The Edward S. Ellis Megapack

by Edward S. Ellis

  The hunter looked up in the face of Leslie, and his gleaming eyes and gnashing teeth told his earnestness. His manner and recital had impressed the latter, and he forbore speaking to him for some time.

  “I should think,” observed Leslie, after a short silence, “that you had nearly paid that debt, Kent.”

  “It is a debt which will be balanced,” rejoined the hunter, “when I am unable to make any more payments.”

  “Well, I shouldn’t want you for an enemy,” added Leslie, glancing over his shoulder at the stream in front of him.

  Both banks of the river at this point, and, in fact, for many miles, were lined with overhanging trees and bushes, which might afford shelter to any enemy. Kent sat in the stern and glanced suspiciously at each bank, as the boat was impelled swiftly yet silently forward, and there was not even a falling leaf that escaped his keen eye.

  “Strikes me,” said Leslie, leaning on his oars, “that we are in rather a dangerous vicinity. Those thick bushes along the shore, over there, might easily contain a few red gentlemen.”

  “Don’t be alarmed,” returned the hunter, “I’ll keep a good watch. They’ve got to make some movement before they can harm us, and I’ll be sure to see them. The river’s wide, too, and there ain’t so much to fear, after all.”

  Leslie again dipped his oars, and the boat shot forward in silence. Nothing but the suppressed dip of the slender ashen blades, or the dull sighing of the wind through the tree-tops, broke the silence of the great solitude. Suddenly, as Leslie bent forward and gazed into the hunter’s face, he saw him start and gaze anxiously at the right shore, some distance ahead.

  “What’s the matter?” asked Leslie.

  “Just wait a minute,” returned the hunter, rising and gazing in the same direction. “Stop the boat. Back water!” he added, in a hurried tone.

  Leslie did as he was bidden, and again spoke:

  “What is it, Kent?”

  “Do you see them bushes hangin’ a little further out in the stream than the others?”

  “Yes; what of them?”

  “Watch them a minute. There—look quick!” said Kent.

  “I can see a fluttering among the branches, as if a bird had flown from it,” answered Leslie.

  “Wal, them birds is Indians, that’s all,” remarked the hunter, dropping composedly back into the boat. “Go ahead!”

  “They will fire into us, no doubt. Had I not better run in to the other shore?”

  “No; there may be a host of ’em there. Keep in the middle of the stream, and we’ll give ’em the slip yet.”

  It must be confessed that Leslie experienced rather strange sensations as he neared the locality which had excited their suspicion, especially when he knew that he was exposed to any shot that they might feel inclined to give. A shudder ran through his frame, when, directly opposite the spot, he distinctly heard a groan of agony.

  Kent made a motion for him to cease rowing. Bending their heads down and listening, they again heard that now loud, agonizing expression of mortal pain.

  As soon as Leslie was certain that the sound proceeded from some being in distress, he headed the boat toward the shore.

  “Stop!” commanded Kent; “you should have more sense than that.”

  “But will you not assist a person in distress?” asked he, gazing reproachfully into his face.

  “Who’s in distress?”

  “Oh, Gorra mighty! I’s been dyin’,” now came from the shore.

  “Hallo there! what’s wantin’?” called Whiteman.

  “Help, help, ’fore dis Indian gentleman—’fore I dies from de wounds dat dey’s given me.”

  “I’ve heard that voice before,” remarked Kent to Leslie, in an undertone.

  “So have I,” replied the latter. “Why, it is George Leland’s negro; he wouldn’t decoy us into danger. Let us go in.”

  “Wait until I speak further with him.” (Then, to the person upon shore): “What might be your name?”

  “Zeb Langdon. Isn’t dat old Kent?”

  “Yes; how came you in this scrape, Zeb?”

  “Gorra mighty! I didn’t come into it. Dem red dogs—dese here nice fellers—brought me here ’bout two months ago, and den dey all fired at me fur two or free days, and den dey hung me up and left me to starve to death. Boo-hoo-oo!”

  “But,” said Leslie, “you were at home yesterday when I came up the river.”

  “Yes; dey burned down de house last night, and cooked us all and eat us up. I’s come to live ag’in, and crawled down here to get you fellers to take me home; but, Lord bless you, don’t come ashore—blast you, quit a hittin’ me over de head,” added the negro, evidently to some one near him.

  Leslie and Whiteman exchanged significant glances, and silently worked the boat further from the land.

  “Who is that you spoke to?” asked the former, when they were at a safe distance.

  “Dis yere blasted limb reached down and pulled my wool,” replied the negro, with perfect nonchalance.

  “Where is George Leland?” asked Leslie.

  “Dunno; slipped away from dese yere nice fellers what’s pulled all de wool out of me head, and is tellin’ me a lot o’ yarns to tell you. Gorra mighty! can’t you let a feller ’lone, when he’s yarnin’ as good as he can?”

  “Where is Miss Leland?”

  “How does I know? A lot of ’em run off wid her last night.”

  “Oh God! what I expected,” said Leslie, dropping his voice, and gazing with an agonizing look at Whiteman. The latter, regardless of his emotion, continued his conversation with Zeb.

  “Are you hurt any?”

  “Considerable.”

  “Now, Zeb, tell the truth. Did they capture George Leland?”

  “Bless you, no. He got away during de trouble.”

  “Did they get Miss Leland?”

  “’Deed they did.”

  “Is she with you?”

  “No. It took forty of ’em to watch me and de rest.”

  Here the negro’s words were cut short with a jerk, and he gave vent to a loud groan.

  “Gorra mighty!” he ejaculated, in fury. “Come ashore, Mr. Whiteman and Mr. Leslie. Come quick, and let dese yer fellers got you. Dey wants yer too.”

  “Are there any of the imps with you?” asked Kent, more for amusement than anything else.

  “What shall I tell him?” the negro asked, in a husky whisper, loud enough to be plainly heard by the two in the boat.

  “Dey say dar ain’t any of ’em. Talk yourself, if dat doesn’t suit you,” he added, in great wrath.

  “Three cheers for you,” shouted Whiteman. “Are there any of ’em upon the other side?”

  “Dese fellers say dey am all dar. Gorra, don’t kill me.”

  “Good; you’re the best negro ’long the ’Hio. I guess we’ll go over to the other side and visit them.”

  So saying, Kent seized the oars and pulled for the opposite shore. He had not taken more than a couple of strokes when a dozen rifles cracked simultaneously from the bushes, and as many bullets struck the boat and glanced over the water.

  “Drop down,” he whispered to Leslie. Instead of doing the same himself, he bent the more vigorously to his oars. A few minutes sufficed to carry them so far down that little danger was to be apprehended from the Indians, who uttered their loudest shouts and discharged their rifles, as they passed beyond their reach.

  “That’s too good a chance to be lost,” muttered the ranger, bringing his long rifle to his shoulder. Leslie followed the direction of his aim, and saw a daring savage standing boldly out to view, and making furious gesticulations toward them. The next instant Kent’s rifle uttered its sharp report, and the Indian, with a yell, sprung several feet in the air, and fell to the ground.

  “That was a good shot,” remarked Leslie, gazing at the fallen body.

  “Yes, and it’s done just what I wanted it to,” replied Kent, heading the boat toward shore.

  “They are going to
pursue us, are they not?” asked Leslie.

  “Yes, and we’ll have fun,” added the ranger, as the boat touched the shore, and he sprung out.

  “Come along and make up yer mind for a long run,” said he, glancing furtively toward the savages.

  Leslie sprung after him, and they darted away into the forest.

  When Whiteman had fired his fatal shot the Indians were so infuriated, that, setting up their demoniac yells, they plunged down the banks of the stream, determined to revenge their fallen companion.

  This was what Kent desired. He exulted as he saw that he was being gratified. “If there isn’t fun pretty shortly it won’t be my fault,” said he, as he plunged onward into the forest.

  In a short time the pursuers gained the opposite shore, and followed with renewed ardor into the wilderness. Kent and Leslie, however, had gained a good start. Both being rapid runners, they had not much to fear. Had nothing unusual occurred, they would easily have distanced their pursuers. But Leslie, following Kent in a leap across a rocky gorge, struck in his comrade’s footsteps in the earth upon its edge. The earth had become loosened and started by the shock, and ere Leslie could recover his footing, he fell some fifteen or twenty feet to the bottom. The fall bruised him so much that he was unable to rise, or in fact hardly to stir.

  “Hurt?” asked the ranger, gazing over at him.

  “Yes,” groaned Leslie. “I can’t get up. Don’t wait for me, for it’s no use. Go on and save yourself.”

  “I hate to leave you, but it’s got to be done. Lay down there; crawl in under that rock. Perhaps they won’t see you. Quick, for I hear ’em comin’.”

  With these words the hunter turned and disappeared, and succeeded in getting beyond the gorge without being seen by his pursuers; but this delay had given them time to gain a great deal upon him, and when he started their hurried tramp could be distinctly heard.

  His words had roused Leslie to a sense of his peril. By struggling and laboring for a few minutes he succeeded in disengaging himself and managed to crawl beneath a projecting ridge of rock. This effectually concealed him from sight, and had his pursuers no suspicion of his fall, he yet stood a chance of escaping.

  In a few moments he heard them overhead, and the pain of his wounds was forgotten in the anxiety which he now felt for his safety. He knew that they had hesitated, but whether it was on account of the leap which they were required to make, or on account of any suspicion that they might entertain, he could not divine.

  The place in which he had fallen had probably once been swept by a torrent, but now a tiny stream only warbled through it. The murmur of this, by Leslie’s side, prevented his understanding the words of those above. The hum of their voices could be heard but not their words.

  Presently, however, he distinguished a well-known voice evidently in expostulation with some one.

  “Gorra mighty! does yer s’pects I can jump dat? It’s bad ’nough to make me git drownded in dat river without broken my neck down dar!”

  Leslie could not help wondering why Zeb was brought along, nor how he managed to keep pace with the rest. But as he had not heard his voice before, he concluded that the negro must have been brought by several Indians who remained behind for that purpose. This conclusion was confirmed by the words which he heard the next minute.

  “Whar’s de use ob jumpin’? Dem yere fellers’ll soon be back, coz dey ain’t agwine to cotch dat man nohow. He can run like a streak o’ sunshine, and likes as not dey’ll all get shot. You’d better go on and coax ’em to come back while I stay here and waits fur ye.”

  In answer to this, Leslie heard some angry muttering and mumbling, but could distinguish no words. In a moment, however, Zeb’s voice was audible.

  “Bless yer, you’re de all-firedest fools I eber see’d. How does you s’pects I’s gwine to light on toder side. Ef one of you’ll take me on your back, I won’t mind lettin’ you try to carry me over; but I tells you I ain’t agwine to try it. So you can shut up yer rat-traps.”

  Hardly a second elapsed before he again spoke:

  “Hold on dar; you kickin’ all my brains out! I’ll try it!”

  The next moment Leslie heard a dull thump, and Zeb came rolling down directly beside him.

  “I’s killed! Ebery bone is broken. I can’t live anoder second.”

  “Zeb! Zeb!” whispered Leslie, in a hurried whisper.

  The negro suddenly ceased his groaning and exclamations, and rolling his head over toward him, asked, in a whisper.

  “Who’s dat?”

  “It’s I, Zeb. Get up quick, for God’s sake, before they come down, or I’m lost!”

  The negro clambered to his feet without difficulty, and disappeared, shouting to those above:

  “I isn’t hurt. It war de rock dat was broke by my head striking it! How de pieces flewed!”

  CHAPTER IV.

  THE CAPTIVES.

  When Rosalind Leland felt herself seized by the savage, she fainted in the arms of her swarthy captor, and so remained for a long space of time. When she recovered, she found that she was a secure prisoner in the hands of her enemies. She was grieved to see that Zeb was a companion in captivity. She felt that, could she alone suffer, she would willingly bear it. Although acquainted with many Indians, she was unable to recognize any of those around. This, of course, was a gratification. It showed that the kindness of her parents and herself had not been lost upon them. Although the recipients of her kindness might not strive to prevent violence being done her, yet they refused to participate in it themselves.

  The whole Indian force numbered about thirty. As soon as they had done all in their power, and were convinced that there were no more captives to be secured, they took up the line of march. In the course of their journey, Rosalind found that she was near enough to hold a conversation with Zeb, and after a few minutes’ silence, she ventured:

  “How do you feel, Zeb?”

  “Bless you, missus, if dese negroes doesn’t get the all-firedest walloping when I gets de chance, dey may feel glad.”

  “Yes, but I’m afraid that you will not get the chance very soon.”

  “Oh, dey daresn’t kill me; fur if dey did, I’d hang ebery one ob dem.”

  Despite Rosalind’s painful situation, she could not but smile at the earnestness of tone in which Zeb delivered himself of this. She resumed:

  “Are you bound, Zeb?”

  “Not much; only a dozen ropes tied around one leg, and as many round de rest ob me body.”

  “Oh, Zeb, don’t tell such stories.”

  “Fact, Missus Leland. I counted ’em when dey’s puttin’ ’em on, and dey cut like forty, too.”

  “Forty-two what?” asked a gruff voice by Zeb’s side, in very good English.

  “Gorra mighty, who’s dat?”

  No answer was given.

  “Who de debbil was dat?” asked Zeb, speaking to Rosalind.

  She made no answer and appeared to be lost in a reverie. Zeb repeated his question but failed to elicit any reply. Muttering something to himself, he permitted her silence to remain undisturbed.

  There were two horses in the party, and upon one of these Rosalind had been placed. The other was bestrode by a savage, who appeared to be the leader of the band. Zeb’s hands were pinioned behind his back, and he was compelled to walk behind the horse of Rosalind, with a guard that kept a close eye upon his movements.

  Silently yet rapidly the body moved along through the forest of impenetrable darkness, where a perfect knowledge was required in order to make the least progress. Rosalind’s horse was a powerful creature, and carried her with comparative comfort. Now and then the cold leaves brushed her face, or her body grazed some tree, yet the animal carried her safely and unharmed. Several times the thought of escape flashed upon her. It seemed easy to turn her horse’s head and gallop beyond the reach of her enemies. But one of them was mounted, and she believed she could elude him. She could ride down those immediately around her, and what was there to prev
ent her making good her escape?

  And yet, after a few more minutes of thought, she abandoned all hopes of liberty for the present. Her brother was free, and would leave no means untried until she was again restored to him; and there was another one, who, she knew in her heart, would exert himself to the utmost to save her. This thought caused her heart to beat faster and faster. There was a slight tremor in her voice as she spoke:

  “Zeb, come a little nearer to me.”

  He made a movement, but was unable to approach much nearer.

  “Are you listening?” she asked, in a subdued tone.

  “Yes, missus; mouth, ears and eyes is open.”

  “Then,” said she, bending toward him and lowering her voice still more, “I wish to ask you, Zeb, whether you would do me a favor?”

  “Lord bless you, missus, you knows I’d die a hundred times for you.”

  “I believe you would,” returned Rosalind, touched by his tone and words; “but it is no hardship that I ask of you.”

  “Well, out with it quick, fur dese fellers don’t like to see yer horse’s side rubbin’ all de wool off ob my head.”

  “You are acquainted with Roland Leslie, Zeb?” asked Rosalind, bending lower and speaking in a whisper which she scarcely heard herself.

  “Yes,” answered Zeb, breathing hurriedly.

  “Well, should you see him, tell him of my situation; and—and—tell him not to run into danger for my sake.”

  “I will,” rejoined Zeb, fervently.

  Here a savage, judging that matters had gone far enough, jerked the negro rudely back.

  “You needn’t be so spiteful,” retorted Zeb; “she’s told me all she’s agwine to.”