“You say they are removing to the first fort below?” is the next inquiry.
“Yes.”
“Without an escort?”
“Oh, not by any means. They are accompanied by a round dozen of armed men. But what of that? You outnumber them two to one, and as your braves have had a taste of blood, I am sure it has only sharpened their appetites. Fact is, the Morelands haven’t completed their journey yet. They have went into camp on an island in the center of the river, where they intend spending the day. The island lies nearly opposite to this spot. It is a long, narrow strip of land, thickly wooded on each side with willow trees, and barren and rocky in the middle.”
“I know which one you allude to,” interposes the chief, “and know exactly where it lies. So the boating party has stopped there, eh? and your object in all this palaver is to have me go over there and stir them up?”
“That is it, precisely,” replies McCabe, rubbing his hands. “They say the island affords pretty fair means for defense, but I am sure success will attend you if you fall upon them when they are not suspecting such a thing. Don’t spare them. Attack and butcher the whole set—except one.”
“And that one?”
“She is the daughter—Isabel Moreland. Don’t harm her, but bring her to me, if you can possibly capture her. She is as beautiful as an oriole, and I want her for a wife. I have attempted to make her mine in a legitimate manner, but she has rejected me with scorn, and I must resort to violence or lose her.”
“Want a wife, do you? Surely, then, you will not think of returning to the whites with your unwilling bride?”
“No; that would be walking into the lion’s jaws after capturing one of its cubs. Help me to get this lady, and then I will join the Indians, and make their wigwams my future home!”