
The death of one of the principal warriors of his tribe by the dreaded hand of the Wolf Demon, almost within the very precincts of his village, and at the moment when he was preparing to set out on his expedition against the whites, seemed like an omen of evil. A dark cloud descended upon his soul, despite all his efforts to remove it.
The two renegades had joined the circle around the dead Indian, and had listened to the story of how he met his death. Then, when the circle had broken up, they had slowly walked back again to their former position by the bank of the river.
A puzzled look was upon Girty’s face. After they had resumed their former station, he spoke:
“Dave, the words of the chief are a mystery to me, though the Indians seem to understand them well enough. What did he mean when he spoke of the Wolf Demon? and what did that mark of a Red Arrow, cut on the breast of the dead Indian, mean?”
“Why, don’t you know?” asked the other, in astonishment.
“No; you forget that for the past six months I have been at upper Sandusky, with the Wyandots.”
“Yes; and it is just about six months since the Wolf Demon first appeared.”
“Explain,” said Girty, unable to guess the mystery.
“I will. For the past six months some mysterious being has singled out the warriors of the Shawnee tribe for his victims. He always seems to take them by surprise; single warriors alone he attacks. And on the breast of those he kills he leaves, as his mark, three slashes with a knife forming a Red Arrow, like the one you saw on this fellow.”
“But the name of the Wolf Demon?”
“I will explain. One Indian alone has lived to tell of an encounter with this mysterious slayer. He was only stunned, and recovered. He reported that he was attacked by a huge gray wolf, with a man’s head—the face painted black and white. The wolf stood on its hind legs like a man, but in hight far out-topping any human. He caught a glimpse of the monster as it struck him down with a tomahawk that the beast held in its paws. And that’s the story of the Wolf Demon, who has killed some of the bravest warriors of the Shawnee nation.”
“But what do you think it is?”
“I reckon it’s the devil,” said the renegade, solemnly.
CHAPTER III.A TIMELY SHOT.
From one of the largest of the dwellings that composed the little frontier settlement of Point Pleasant came a young girl.
She was about sixteen, and was as pretty as one of the wild flowers that bloom unseen amid the rocky ravines through which ran the tumultuous Kanawha.
Dark-brown hair rippled in wavy masses back from her olive-tinged brow, browned by exposure to the free winds of the wilderness and the sunbeams that danced so merrily over the surface of the rolling river.
The bright color in the cheeks of the girl, her free step, that possessed all the grace and lightness of the bounding fawn, told of perfect health, as also did the sparkling brown eyes and rose-red lips that seemed to hold such dewy sweetness in their graceful curves.
The maiden was known as Virginia Treveling. She was the daughter of General Lemuel Treveling, a man who had great experience as an Indian-fighter on the Western border, and who had settled down in Point Pleasant, and was reputed to be by far the wealthiest man in all the country around.
So, by virtue of her father’s wealth, as well as by the aid of her own beauty, Virginia Treveling was the belle of the station known as Point Pleasant.
Her right to the title was not disputed, and few envied her, for Virginia was as good as she was beautiful.
Many of the young men of Point Pleasant and of the neighboring stations had sought to gain the favor of the winsome maid, but to all she said, nay!
The man to whom the fair girl would freely give her heart had not yet met her eye; but Virginia was young—scarcely old enough to be wooed and won.
The maid was clad in simple homespun garments, the work of her own hands, for she was a true American girl, a daughter of the frontier, and looked not with favor upon the gaudy trappings of fashion.
The little tin pail that she carried in her hand told her mission.
The great blackberries were shining in huge purple clusters in the rocky passes that surrounded Point Pleasant, and, like the fortifications of the olden time, seemed to forbid approach.
With her light, graceful step, the girl passed through the village, and taking the trail that led to the south, along the bank of the stream, soon left the settlement behind.
There was little danger in this incursion into the deep woods, for the Indians were on the northern bank of the Ohio; and then, too, there had been peace between the settlements and their red neighbors for some time.
The girl followed the trail for about half a mile, then, turning abruptly to the east, entered a little defile, where the blackberries grew thick and rank.
Picking the berries as she went slowly along, she soon lost sight of the trail leading from the town.
The maiden had not been gone from the path many minutes when the hoof-stroke of a horse rung out with a dull “thud” on the still air of the forest.
A horseman was approaching from the south. A traveler, probably, from Virginia.
Then the horseman came into sight. He was a young man, dressed plainly in a homespun suit of blue. Upon his head he wore a broad-leafed felt hat, that shaded the sun from his eyes. A short, German rifle, carrying a ball of forty to the pound, and richly ornamented on the stock with silver, was resting across his saddle in front of him. A keen-edged hunting-knife, the blade some eighteen inches in length, was thrust through the leather belt that girded in his waist.
The face of the young horseman was a frank and honest one. The full, steel-blue eyes showed plainly both courage and firmness. The handsome, resolute mouth confirmed this.
In figure, the rider was about the medium size, but his well-built, sinewy form gave promise of great muscular power.
The rider was named Harvey Winthrop. A descendant was he of one of the staunch old Puritan fathers. And now he was seeking his fortune in the far Western wilds, for the fickle goddess had not smiled upon the young man. A student at a foreign university, he had been hurriedly called home by the sickness of his father, his only parent. He arrived just in time to close that father’s eyes. And when he came to settle up his parent’s estate, instead of finding himself—as he had expected—the possessor of a goodly fortune, he discovered that some few hundred dollars was all in the world that he could call his own.
Young Harvey Winthrop, though, had the right stuff in his nature. Bidding his friends adieu, he set forth to make new ones, and to carve out for himself a fortune by the banks of the “Beautiful River” the Ohio.
So it is that, on that pleasant summer’s day, the young Bostonian found himself on the trail leading to Point Pleasant, and was fast approaching that station.
“The settlement can not be far off now,” he said, musing to himself as he rode along, and, rising in his stirrups, he strove with his gaze to penetrate through the mazes of the almost trackless forest before him.
Then, to the astonished ears of the young man came a woman’s scream, evidently given under great alarm.
The traveler checked his horse and snatched the rifle from the saddle.
Again on the still air rung out the scream, shrilly, coupled with a cry for help. The cry came from the ravine on the right.
In a second he leaped from the saddle, and, rifle in hand, plunged into the ravine. His horse—a well-trained beast—remained motionless on the spot where his rider had left him.
The young man dashed up the steep ascent at break-neck speed.
The noise made by his steps fell upon the ears of the woman who uttered the scream. She knew that help was near.
A few steps more and the young man beheld a scene which nearly froze his blood with horror.
Fleeing down the ravine came a young girl—who, even at this moment of excitement, he noticed was beautiful, almost beyond expression; and behind her, in full pursuit, was a huge black bear.
The girl was Virginia Treveling. In her search for berries she had stumbled upon the bear, who was busily engaged feasting upon the luscious fruit.
But Bruin, in a twinkling, forsook the berries for the human.
Then from the lips of the girl came the shrill screams that had brought the traveler to her rescue.
The girl reached the young man.
“Keep on, Miss,” he cried, quickly; “fly for your life! I’ll keep the brute at bay.”
Small time was there for conversation, for the bear, at his lumbering trot, was coming rapidly onward.
“He will kill you!” cried the terrified girl.
“Yes, and you, too, if you don’t run,” said the young man, coolly. “One life is enough; so save yours.”
“I will not go!” exclaimed the girl. “Give me your powder flask and a bullet. After you fire, if you miss him, I can load.”
The hunter threw a glance of admiration at the heroic maid who seemed so cool at this moment of danger; but he did as she requested. Then, as the bear came on, he leveled his rifle at the brute, and sighting one of his eyes, fired. But the bear swerving in its course at the moment, the ball glanced across his bony head and shot off as if it had been but a boy’s marble.
The beast paused for an instant, shook its head as if annoyed, then, with an angry growl, he came straight upon the young man.
Winthrop had handed his rifle to the girl, and, drawing his knife, awaited the onset. His only hope of escape was to close in with the animal, and stab him in some vital part before he could use the terrible claws and teeth.
The bear reared on its hind legs and prepared to seize the young man with open mouth.
Winthrop felt that the crisis had come.
The young man raised his knife to plunge it into the shaggy breast before him, while, with eager but trembling hands, the girl reloaded the rifle.
But the sharp crack of a rifle came quick on the air.
Winthrop heard the “hiss” of a bullet that whirled past, close to his ear. Then, with a grunt of agony, the bear fell over on its side, clawed the air wildly for a moment—growled in pain, and sunk into the silence of death.
The rifle-ball which had passed so near to the ear of the young man had entered the body of the bear between the fore-legs and buried itself in the great red heart.
Winthrop could hardly believe his eyes when he beheld the grim king of the forest lying in death at his feet; when he saw the huge paws motionless that he had expected to feel tearing his own flesh.
He had been saved almost by a miracle.
A timely shot, and a good one, for an inch either way would have missed the heart of the bear or killed the young hunter.
Winthrop felt that both he and the beautiful girl had been saved by the shot of the, as yet, hidden friend.
The young man looked for his preserver. Judge of his astonishment when forth from the bushes that fringed the rocks, with a rifle in hand—a very forest queen—came a young girl!
CHAPTER IV.THE GIRL THAT FIRED THE SHOT.
Winthrop looked with amazed eyes upon his preserver, for that the girl had saved his life by coming so timely to his rescue, there was hardly a doubt.
The young man saw a beautiful girl, clad in the Indian fashion, her garb gayly fringed and decorated with colored beads. But though clad in the garb of the Indian, more white blood than red leaped in the veins of the forest child.
Her skin was of a rich olive tinge; a peculiar skin—so thin, despite its darkness, that it showed the quick play of the surging blood in the veins beneath.
Dark-brown hair floated in tangled masses from the fillet of deer-skin, adorned with eagle-plumes, that encircled her head. Her eyes were dark brown in their hue, and large and full as the eyes of the deer.
Grace was in every motion, yet one could easily see that the graceful limbs were strong and sinewy—muscles of steel beneath the silken skin.
Lightly the girl bounded down, from rock to rock, until she reached the bottom of the defile wherein stood the two by the carcass of the dead bear who had fallen by the rifle of this forest fay.
Nor was Virginia less astonished at the sudden appearance of the dark-hued maiden than the young stranger.
She gazed with amazement on the girl who was so unlike all of her sex in looks and dress.
“A lucky shot!” exclaimed the wood nymph, kneeling by the side of dead Bruin, and examining the wound that had given him his death.
“I owe you my life!” cried Winthrop, impulsively; “for had I once got into the grim hug of the brute, I’m afraid he would have made sad work of me.”
“No, not to me,” replied the girl, “but to the great One above who first sent me to your aid, and then gave me the skill to send the ball home to the heart of the bear.”
“I shall thank you, though, all the same,” replied the young man. “You have saved my life, and, while I live, I shall never forget it.”
“Don’t speak of it any more, please,” said the girl, a blush mantling to her cheeks at the earnest gaze of the young forester. “You threw yourself into danger to save this young lady; Heaven sent me to your aid, for it was not right that you should be sacrificed while acting so nobly.”
“Yes; and I must thank you, sir, for periling your life in my behalf,” said Virginia, in her low, sweet voice, that thrilled like pleasant music through the heart of the young adventurer.
“You make me ashamed of my simple service,” replied Winthrop. “I would have done the same for any one in peril. It is our duty in this life to help our fellow-creatures, and I would be unworthy of the name of man had I stood by and witnessed your peril without making an effort to save you.”
The forest maiden watched the girl’s face while the young man was speaking, with a peculiar expression in her dark eyes.
“I am Virginia, daughter of General Treveling, of Point Pleasant; if you are going thither, I am sure my father will thank you heartily for the service you have this day rendered his only child.”
“I am going to Point Pleasant, and shall be pleased to meet your father, whom I have heard highly spoken of many times on my way here,” said Winthrop. Then he turned to the girl in the Indian garb, who stood leaning upon her rifle, with her eyes intently fixed upon the two. “Lady, may I not know the name of her whose well-directed shot saved me? There may come a time when I can repay the service.”
“Do not ask my name,” said the girl, in a mournful tone; “it is better, perhaps, that you should not know it.”
Winthrop looked his astonishment at this strange speech.
“I really do not see how that can be, lady,” he said, after a moment’s pause. “I am sure I shall never forget the service, nor your name, if once I hear it.”
“I repeat that it is better that you should not know it,” said the girl, slowly.
“Why so?” demanded the young man, while on the face of Virginia was written strong curiosity to know the meaning of the girl’s words.
“You think you owe me a debt of gratitude,” said the dark-hued maiden. “It is a pleasant thought for me to know that some one thinks well of me. If I tell you my name, perhaps the gratitude that you now think you owe will vanish, and in its place will come loathing.”
“You speak in riddles,” said Winthrop, unable to guess her meaning, but plainly seeing that some mystery was concealed in her words. “I do not see how the knowledge of your name will change my sentiments in any way whatsoever. I beseech you, tell me what it is. I can never forget the name of the one who saved my life.”
“And you, Virginia Treveling,” said the girl, turning abruptly to the General’s daughter. “Do you not know who I am?”
“No,” replied Virginia, “but I should like very much to know, for I feel that, in part, I owe you my life too.”
“Blame yourself, then, if, after I have told you my name, you shrink from me, and gratitude dies in loathing. I am Kanawha Kate!”
Virginia started when the name fell upon her ears. The quick eye of Kate noticed the start. Winthrop did not manifest any emotion whatever. It was the first time he had ever heard the name, and though he wondered somewhat at the strange appellation, still he saw nothing in it to alarm him in any way.
“You shrink from me,” said Kate, with a bitter smile—she was referring to the almost unconscious start that Virginia had made when she heard the name. “You know who I am. You have heard evil tongues talk of me, and you are not so grateful now as you were a moment ago.”
“Nay, you wrong me,” said Virginia, gently. “In all my life I have never heard evil spoken of Kanawha Kate. I have heard you called wild and wayward—spoken of as one more like a boy than a girl—who liked to roam about the forest better than to sit at home. But when I heard the tongues of the settlers speak lightly of you, I have always remembered that you were an orphan—without mother or father—with no one to tell you what you should do.”
“You are right. I have grown up like a weed, uncared for by all”—there was great bitterness in the tone of the girl’s voice—“my only relative a renegade from his country and his race—a white Indian, far worse than the dusky savages. Why should I not be an outcast, despised by all, when my unhappy fate dooms me to such a life?”
“No, not despised by all,” said Virginia, firmly. “I do not despise you; I love you—that is, if you will let me.” And the girl placed her hand gently on the shoulder of the other.
“Oh, I thank you so much!” The words came in a half-sob from the lips of the forest child.
“Let me be your sister. Come and see me at my home at the station. Few will be bold enough to say aught against the sister of Virginia Treveling.” Proudly the young girl drew up her form as she uttered the words.
“Yes, and for want of a better, take me for your brother,” said Winthrop, impulsively, “and the man who dares to breathe a word against you will have to face the muzzle of my rifle.”
“It is many a long day since such kind words have fallen upon my ears,” said Kate, sadly. “Perhaps I should not be so wild if my parents had lived. But, Miss Virginia, I will come and see you.”
“Do, and I promise you a hearty welcome!” exclaimed Virginia.
“Oh, I will come!” cried Kate, her eyes gleaming.
“Good-by, then,” and the rescued girl turned to Winthrop. “If you are going to Point Pleasant, I will be your guide, and I am sure that my father will be very glad to see you, particularly when he learns that you have saved the life of his only child!”
Virginia embraced Kate heartily, and kissed her as if she had been a sister; Winthrop shook her warmly by the hand, and then the two, leaving the forest maid standing by the body of the dead brute, retraced their way to the little trail that led to Point Pleasant.
Kate, leaning on her rifle, remained in a deep reverie, gazing absently upon their departing figures.
Winthrop found his horse exactly where he had left him. Passing the bridle over his arm, he walked by the side of Virginia toward the station.
“What a strange creature that girl is,” he said, as they walked onward.
“Yes; I have often heard of her, though I have never happened to meet her before. The settlers tell a great many stories about her. They say that she can ride better than any man on the border. That she knows every foot of the country for miles around, even to the Indian villages on the other side of the Ohio. Then, too, they say she is a splendid shot with the rifle, and can use the hunting-knife like a woodman.”
“We can vouch for her skill in marksmanship,” said Winthrop, and a half-shiver came over him when he thought of the huge bear, with its fierce eyes and shining teeth.
“Yes; poor girl, she is a niece of the renegade, Simon Girty, and that, I think, makes the settlers dislike her—as if she should answer for the misdeeds of her wicked uncle!” Virginia spoke with feeling; her face lighted up, and Winthrop thought that he had never looked upon a prettier maiden.
CHAPTER V.VIRGINIA’S SUITOR.
In the best room of Treveling’s house sat the old General and a young man, known as Clement Murdock. He was a relative of Treveling, and was much esteemed by the old General.
General Treveling was a man of fifty. Years had whitened the hair of the old soldier and bent the once stalwart form.
Murdock was some thirty years old—a dark, sallow-faced man, with a piercing black eye and a haughty bearing.
The young man had just entered, and returning the General’s cordial greeting, had taken a seat by his side.
“What’s the news?” asked Treveling.
“Nothing particular, General,” replied the other.
“Nothing fresh from the red-skins? It’s about time for them to be on the war-path against us again.”
“They have not forgotten the thrashing they got last year, I suppose,” said the young man. “But I want to speak with you on a subject which I have thought a great deal of lately.”
The old General looked astonished at this beginning.
“Very well, what is it?” he asked.
“In regard to your daughter, Virginia, General,” said Murdock, slowly. “I would like your permission to pay my addresses to her. I have long loved your daughter, and I should like to make her my wife.”
“Well, Clement, you know that you have my best wishes. There isn’t a man in the settlement that I would rather give my child to. But, win her consent: that comes first, of course. If she is willing, I shall not object.”
The joy of Murdock plainly showed itself in his face.
“That is all I ask, General,” he said, quickly. “I thought it but right that you should know my intentions first.”
“Well, you have my good will, Clement,” said the old soldier, “and I do not doubt but that you will find favor in the eyes of Virginia. She will be home soon. She has gone for blackberries down the river.”
And as the father spoke the door opened and Virginia entered, followed by the young adventurer, Harvey Winthrop.
“Oh, father, I have had such an escape,” said the maiden, quickly; then she gave an account of her adventure in the forest with the bear.
“Why, sir, I owe you the life of my child!” cried the General, earnestly, when the girl had finished her story. “How may I call your name?”
“Winthrop—Harvey Winthrop, an adventurer seeking his fortune on the border,” replied the young man.
“You must drive your stakes with us, for a short time, at least, if we can not induce you to make Point Pleasant your permanent home,” said the old soldier, heartily. “I am General Treveling, sir; this, my daughter, Virginia, and this gentleman a relative of ours, Clement Murdock.”
Although Murdock shook hands in a friendly way with the stranger who had rescued his fair cousin from the bear, yet, in his heart, he wished him at the bottom of the Ohio. Was Clement afraid that the handsome stranger would interfere with his plans regarding the gentle Virginia?
Frankly—in the same spirit that it was given—Winthrop accepted the invitation of the old soldier. Perhaps, too, the thought that he should enjoy the society of the fair girl, whose life he had saved, had something to do with his ready acceptance of the hospitality of the old General.
Leaving her father and Winthrop engaged in busy conversation, Virginia withdrew into the inner room. Murdock, seizing the opportunity, followed. He had resolved to declare his passion at once. He had been an open and avowed lover of Virginia’s for some time. In fact, all the settlers thought it would be a match. And Murdock, though he did not openly say that he was the accepted suitor of the General’s daughter, yet by many a sly hint he contrived to impress all with that belief. So, one by one, his rivals for the girl’s favor had withdrawn from the contest, and left the field clear to the scheming lover.
Yet now, even at the eleventh hour, when he had thought the hand of the girl was his beyond a doubt, this young stranger had stepped into the field, and that under such circumstances that the girl’s gratitude if not her love must be surely his.
Murdock was sorely annoyed at the accident which had given the young man such a claim to the girl’s esteem. He determined, however, to ask for the hand of the girl at once.
Virginia turned in some little astonishment when she discovered that she was followed by Clement.
He carefully closed the door behind him and approached the young girl.
“Virginia,” he said, in his softest and smoothest tones, “I have long wished for an opportunity to tell you how much I love you. I have spoken to your father, and he approves my suit. Virginia, can you give me the priceless treasure of your love? Will you be my wife?”
The girl flushed to the temples at the words of Murdock. She had suspected that he sought her, but had carefully avoided leading him to think that she favored his suit. For, to tell the truth, the young girl did not love but rather feared him. There was a bad look in the fierce black eyes, and ugly lines about the sensual mouth, and these things she had noticed. In her heart Virginia thought that Murdock was far from being a good man.
“I am sorry, Mr. Murdock, that you have spoken in this way to me,” said the girl, slowly, and with evident embarrassment. “It grieves me that I must pain you with a refusal. I can not accept the love that you offer.”
Murdock started in anger, and the frown that knit his brows showed plainly his deep displeasure.
“Are you in earnest?” he asked, in amazement.
“Surely I am,” replied the girl. She did not like the tone in which the question was put.
“Had you not better take time to think over the matter?” he said. “You may change your mind.”
“That is not likely,” she answered, coldly. “I can decide now as well as any time in the future. I feel that I can not love you.”
“Do you love any one else?” he asked, quickly.
A faint flush came to the cheeks of the girl, which did not escape the jealous eyes of the rejected lover.
“You have no right to ask that question,” she cried.
“Will you answer it?”
“No!”
“No?”
“No!” repeated Virginia, all the fire of her nature roused by the insolent manner of the man who stood lowering before her.
“You do not dare to answer it.”
“It is no business of yours what my motive is,” replied Virginia, proudly.
“You fancy yourself in love with some one. You can not deceive me. Let your lover look to himself. If you can not be my wife, I swear that you shall not be the wife of any other man. You are a beautiful girl, Virginia, but your beauty will be fatal to the mortal that dares to cross my path!” Murdock spoke in heat, and the angry glare of a demon shot from his fierce black eyes.
“If I have a lover, he will be able to defend himself from the coward who only dares to threaten a woman!” And with these words Virginia swept proudly from the room.
“By all the powers of darkness, I swear that I will find means to bend your haughty spirit, and on your knees you will be glad to ask my pardon for those proud words!” cried the baffled lover, his voice hoarse with rage.
Then he left the house by the back door and gained the street. He did not care to meet the eyes of the old General, for he readily guessed that his discomfiture would easily be perceived.
“Who can this lover be?” he mused, as he walked slowly down the street. “Can it be this young stranger who saved her from the bear in the ravine? It may be. I am sure that there isn’t a lad on the border that is favored by her, for I have watched her closely. Is the prize then that I have toiled so to gain to be snatched from my hand by this adventurer? She must marry me, or—she must die! She is the only obstacle between me and the fortune of the old General. That fortune I am determined to have, and the silly caprice of a weak girl shall not keep me from it.”
Stern and frowning was the brow of Clement Murdock as he strode along. Dark and gloomy thoughts were passing rapidly through his mind.
