CHAPTER II.
A WARNING.
On the skirts of Dead-Man’s Forest, on the side opposite to that on which Cato the Creeper lived, was a small settlement on a hillside.
It was very small, numbering but about a dozen houses or cabins, and in the center on the hilltop was a small block-house.
The soil about the houses was somewhat cultivated and fenced, but the latter was hardly needed, for the settlers owned but few cattle and these were “kept up,” to protect them from the Indians which infested the country.
The settlement, being on a hill, overlooked a fine landscape. On one side, and in close proximity, lay Dead-Man’s Forest, with its acres of gnarled and towering trees, nestling knolls, and vast swamps—gloomy and specter-like, forbidding and haunted.
On the other side, the gazer looked upon a glistening river, winding its way through fertile and beautiful vales, dashing by bluffs and bickering down ravines. The hazy hills in the distance were tinted in the sunlight gloriously, and would be the envy of many a master artist.
On the same afternoon in which last chapter’s events occurred, a young girl sat before a cabin, larger and more tasty than the rest, dreamily gazing into the purple-tinted distance.
She was very beautiful, and her beauty was of the pure and holy kind—virgin.
In her deep, earnest brown eyes a wonderful mellow light played and gleamed, and at intervals she sweetly smiled to herself. Her hair was a rich red-brown and fell in glistening waves nearly to her waist, and was confined at the crown by a bit of bright blue ribbon. Her snow-white dress was short and displayed a charming ankle and the comeliest of little feet. Her hands were shapely, and though somewhat browned by the sun, had not lost their original beauty.
But, though the form was of the fairest to look upon, her face cast it into the shade.
Blessed with clear-cut and regular features, with sweet mouth and decided chin, it would have been beautiful without her eyes, which were deep brown and surpassingly lovely.
Lovely they were at all times, but now in the light of the setting sun, they glowed with a new, glorious light—the light of a pure love.
She was the daughter of old Robert Jeffries, the prominent man of the settlement, and every man, young or old, in the village, would have cheerfully risked his life for little Katie Jeffries. Since his wife had died, years ago, she was all that was left to him, and he idolized her.
The sun went down, and still she sat there, smiling and blushing. Her father was away on some neighborly errand, and she was left alone.
But not long. A hurried, light step came up the hill, a form appeared in the dusky light, and she rose to greet a handsome, athletic young man who sprung to greet her, embracing and kissing her tenderly.
“My love!” he whispered, pressing her fondly to his bosom.
“You are late to-night, Walter,” she said, in affectionate reproach.
“Yes, dearest; somewhat. But you know I have a farm, all my own, and I am working hard now that you may grace it, next spring. It won’t be long, my darling, and then think how happy we will be. You will by your love make me better and a more earnest worker; and will save for me too; while I—”
He drew her nearer, fondly. She felt a delicious thrill, and nestled close to him.
“You will what?” she whispered, blushing at her boldness.
“Try to make life a sweet, happy dream, for my darling.”
A few precious moments of silence ensued; then young Ridgely spoke.
“I’ve the nicest farm in the settlement for you, my darling. I have worked hard, it is true; but even when toil was the hardest and most trying to my patience, I have dissipated all discontent by thinking whom I was working for. You don’t know how your love has soothed me, my darling.”
“Oh, you are too flattering, Walter; too kind and noble. It is sweet to be loved as I am sure you love me, and I have tried very hard to please you; but you are too extravagant. ‘Praise to the face,’ you know, dear.”
“I cannot praise you, my own. It is impossible. That is, I cannot overrate you. Why, you innocent dear, you don’t know how lovable and good you are.”
“Now, Walter, really you must not talk so. I am very happy in the thought you care so for me, but it is wrong—real wrong to talk so to me. The truth is not to be spoken at all times, you know.”
“Well, then, if you wish it I will not. What do you think of the new young man that has come among us—Charles Danforth?”
“He is very pleasant and agreeable, but I do not like him. He looks cunning and cruel. Besides, I like to see men grand, powerful, and hardy—he looks too much like a girl. What is his occupation?”
“I don’t know. He does nothing but wander away into the forest, where he spends nearly two-thirds of his time. Dutch Joe said he saw him in company with another man in a dug-out on Shadow Pond, yesterday, but I believe it was only his imagination. He is not very smart and clever you know—he is simple.”
“Walter!” and Katie lowered her voice, and nestling closer to her lover, glanced nervously around in the twilight. “I am afraid of him. Father distrusts him. He fears the existence of a band of robbers in that dreadful forest. You know men have gone in there and have never come out.”
“Besides that rich man, that trapper that found the treasure somewhere in Mexico. You know the day he left us to go to St. Louis, screams were heard coming from the woods, and the people on the other side did not see him come out. Then father found blood and marks of violence in a small glade. Oh, Walter, I am afraid something is wrong.”
“Nonsense, Katie dear! every thing is quiet. There are no Indians here now, at least in the neighborhood, and even if danger did come, am I not here, my own?”
“Hush, Walter! some one is coming; see!” and she pointed to an approaching shadow. Walter Ridgely withdrew his embrace and sat in a more decorous attitude. Katie’s face expressed discontent at the interruption. The form approached; it was a man.
“Why Walter! it is Charles Danforth!” she whispered.
Walter arose to go. She caught him and begged him to stay—she was afraid to be alone with him, she said. So he again sat down.
It was Danforth (or Downing, for he it was) approaching quite near, humming a jaunty tune.
“Good-evening, Miss Jeffries,” he said, bowing. “And you, Ridgely; how is your health?”
He extended his hand to Katie, who took it reluctantly. Ditto Walter.
Then he seated himself on the doorstep and at once began a lively, rattling conversation. He was a versatile, vivacious conversationalist, and had been educated well. To the backwoods girl, though she had lived at one time in a civilized community, he seemed a paragon of learning, wit and beauty.
But then she mentally compared him to Walter. He had not the frank, honest gaze of the latter; and what women care more for, he did not have the powerful frame and strength of young Ridgely.
Her eyes were partial, it is true, but she found by comparison that Walter was his superior in morals, earnestness, strength and hardihood. But, she could not deny Danforth was gifted with rare beauty. Still she did not like him—she feared him.
After some time spent in conversation, which Katie sustained by monosyllables, and in which Walter did not join, Danforth arose.
“May I see you aside a moment, Miss Jeffries?” he asked. “I have something to say to you.”
She acquiesced, looking disappointedly at Walter, who watched them retire to a little distance. He did not like it.
When they had gone a short distance, Danforth proposed a stroll down the hill. She refused, abruptly. He stared; he had expected a glad affirmative answer. He looked at Walter, and Captain Downing smiled.
“Miss Jeffries, how long has that young man been in the settlement?”
“You mean Walt—Mr. Ridgely? He came with us from New York.”
“Do you know his character?”
“Perfectly; it is above reproach.”
The captain smiled and talked.
“Miss Jeffries, I am the owner of one of the finest farms in the State of Ohio. I am alone in the world—friendless. Will you grace that home?—will you make me happy by being my wife? I love you fondly.”
He spoke this in his sweetest tone, and with his most tender glance, encircling her waist with his arm. She drew away abruptly, and stammered:
“Oh, sir, you can not, you must not talk so to me! You must not—it is wrong for me to listen to you. Please let me go.”
She was flushed and irresistibly lovely. He looked at her quietly for a moment, then caught her in his arms passionately and kissed her hotly.
“My darling!” he passionately cried.
She struggled, ashamed, insulted, shocked at his tones and gestures. He held her tightly, and pressed another kiss upon her.
Walter, watching them jealously from the doorstep, saw the disturbance, and, mad with jealousy and rage, rushed toward them. She escaped from Downing’s arms just as he reached them, and glided to her lover’s side.
“What do you mean, you rascal?” huskily growled Walter, through his clenched teeth.
“Rascal? Take care, young whipper-snapper!”
“Yes, rascal—poltroon—villain! What do you mean? What was he doing, pet?”
“He kissed——”
“Yes, I kissed her, whipper-snapper. I asked for her hand, like a man. She did not choose to smile on me. I have no ill-will about it. I take it you are the favored one. Well, if you had behaved yourself, I would not have borne you any dislike; but you took offense, called me names I never before took, and now you stand sneering at me. Whipper-snapper, you are a scoundrel!”
Walter boiled over and sprung toward him with danger in his eyes. Katie as quickly interposed, holding him tightly, between him and Downing, so if he clenched with him he must run over her body.
“Let me go, Kate! I command you to let me go immediately.”
He was thoroughly aroused, the more so at seeing Downing’s face wear a provoking smile. He endeavored to elude her, but she still kept him closely clasped.
“I will not, Walter; I can not. Be quiet—calm yourself! Do, Walter.”
“Yes; calm yourself, whipper-snapper. Keep your temper, bantam.”
The exasperating smile with which Downing accompanied these provoking words maddened Ridgely. He took Katie by sheer force from around his waist, and eluding her, darted toward the robber. He was close upon him, with his sturdy arm upraised, ready to fell the other to the ground, when she caught him.
He was off his guard; the wily captain saw it, and dealt him a lightning blow from the arm-pit. The blow struck Walter squarely between the eyes, and he dropped like a bullock, with the blood spirting from his nose.
For a few seconds he was stunned, and sat vacantly on the ground. Then he aroused himself and crawled to his feet.
His adversary had vanished, and was nowhere to be seen. Burning with chagrin, pain and rage, he commenced wandering about vacantly in pursuit. But he was too dizzy and stunned to see plainly, and before he had been on his feet two minutes he fell again; the girlish fist of effeminate Captain Downing was hard as a rock, and was backed by the arm of a blacksmith.
Katie sunk down beside her lover, astounded at the sudden change in affairs. Shocked at the captain’s ungentlemanly conduct to her, burning with sorrow at her lover’s harsh action in putting her aside—these were but trifles compared with the intense shame at seeing him whipped and vanquished. She was as much ashamed as her champion, though dimly conscious that she had caused the disaster by unguarding Walter.
She raised him to a sitting posture, and pillowing his head on her breast, wiped the blood from his face with her handkerchief. The moon had just risen, and by its strong light she saw he had received a herculean blow, as his eyes were red and swollen, his nose was bruised and bleeding, and he was weak and stunned—scarcely more than conscious.
She began to cry piteously and stroke his forehead, when a harsh voice behind her growled:
“What in thunder air ye doin’ thar, gal?”
She turned quickly; her father, a sturdy man in the prime of life, was regarding her curiously. He was an odd mixture of fun, moodiness and good-nature, and united the most repelling face and voice to the kindest heart imaginable. He had been bred in a large city, and was perfectly “well up” in all matters which interest fast youth. He recognized the form of Walter, noticed his bruised face, and saw his daughter’s anxiety. At this last he chuckled.
“Wal, what hev we hyar?” he said, going down on his knees beside them. “We hev a couple of moss-agate eyes, and we hev a Roman nose. Wal, what air we goin’ ter do with ’em? Why, we air goin’ to cure ’em. Why didn’t ye do suthin’ fer ’em, gal?”
“I did not know what to do, father. Oh, dear father, please relieve him—I know he is hurt terribly. Do, please, father.”
Robert Jeffries stopped not, but whipped out a huge clasp-knife, and told her to hold it across the bridge of his nose. Then he went off, muttering:
“Ef we lived in a decent place, now, we’d hev oysters, beefsteak, ice and sech fur the eyes; but we live in black Arkansaw, and we hain’t any thing but vinegar, salt and mud. Cuss sech a kentry!”
He bustled about the cabin, struck a light, and rapidly procured some vinegar and salt. Then he took a cup of water, and making some mud, formed the three ingredients into a paste, which he clapped on Walter’s eyes.
It aroused him instantly, and smarting from the salve, he staggered to his feet, and looked vacantly about; he had received a terrible blow. Katie affectionately supported him.
“Lie down—lie down!” commanded Jeffries. “D’ye want ter start the blood a-runnin’, an’ make yer eyes like a hearse? Lie down and keep still!”
“Where is he?” inquired Walter, making a faint show of determination. “Where is he?”
“Who?” inquired Jeffries.
“Charles Danforth, father. Oh, he struck poor Walter as hard as he could, right on his poor forehead.”
“What! yer don’t mean to say that girl Danforth knocked him down like a beef! whipped a feller that cleaned out six Pawnees, one after t’other! Wal, I will—that’s good.”
“Oh, father; he wouldn’t have done it if I had not caught him when he was going to strike. I held him, then Danforth struck him.”
“Yer did, eh! yer did; and yer promised to be his wife. Gal, I’m ashamed of yer. It’s foul—it ain’t ’cordin’ to the rules of the ring—wal, wal; and yer claim to be a Jeffries.”
Walter, who had recovered his senses, here interfered.
“You see, sir, she meant good—she tried to prevent a fight. So she tried to stop me—if she hadn’t I would have given him a thrashing.”
“Thank you; thank you, Walter,” said Katie, with a grateful glance at him.
“What was the mill about?” asked Jeffries.
“He treated Katie like a—a—”
“What!” vociferated the father. “Treated my daughter like what?”
“He threw his arms around her and kissed her.”
Jeffries’ eyebrows sunk down over his eyes, and he breathed hard. He was aroused.
“And yer got hit fightin’ for my daughter, did ye? Well young feller, yer did right, and I’ll remember yer. And him too,” he resumed. “I’ll make his hide smart.”
Without further parley he walked away down the hill toward the grocery or rather cabin, for there was no good “store” in the settlement. Katie knew what was his errand, and she also knew he was not to be turned aside from his purpose. But she tried to alleviate his wrath, and called out:
“Now, father, please think before you speak.”
He muttered some reply and strode down the hill. Three hundred yards away was the provision cabin where Danforth stayed when he was in the settlement. It was kept by a German named Hans Winkler. It was not a “store,” for the few families which lived in the neighborhood were too poor to require such a thing. But the old German, thinking to turn an honest penny now and then, had brought on a few staple articles from the Eastern States, which he retailed out for furs, produce, etc., making a large profit on every thing.
The cabin stood on the bank of the river already mentioned. To this Jeffries strode, and after listening for a moment, knocked at the door loudly.
No answer. Hans must be asleep. He knocked again. Still all was quiet. Then he halloed. Yet the cabin was still.
He turned away, provoked; his bird had eluded his wrath for the present. Resolving to punish him severely at the first opportunity, he was striding away, when a faint voice, seemingly far away, came to his ears:
“You are treading on dangerous ground; take care!”
He stopped and listened intently; all was still. The placid stream flowed on quietly, leaving no sound; the night was still. He started on.
Before he had gone a yard, the same voice rung out in clarion tones, near, loud, and shrill:
“You are treading on dangerous ground; take care!”
The sound proceeded from a group of willows a few yards up the river bank. He darted to them. He entered their gloomy recesses, ready against surprise, and searched them through; but, though he beat them for an hour he found nothing, and heard the mysterious voice no more. Then he went home, wondering intensely.