“Them imps are at the bottom of the whole trouble we’ve had. They have always been mean and ugly enough to do anything, and since Simon Girty has got among them, they’re nothing but a set of devils let loose upon airth. It’s the fact,” added the scout, as he noticed a look of displeasure upon the minister’s face. “It’s the fact, I say; them Shawnees are the biggest set of villains that ever walked on two legs or four either, for that matter.”
“I suppose that this renegade has a great influence over them?”
“A great influence? Well, there?” repeated the scout, gesticulating very emphatically, “There ain’t a Injin chief west of Pennsylvania that can do more with his tribe than he can, and there ain’t a single chief among the Shawnees who dare persist in opposing him. No, sir.”
“Girty I knew when a boy,” said the minister, “and I have prayed many a time for him since. Although a dark and guilty man, he is a brave one, and was led to forswear his race on account of the brutal treatment he received from them. I have often wondered whether it were possible to win him back again.”
“Win him back again?” repeated the scout, recoiling a step or two, in perfect amazement. “No, sir; never. A greater monster never breathed, and as long as he lives his whole aim will be to revenge himself upon us; and what is worse, he isn’t alone. There’s that Pete Johnson, as big a devil, and a bigger coward, and a half dozen others, among the Injins, who are ever setting them on.”
“Umph! they’ll get paid for it yet.”
“But I see the day is well along,” remarked the scout, “and I must be on my way to the other settlements.”
The ranger, after a few minutes further conversation, left our friends, and departed. The words recorded took place the next day after the battle described in a preceding chapter, and up to this time nothing had been heard of Moffat and Kingman. During the interval Pompey had come in, who of course knew nothing. Their prolonged absence occasioned the most painful apprehension. All but Captain Parks were extremely doubtful of their return and Kingman’s parents were compelled to believe that their promising “George” was lost forever to them. The sad uncertainty of their fate cast a gloom over all the settlement.
But there was one upon whom the blow fell, as the minister remarked, with double weight. The gentle, blue-eyed Irene Stuart and the daring George Kingman had long been plighted—plighted in hearts, but not in words. All had seen and understood the claim which he had upon her, and although there was many an admiring eye cast upon the lithe and graceful form, yet none pretended to dispute his right. All gave way, and pronounced the handsome twain “a fine match.”
Irene watched with a straining eye for the form of her beloved to appear among the returned. None other than she who has experienced it can understand the painful doubt, the distressing uncertainty of a heart in such a situation: and when the fatal knowledge, like a blow of death, strikes all at once, then it is that the soul feels its great agony. As the good minister communicated gently, and with an air of hopefulness, the tidings that Moffat and Kingman had not returned, she felt her heart sink within her. The minster noticed her sudden paleness and faintness, and hastened to remark.