CHAPTER IV.
THE CAPTIVE FREE.
The neigh of a horse, faint and distant, but unmistakable, had come floating up the ravine upon the still night air. And though, after waiting many minutes, it was not repeated, it had been so distinct as to exclude all doubt.
“It must have come up the hollow,” he muttered, “from any other direction I could never have heard it.”
And, without hesitating for a moment, he prepared to go in the direction indicated. Throwing his blanket at the foot of the tree, he grasped his rifle, poured fresh powder into the pan, lest the night air might have affected the priming, and then, drawing his belt around so as to bring his knife convenient to his hand, he set out cautiously down the ravine—one man in pursuit of more than twenty!
Cautiously and slowly he proceeded down the bed of the ravine—gradually descending toward the lower level of the river bottom. He was guided wholly by the little rivulet which tinkled quietly along his path—for the dim starlight could not penetrate the depth in which he walked; and his progress was consequently very slow. The way was winding, too, and seemed almost to run parallel with the river;[[9]] and its channel grew deeper and more broken. Other streams came flowing in on either hand, and at every moment he was compelled to halt and grope his way across the gorges. Large trees stood obstinately in his path; and roots and briars, vines and thickets, impeded his advance. But patient perseverance, strengthened by the hope of rescuing the captive, still carried him forward over every obstacle.
More than an hour had been spent thus, and he had begun to listen more attentively, and, if possible, watch more closely for signs of his enemies. He halted on the brink of a deep ravine, which furnished a channel for another small stream; and, before venturing down into its bed, stooped nearly to the ground, and remained for many minutes profoundly listening to every sound. The stillness of night was quite unbroken; and he was on the point of beginning the descent, when his eye caught the flash, as of faint lightning, playing briefly upon the leaves at the bottom of the ravine! It was gone in a moment; and his first impulse was to look up through the tree-tops at the sky. But the stars were shining serenely—there was not the slightest cloud in the heavens. He watched for a long time for its reappearance—but the darkness remained as deep as before. It might have been a fire-fly; yet it was strange that it was not repeated; and it had been, not so much a light, as a flicker, like the blaze of thin fuel, and it had died out gradually, not suddenly disappeared. While he stood irresolute, reflecting upon the singularity of the appearance, an imperfect sound, as of very distant thunder, seemed to float along the earth and die away at his feet. He placed his ear to the ground, and again listened. The stamping of numerous horses became plainly audible—and they could be but a short distance from him. To his practiced ear the sound was familiar enough—and he had no difficulty in determining its locality.
He at once rose to his feet and again examined his arms. Moving cautiously and slowly, he then descended the bank until he reached the bottom of the ravine. Turning to the right, he glided silently and stealthily along its bed for two or three hundred yards, when, on coming to a bend where the stony soil had resisted the action of the elements, his progress was suddenly arrested by a stream of light which shone from beyond the projection, and cast deep shadows upon the opposite bank. The fire from which it came was evidently built within the ravine for concealment—for it was only from above that it could become visible at any considerable distance.
To approach nearer in this direction would not be prudent—for, by the shadows on the bank, Edgar could see that at least twenty horses were picketed just beyond the shoulder of the ridge; and a snort from one of these might attract attention. He had no fear of other sentinels; he well understood the Indian practice of posting none; for, apparently so negligent are these most vigilant of all warriors, that even in their incursions, when they are constantly liable to attack, every man lies down to sleep, trusting solely to concealment and their Manitous for protection.
The ranger therefore slowly retreated a few paces, and then silently climbed the bank upon the left. From this point he could see no light; but, upon advancing along the ridge, a little nearer than he had ventured below, he gained a view, not only of the light, but also of the fire, and the formidable group around it!
More than a score of swarthy Indians, all in their war-paint and grotesque ornaments, and each with his gun and tomahawk beside him, sat smoking, one after the other, in a circle about the fire! A little without the line the excited captain could indistinctly see the shape of something white; and, as his eyes became accustomed to the light, all doubt vanished—it was the Captive Bride, seated apart from her captors, with her face buried in her hands. Could she have known whose eyes were at that moment straining their gaze upon her, how different must have been her emotions.
Edgar grasped his rifle and knife with a fierce energy, which threatened the suicide of an immediate attack. But he soon recovered his calmness, and set coolly about making a thorough examination of the position, and calculating the chances of a rescue.
The place had been well chosen for concealment. It was a circular area, inclosed on all sides, except the southern, by the broken and rain-washed ridges, and not more than an acre in extent. It was, indeed, a sort of basin among the hills; and it was the volume of water, collected here into one stream, that had cut out the ravine along which Edgar was advancing. It was dry now, however, and the grass, which in this country everywhere follows the rains of spring, was growing luxuriantly beneath the shelter of large oak and hickory trees.
Of these there was a little clump or grove in the northern arm of the area; and it was just within the edge of this that the fire was kindled. From that side an experienced scout might have approached within a few paces unobserved; but what could one man do against twenty? All that he could now effect, Edgar thought, was to watch the movements of his enemies, and take advantage of whatever opportunity might offer; or, if none should present itself, as was most probable, patiently to await the arrival of his men.
And now a harassing reflection occurred: What if White should not meet them, or they should miss the way? He would lose the benefit of all the diligence he had used, and having success and rescue almost within his grasp, would have the misfortune to see them glide out of his power! Here, within a few rods of him—buried, perhaps, in thought of him—sat the captive, snatched almost literally from his side, at the altar; and, though she might have heard his voice, he dared not raise it—though he might reach her side in one minute, he dared not advance! His rifle might do him service; for, even at that distance, his unerring skill would have disabled an enemy at every shot; but he knew that, at the first discharge, the pursued would become pursuers, and all chance of a rescue would be at an end! He was sure, besides, that the first motion of the savages upon an attack would be the murder of their prisoner; and, brave as he was, he shuddered, and shrank from the thought.
While he stood in the shadow of a tree, harassed by these reflections, a sudden movement took place in the circle of savages. One, who seemed the chief, rose to his feet, and the council broke up. The warrior turned toward the captive, and, taking a large blanket from the ground, spread it at the foot of a tree, and beckoned her to take it. He did this with so much more courtesy than was usually displayed by Indians to their female prisoners, that Edgar’s blood tingled to the very ends of his fingers.
“The redskin dog designs her for his wife!” he muttered; “but he shall die first, if I lose my scalp!”
Jane rose quietly from her seat, and, wrapping the blanket about her, lay down upon the ground. The chief and two other warriors then placed themselves near her, to prevent escape; the remainder of the party spread their blankets around the fire; and, within a few minutes, all was as still within the faintly lighted space, as if not a living being breathed between the rivers. The fire gradually burnt down to a bed of coals; as the flame went out the shadows crept closer and closer to the dusky group; and so still was the night that, on stealing a little nearer, Edgar could plainly hear the heavy breathing of the tired sleepers.
Still nearer and nearer he slowly crept, though with no definite design or plan of action. The bride who had been snatched almost from his arms, was within that circle—and this gave it a fascination not to be resisted. He was now upon the bank, which sloped gently down to the level of the bivouac; and here a narrow, sandy path wound round the jutting points, and led directly toward the smouldering fire. Almost without an effort of the will—drawn by the charm of her presence—he stepped upon the noiseless sand. He commenced the descent—issued from the shadow of a little ridge—was, for a moment, in full view of the whole party—passed on again into the shadows, and stood within twenty feet of the object of his search.
The light from the dying fire played fitfully upon Jane’s face, and a smile, serene as in her happiest moments, gave meaning to the flitting shadows. Beside her, motionless as fallen statues, lay the stern, impassive forms of her captors; but Edgar knew too well that, rigid as they seemed, profoundly as they slept, the slightest noise would rouse them to a dangerous vigilance. Three of them lay between her and him—and two were near enough to grasp her, should she rise. But he gazed upon her face once more, beautiful in the holy calm of sleep—as tranquil as a summer sky. The impulse which had led him thus almost within arm’s length of her, slowly shaped itself into a purpose—the vague attraction settled into conscious resolution.
He began to move cautiously to the left, around the sleeping circle, within the deeper shadows of the grove, from tree to tree, toward that beneath which Jane was slumbering. Nearer, step by step, and silently as the closing in of night, he approached like a shadow. He was now within the influence of the light, and but one tree stood between him and that which he was endeavoring to reach. A breathless pause, during which he gazed upon the form of every sleeper—they were apparently as unconscious, as if each had been a corpse. And yet, how fearful was the risk at every step. The slightest rustle of a bush, the breaking of a twig, even the grating of his feet upon the gravel, might awake his enemies—and then farewell all hope of rescue!
But his was not a nature to shrink from danger. Cautiously drawing the ramrod from his rifle, he took the irrevocable step. Swiftly, but silently, he glided from one tree to the other. Within four feet of him lay Jane, in profound and tranquil sleep, her head resting upon her arm, and one hand extended toward him; while on each side of her, but still nearer than he, her captors were ready to awake at the first movement.
But again he resolved to take the risk, and stretching forth the ramrod, gently touched her open hand. She did not move—he touched it again—and she slightly drew it away. Once more—she opened her eyes, and gazed upon the sleeping Indian before her—fortunately, without disturbing him. He passed the rod slowly before her face; she turned her head, and was about to speak, when he showed himself for an instant, and pressed his finger to his lips. She was silent, though breathless with excitement. But the nerves of a true frontier girl were not easily shaken; and Jane saw at once that her lover’s safety, as well as her own liberty, depended upon her self-command. Obeying a sign from him, she commenced slowly and cautiously, though with trembling hands, to unfold the blanket which protected, but also impeded her. As fold after fold fell gradually off, her heart beat with a wilder and stronger pulsation; and when, finally, she found herself free, she could scarcely forbear springing to her feet, and rushing into Edgar’s arms. By a great effort she restrained herself, and cautiously rose to her feet.
Full fifteen minutes—an age at such a time—had passed since Edgar approached the tree. But the suspense was amply compensated, when, without the least noise, he saw her, by his direction, gain the shadow of the first tree. He lingered still to see that she was unobserved, and then one moment brought him to her side, and joined their lips in a kiss as intense as was the danger by which they were surrounded.
Yet he dared not speak, and there was no time to be lost. The savages might discover the escape at any moment, and their last chance would be gone. He took her by the hand, and walking swiftly, though cautiously, began to retrace his steps through the wood. Five minutes brought them to the head of the ravine, and here he should turn to the left, if he wished to regain the path by which he had approached. But by this course, he must take a wide circuit to avoid the Indian encampment—and every moment was precious. Turning, therefore, to the right instead, he led her, as rapidly as she could walk, in the direction, as he supposed, of the dividing ridge, along which he had traveled in the evening. His observation of localities was usually so accurate, that there seemed no danger of missing the way. But he had been so much absorbed in the approach to the bivouac, that he had not noted the windings of the ravine, or even the points of the compass; and his surprise was very great on finding, after an hour spent in pushing forward, that he was apparently as far as ever from the ridge.
It was long past midnight, and but a short time could elapse before the prisoner’s escape must be discovered. It was vitally necessary that he should recross the river before sunrise; and yet, without his horse, this was impossible. Jane expressed confidence in her ability to walk even much farther; but the speed of even so active a walker as she was far from sufficient for escape. Edgar grew silent and anxious, though the cheerfulness of his companion at another time would have drawn many a smile from the gloom of his face.
“We can only push forward, John,” said she; “an enterprise so successfully begun should not be given up in despair.”
“I can never despair so long as you are with me, Jane,” he replied; “but I ought to tell you that, unless I can find my horse, our capture is certain.”
“See, then, if I am not a better night-ranger than Captain John Edgar,” she said; “I hear your horse, now!”
The Ranger drew her to him and kissed her warmly.
“I shall resign in your favor,” said he. “I should have passed without hearing him!”
This was more compliment than earnest; for, as he spoke, a low nicker from the bushes directly in front, indicated the spot where his horse was still standing. The faithful animal was aware of his master’s approach. A few moments sufficed to prepare him for retreat. Edgar doubled his blanket, and placed it behind the saddle. Lifting Jane to this impromptu pillion, he threw himself into his seat, and turned his horse’s head toward home.
“What is that!” Jane exclaimed.
Floating up the ravine came a prolonged war-whoop, ringing among the trees, and dying away in a thousand echoes along the ridges.
“They have discovered your escape,” Edgar said.
He waited to hear no more, but regaining the dividing ridge, set off at a swift pace toward the south. The order was reversed—the chased were now the pursuers—and speed alone could decide the race. Edgar rode a powerful horse, who had borne him safely through many a fight as well as march; but the double weight he was now carrying, the journey he had made, and the efforts still expected of him, forbade the idea of rapid traveling. Yet the bloodhounds were upon his track; and at the dawn of day, now scarcely an hour distant, Edgar knew that they would sweep down upon him like the wind. Escape seemed as difficult as before the rescue.
Yet the Ranger was not cast down, and the strong-hearted pioneer’s daughter gave little thought to danger. As in all women of her class, excitement only evolved her energies; and she talked with a sort of cheerful elation, as if the peril were already passed, and home once more regained. Edgar was far from being so much at his ease; but he had never known fear, and, save on account of the loved one, whose arms encircled his waist, he would rather have made his dispositions for battle than for flight.
His only hope was that the Indians might be delayed in searching the woods around their encampment until he could gain a sufficient start; and this hope vanished almost as soon as formed. They had scarcely ridden three miles, when the thunder of many hoofs came rolling down the ridge. The enemy were in full chase, scarcely a mile behind.
“We must try the virtue of speed,” said Edgar; dashing his spurs into his horse’s flanks, he sprang away at a rate which gave promise of soon distancing the pursuers. Their footsteps soon died away in the distance; and, could he have kept up the pace at which be started, the captain hoped he might reach the river before being overtaken. But at the end of a few minutes, he was forced to draw his rein. The ridge had grown so narrow, that the ravines on either hand intersected each other, and broke it into steep and dangerous gorges. At the first of these his horse came to a dead halt, and neither voice nor spur could force him forward. Edgar sprang to the ground, and looking over the precipice, shuddered at the leap he had been endeavoring to take. A hollow, whose bottom he could not see, cut directly across his path, and extended both to the right and left, farther than his eye could penetrate.
“They are coming, John!” exclaimed Jane, springing to the ground; and he had scarcely time to lead his horse a few yards to the left, when twelve or fifteen Indians dashed furiously up, and, like him, came to a sudden halt. He could plainly see the dusky outlines of their forms, riding back and forward, searching for a crossing. He drew Jane, whose white dress might betray them, behind a tree, and breathlessly awaited their motions. At a word from the chief they all turned directly toward him. He seized Jane by the arm, and dropping his horse’s rein, sprang down the precipitous bank. A fearful yell from the pursuers told him that he was seen; and a rush and a scramble, regardless of the crumbling bank, brought them almost upon him.
“Run, Jane! Down the ravine—run!” he exclaimed, and bringing his rifle up, the foremost warrior fell to the ground, pierced through the head. Another yell, more fearful than the first, heralded a wild spring upon him. But the ranger was more agile than any savage; with one bound he gained a tree, and before they had recovered from their confusion, his rifle was reloaded. Slowly he began to climb the bank—but his first movement was observed, and again they rushed toward him. He turned and fired his last shot—another savage rolled groaning down the bank. But the odds were too great. His enemies were too near to allow his again charging his gun, and an attempt to retreat up the steep ascent would be instant death. He gave himself up for lost—but, drawing his knife, resolved to die fighting to the last.
The click of a rifle-lock directly behind him caught his attention, and the next moment a volley of balls whistled over his head. A rush down the bank immediately followed. The company of rangers, led on by White, had arrived in time to save their captain. The savages, taken by surprise, were unable to make a stand; for with them, as among all undisciplined men, a panic was irremediable. Edgar joined his men, and assumed the command, pushing the charge directly home upon the confused and scattered party. But such as were not disabled by wounds sprang actively up the ascent, and gaining their horses, took to flight. They left seven of their warriors, among whom was the tall chief, lying dead in the bottom of the ravine.
Edgar called his men back from the pursuit, and mustered them within the gorge. Not one of them had received a wound.
“We are all safe,” said George Fielding; “but where is Jane?”
“Here I am,” Jane answered from the ridge above. Instead of flying down the ravine, as Edgar had directed, she had climbed the bank behind him; and, unwilling to leave him in peril so fearful, had determined there to await the issue. Had she been armed, he would not have been alone in the fight.
Day had dawned on the conflict, and now the shadows of the forest were fast melting away. Leaving their enemies to be recovered by their companions, who would soon return for them, the rangers remounted, and set out toward home. Edgar lifted Jane into his saddle, and with little difficulty, catching one of the Indian horses, rode, happy as if already her husband, by her side. On the morning of the third day they once more reached her father’s house, where the rejoicings at her rescue were shared by the reassembled guests, at her wedding with the Ranger-Captain.
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