Jim McCabe asked himself this question over and over, gazing keenly at the stately figure before him for an answer. Had he not seen that tall, graceful form before? He thought at first that he had, but, as he called to mind every person of his acquaintance, and compared them with this one, he was compelled to admit that this one was a stranger to him. Just as he arrived at this conclusion the unknown moved. He turned half around, which gave the silent watcher a full view of his face. The moonlight fell on his bare head, revealing a noble forehead, a pair of brilliant eyes, and features of the handsomest mold.
Good Heaven! the man was Russell Trafford himself!
Jim McCabe staggered backward, and grasped a tree for support. His face changed to a deathly pallor, the perspiration poured from his brow, and for a moment his breath came in spasmodic gasps. Russell Trafford! he who had been hung—he who was dead and buried—now standing before him in all his living health and manly beauty! Great God could he believe his eyes? Had not he himself seen the man hung? Was he dreaming, or was this some frightful delusion of a disordered brain? That face, with the mellow light of the moon falling gently upon it, was not to be mistaken.
While the terrified ruffian was staring at the apparition, still another figure appeared in the glade. This, more to his surprise, he observed was not a male, but a female figure. It wore a white dress, and it was gliding toward the grave in the center of the natural clearing. Another keen glance, and McCabe had recognized this new appearance. It was Isabel Moreland!
Dumb with amazement, the lurker could do nothing but stand and stare. He saw the woman go up to the man; he saw the man catch her in his arms, and press his lips to her fair brow; and then he heard the low hum of their voices as they began an earnest but guarded conversation. In an instant his astonishment and consternation were transformed into fierce, ungovernable rage. He forgot, for the moment, that the appearance of this man, alive and well, was the most miraculous thing he had ever heard of. He forgot that he must be dreaming or insane, or that the familiar form before him was but a spirit from the dead. He forgot every thing, except that Russell Trafford and Isabel Moreland were standing there within a few feet of him, locked in each other’s arms! His blood boiled in his veins, and his hot head swam with the demoniac fury that took possession of him.
“A thousand curses!” he roared, in a voice hoarse with passion, as he snatched a pistol from his breast. “I swear I’ll kill the scoundrel if he has a hundred lives!”
Like a wild beast bursting from its covert, Jim McCabe sprung from the shadow of the tree, pistol in hand, and bounded across the open space toward the lovers. But he had taken scarcely half a dozen strides, when a rough hand grasped his collar from behind, and he was jerked backward with a violence that well-nigh precipitated him to the ground. As soon as he had regained his equilibrium, he wheeled around to see who it was that had so abruptly put an end to his fierce attack. In the moonlight he saw the faces of three men, all scowling upon him as though he were the worst person in existence! He knew them all at a glance. One of them, he who had seized him by the collar, was Kirby Kidd, the stalwart ranger who had acted the part of hangman in the execution of young Trafford. Another was the friendly Wyandott Indian, Wapawah, the constant companion of the white hunter. The third and last member of the group was Nick Robbins, the man of the bandaged eye and expressionless face.
“What do you want of me?” demanded McCabe; “and what do you mean by jerking a fellow about in that manner?”
“See hyur, youngster,” drawled Kirby Kidd, peering into the face of his captive, “who in creation are you, anyhow?”
“None of your business,” was the curt reply.