He seemed to have absolutely no other business in life than killing Indians, for a living was easily gained by hunting. He had never troubled to take up land, and since there were no settlements in the vicinity, no one interfered with his squatting. All his vivacity and gentle care vanished as soon as Norton regained strength, and with this interest gone, he would sit and stare by the hour at his terrible elkskin.
This Norton also found of keen interest, for every "hunt" had been carefully set down as to date and result. When they took the field against Blacknose, he conjectured shrewdly that Red Hugh would re-awaken once more, for judging by the elk-skin he was possessed of considerable prowess in the man-hunt. He must have gone about his revenge with a terrible skill; more than once the painted record showed that parties of two and three Indians had fallen to his rifle.
John Norton was in no sense horrified, though not at all in sympathy with the old man. There were many like him along the border. The settlers conceived and treated the red men as beasts, which too often they were, and no man was ever brought to justice for killing an Indian. Red Hugh's grievances were purely personal, however, and more than once Norton recalled Boone's words—"God ain't softened his heart yet, though He will some day, I reckon." That day, it seemed to Norton, was very far distant.
Only once, after that first talk with the man, did he ever refer to his slain family. He had been examining Norton's moccasins, on the third evening, and suddenly he favoured the Louisianian with one of his searching looks.
"If you were up in the Shawnee country," he said abruptly, "these leathers would either get you killed or crowned, Norton! Any Indian across the Ohio would recognize them instantly. Well—well——"
He stared into the fireplace, puffing at his pipe. After a moment he continued slowly as if musing to himself:
"They were Wyandots, a big war-party of them, and their chief wore moccasins with split soles. They killed us all, women and children alike—and after I recovered I went straight into the Wyandot country. I found that chief, a year later, and shot him in the midst of his own village; old Simon Kenton was with me, and we had a hard fight before we got away. Well, I had my revenge, but it did not bring back the dead wife and the little ones—the little ones——"
Upon that he strode from the cabin suddenly, and Norton never referred to his own similar story, deeming it best to keep Red Hugh's mind as far as possible from Indian atrocities. The man seemed no more than sixty years old, and save for that one topic his brain was as vigorous as that of Norton himself.
By the fourth evening the Louisianian was nearly himself again. Red Hugh's knowledge of herbs had rid him of the fever almost at once, and strength came back to him surely and swiftly. Burning with anxiety to waste no time, yet conscious of the necessity of regaining his strength, he had forced himself to bide in the idleness of recuperation, but now he could do so no longer. There was work to be done, and he was bent upon keeping control of things—for his own career lay in the balance. He had not resigned his commission in mad haste, but after much deliberation; did he succeed in eliminating the Blacknose gang, New Orleans and the Government had promised great things.
More than this, however, he had Kitty Grigg in mind. Once the present affair was concluded he promised himself a trip to Cincinnati, where many of the original members of the famous Order had settled. It should not be difficult to make inquiries and perhaps gain a clue to the girl's real family, he thought. So, calling Red Hugh into a gloomy consideration of the problem immediately at hand, he announced his intention of beginning work next day.