The phantom hunter; or, love after death

by Edward Sylvester Ellis

One bright afternoon, early in the month of August, there was an unusual commotion at the Indian frontier post.

The entire population, men and women, old and young, had assembled on a broad, level spot just beyond the limits of the fort, many of them to look upon a scene such as they had never before witnessed. This spot was known as “the green,” and it was where the youth of the settlement were wont to repair for their sports, but those gathered there now wore sad faces, and conversed with each other in low, serious tones. And well they might, for they were there to see a man hung for murder!

Russell Trafford was one of the most honored and highly esteemed young men of the place, and yet, on this bright August afternoon, he was to be put to death for the willful murder of another person, who had enjoyed a like reputation. Being an orphan, the young man had lived with his uncle, Doctor Trafford, in the largest and most substantial cabin in the settlement, the worthy doctor being a kind but eccentric individual, who could not have loved his nephew more had the latter been a son instead. These two had never been known to be at odds until very recently, and in fact the peace, harmony and happiness with which they had always lived together, had been a subject of remark on more than one occasion.

But one night, at a late hour, an alarm of fire was raised. The excited settlers, rushing out of their houses, made the startling discovery that the dwelling of Doctor Trafford was in flames. It was readily perceived that the fire had already made such headway as to be past extinguishing, but, notwithstanding that fact, crowds of people rushed to the spot to watch the doomed cabin as it burned, and to learn the cause of the catastrophe. Arriving on the scene, the only person they found there was Russell Trafford. The young man was standing in front of the burning structure, with an open tinder-box in his hand, gazing up at the flames, pale and silent. When spoken to he started violently, and then, quickly thrusting the tinder-box in his pocket, he clasped his hands and cried out in tones of mental anguish, that his poor uncle was dead—murdered—burned alive in his own house! Somebody asked him how he came to be outside of the cabin with an open tinder-box in his hand, and he replied in an absent sort of a way, that he didn’t know—the box was not his—he had found it, he supposed, and begged them to let him alone.

The idea of the esteemed Doctor Trafford being burned to death in his own house and bed, aroused the indignation of all. Somebody had done the deed, and somebody must suffer for it; and the finger of circumstantial evidence pointed to the victim’s nephew, Russell, as the guilty one. Suspicion was fastened strongly upon him, despite the good name he had hitherto borne. On the following day the remains of Doctor Trafford were looked for amid the ruins of the demolished domicil, and the search was rewarded by the finding of a skull and the rest of the bones that belong to the human body, all totally destitute of flesh. These were decently interred, as a last tribute of respect to the dead.

Russell Trafford was arrested, and allowed to go through a mock trial. An Irish boy named Mike Terry—a lad of some fourteen summers, who had lived with the doctor in the capacity of servant—testified that Russell and his uncle had quarreled on the morning preceding the tragedy, and, moreover, that he himself had seen Russell set fire to the building, and he (Mike) had barely escaped with his own life.

This was sufficient. Russell Trafford was declared guilty of firing the cabin with intent to kill his uncle, and he was sentenced to be “hanged by the neck, until dead.” And the sunny afternoon in question was set apart for the punishment of the offender, and many of those who gathered on the green to witness the execution wore sorrowful faces as they looked on the doomed man for the last time. For it was hard to believe that he, who had always been so honorable, upright and noble, could commit such a horrible crime as that ascribed to him. Instead, however, of hanging him by the simple means of a rope and a tree, after the Lynch-law custom of that day, a rude scaffold had been hastily constructed, and the evident intention of the people was to have the affair conducted in proper style. The executioner was an old hunter, ranger and scout, who gloried in the euphonious appellation of Kirby Kidd. Grizzled old borderman that he was, fearless, true-hearted and kind, he formed a good specimen of his class, and his sturdy, Herculean frame showed to good advantage as he stood at his post. His keen black eyes roamed over the crowd with seeming indifference, and occasionally he was observed to address a few words to the prisoner. He was leaning carelessly on his rifle, holding in one hand a tall death-cap, made of undressed bear-skin. There was still a third party on the scaffold. This was a friendly Wyandott Indian, of the name of Wapawah, who was the constant companion of Kirby Kidd when hunting or on the trail, and who had rendered valuable service to many of the frontier posts along the Ohio. Wapawah was as brave a warrior as ever trod Kentucky soil, and possessed all the cunning, vindictiveness and reticence, characteristic of his race. Just now he stood beside his white friend like an image carved in bronze, with his arms folded over his tawny breast, watching the proceedings in stoical silence.

While the spectators were waiting nervously for the finale, the attention of many was attracted to a rather curious-looking individual, who suddenly made his appearance among them. This was a man of medium size, clad in the ordinary garb of a hunter and ranger, who trailed after him a long, black rifle as he walked. There was not the sign of an expression on the fellow’s face. A red, straggling beard covered his mouth and chin; long hair of the same color brushed his shoulders at every movement of his head; an ugly patch disfigured his left cheek; and a rough bandage concealed his right eye. Altogether his was not the most prepossessing face ever seen. Nobody seemed to know him, nor did he return any of the searching glances directed at him. He was pressing through the crowd toward the scaffold, looking neither to the right nor left, but straight ahead.

When the stranger had pushed himself through the wondering throng, he unhesitatingly ascended to the elevated platform, and confronted Kirby Kidd, the hangman. For some minutes the two hunters conversed together in low, earnest tones, the friendly Indian standing near, and evidently drinking in every word that was uttered. When the secret conference had been kept up so long that the mob began to show its impatience by angry shouts, it was promptly ended, and the stranger turned away. Then the hangman spoke out loudly, exclaiming:

“Wal, Nick Robbins, ye know it’s my way. I allers try to do my duty, whether it be pleasant or no.”