The day soon came that was to witness the departure of the Morelands, and there was much ado in preparing for the down-river journey. They were not to start until nightfall, as they had been repeatedly advised to travel wholly by night, and lie in concealment during the day. The woods at that time were swarming with hostile Indians, who, indignant at the increasing tide of white humanity that was flowing westward and spreading over their broad domains, were watching continually for flatboats and overland emigrants. Many and horrible were the massacres perpetrated on those daring souls who turned their backs on civilization to brave the dangers of the great western wilderness and clear the way for those to come thereafter. At such a time as this, then, it was well understood that the voyage of the Morelands would be beset with innumerable dangers, but to undertake it in the broad light of day, would seem almost like throwing their lives away. But even under cover of darkness they were not permitted to go alone. The commandant at the block-house selected a dozen good men to accompany them down the river as an escort.
Isabel was not apprised of the project in view, until the afternoon preceding the evening of their departure. When informed that they were going to take up their abode at another fort, miles away, she took no pains to conceal her astonishment, but prudently refrained from asking questions. It was plain that she suspicioned the true cause of this strange decision on the part of her father, but the troubled look she wore, as she saw herself an object of distrust in the eyes of her parents, was interpreted by them as deep regret at being compelled to leave her new lover.
Isabel was standing in the door, looking very beautiful and very sad, when Jim McCabe, who always seemed lying in wait for this sort of an opportunity to gain an interview, stepped up to her, and doffed his hat with an attempt at politeness. She would have retreated had she seen him approaching, but he had spoken to her before she knew he was nigh.
“Miss Moreland,” he said, leaning against the house, and looking up at her with a bland smile, “I hear you are about to leave us?”
“Yes, sir,” she answered, briefly.
“I—I—am really sorry, Miss Moreland,” he continued, feigning embarrassment, “that we are doomed to be deprived of the brightest star that lights the little world within these palisades. I presume, though, that you have friends here with whom you are equally as sorry to part. Am I not right?”
“It is never a pleasure to part with one’s friends.”
“Very true; and you will leave a great many friends behind you,” said McCabe, feeling his way cautiously.
“I trust you are right,” replied Isabel, coldly. “It is not pleasant to reflect that our pathway of life is surrounded by enemies alone.”
“And yet such may be the case,” hinted the man.