"Dick can't answer that, but h'yers as thinks that goes to show she's a sperit sure, 'cause if she ain't, what else can she be?"
This set Mansfield's thoughts in another direction. A darker picture presented itself. The refusal of McGable to answer his question added life to the picture, and our hero became satisfied that he had now struck the truth.
"Isn't she your wife, Tom McGable?" he asked, bending his mouth close to the ear of the renegade.
The latter started, as if stung by a serpent, trembled and breathed hard for a moment, but made no answer. Mansfield repeated his question in a more peremptory tone, but it was of no avail: the renegade had resolutely sealed his lips.
This, together with his manner, demonstrated to a certainty to Mansfield, that the Frontier Angel had been or was now the Indian wife of McGable. She had married him, he believed, when she dreamt not what a black heart she was taking to her bosom. Goaded by his cruelty and the subsequent knowledge of his awful crimes against his own race, her reason had become dethroned. And the safety of the people, that was the object of eternal hatred to her husband, now became the burden of her life. The change from the natural aversion which she, as an Indian, felt to the whites, to that of friendship and love for them, he believed was due to the unbounded horror created in her mind by the atrocities of McGable. It was one of those singular phenomena which the human mind often presents. Mansfield, previous to this, had felt some slight degree of compassion for their captive, but it was all gone now. The man who, independent of the last-named crime, could bring himself to forswear and massacre his own kindred, without a shadow of provocation upon their part, he felt deserved any death that the ingenuity of man could invent.
The march of the three was continued all through the night, and the halt in the morning was of but a few minutes duration, as Peterson felt fearful of pursuit in case the absence of the renegade was discovered. A short time after, the settlement was in sight, and before twenty minutes more had passed, Tom McGable, the notorious renegade, was ushered within the palisades by our two friends.
The astonishment and rejoicing created by his capture were unbounded. He was taken at once to the block-house and placed in the upper story, from which it was impossible for him to escape. There had been quite a heavy reward offered for his apprehension, and the commander assured Peterson and Mansfield that, as soon as it could be secured, they should have it. The latter, however, refused to receive any portion, as he had rendered no assistance worthy of mention in the capture of the prisoner.
The excitement became so great among the settlers that the commander, to quiet them, gave out that the garrison would determine what should be done with McGable at once. Abbot, hearing this, requested the commander that he might be allowed, as a great favor, to see the prisoner alone for a short time. The peculiar circumstances of the stricken father being known, this request was granted; and McGable, under charge of Dingle—who asserted that he had been cured by his capture—and the officious Jenkins, was conducted to Abbot's house. There being but one door by which the lower story could be entered the guards remained outside, and Abbot found himself face to face with the man who had so well-nigh killed his entire family at one blow. Mrs. Abbot, not wishing to be present at such an interview, had purposely absented herself, and the two, the murderer and the murdered, we might almost say, were alone. Abbot gave the renegade a seat, and then sat himself in front of him, where he could look directly into his face.
"I have petitioned that I might see you alone, McGable," commenced Abbot, in a low, quiet tone, "in order that I might ask you something, which, perhaps, you suspect. God knows that I have no desire to revenge myself upon you. Only grant me this privilege, and I will forgive you, McGable, for the awful crime you have committed. Last spring I sent Marian upon a flat-boat, expecting to rejoin her in this settlement a few months later. Instead of reaching her destination, the boat was decoyed and all on board murdered, with the exception of Peterson, who effected his escape. He left Marian dying, he believed, upon the boat as he sprang away. Had he left her dead, this interview would not have been sought by me. But there has been a doubt ever since in the mind of her mother and myself, of the manner in which she died,—for we do not pretend to hope that she survived. This doubt has so troubled us, that I have tried all means of solving it. You must know the circumstances, McGable, and now a broken-hearted father appeals to you to give this knowledge, and set his trouble forever at rest."
While Abbot was uttering these words, the renegade sat like a demon incarnate, his eyes blazing with the most baleful passion. His teeth were set and he drew his breath hard and gaspingly through them. He controlled this whirlwind of fury, in a measure, before Abbot had finished, and when he spoke it was in the low, frightful voice of suppressed passion.