“Go in, Ingen!” “Walk along, Walker, you darn skunk you!” “There, that’s a good un, Ingen!” “Now another in the corn-crib!” “There he goes!” “Hooray for the Ingen!”
All well knew the meaning of this, and a number of the men hastened to the base of the cliff, by a long, roundabout path, which came up from the river at the ford below. They arrived to find Walker slain, and Fall-leaf badly cut in the face, arms and shoulders, but no serious wounds on the body. Nettleton stood over his friend, bathing his wounds in the clear waters of the river.
“Ingen’s done for the cut-throat, sure. It was mean to shut me out; but it was his game, ’cause he treed it. I’d give all I’ll ever be worth—”
“Would you give Sally?” put in one of the men.
“Dang Sally—no, dang my skin—that is, dang me if I wouldn’t give my commission, boys, that’s it! give my commission to have had the satisfaction of doin’ Fall-leaf’s work.” Nettleton looked savagely at the body of the dead man, seeming to feel that he had made a personal sacrifice in permitting the Indian to kill his enemy.
It would appear that both Fall-leaf and Nettleton, when kicked off the ledge, fell at its foot without injury, as the base was banked up to a considerable distance with the decayed and water-soaked débris of the bank, down which they rolled into the water. They had recovered, and stepped out into the stream to look up to the ledge, when they beheld Wells and Walker confronted. In a moment the rebel staggered, and went bounding off the ledge, and, like his two antagonists, came tumbling and sliding down the declivity, landing at the water’s brink upon his feet. There he was received by the Indian, with the wild whoop which startled those above. Nettleton, in honor bound not to interfere, stood by while the two fierce foes closed in deadly conflict. Walker, though a resolute and strong man, was not equal in a knife fight to the supple savage. After a few passes, Fall-leaf buried his knife in the rebel’s bosom. Thus closed the career of a bad man—bad by nature, but rendered doubly bad by the cause which he espoused. To serve that cause he had to betray his country, desert his friends, stifle the voice of conscience, perjure his honor, become a hypocrite and a deceiver: after that, all other degrees of crime were easy.
Wells followed the men at length, and appeared on the spot. He was shocked at the sight before him, but conceded its justice. His own wish was to have secured Walker for trial and punishment according to military law; yet, it must be acknowledged that, many times, he felt like wreaking condign personal vengeance on the head of the man who had wrought so successfully in crime. He ordered the body to be buried in the débris at the foot of the cliff; and there it reposes to-day, with no monument save the cave above, which will long remain as a witness to the traitor’s crime and traitor’s doom.
CHAPTER XIV.
The Body-Guard’s Sickness and Cure.
Slowly the party wended its way back to the mill. Just at nightfall it came in sight of the lowly hut which covered the treasure so dear to the heart of the rescued maiden. How her eager arms longed to clasp her brother’s form to her bosom—how her ears longed for the sound of his voice! The wings of the swallow would have been slow for her pining soul; but the moment of reunion came at last—the dead was made alive, the lost restored. Miss Hayward, gallanted by Wells, pressed on ahead of the troop, and their panting steeds at length stood riderless before the cabin-door, for the riders had disappeared within.
The meeting of brother and sister was one of mingled pleasure and pain. Both had suffered so much that to think of it was pain. Captain Hayward was greatly emaciated. Loss of blood, fever, hunger and exposure would have ended a life less tenacious than his; but, despite his suffering, the presence of friends, the rescue of his sister, the anticipated happiness of her union with the man who had proven himself so well worthy of her—all conspired to give an elasticity to his spirits more potent than the infusions of herbs prepared by the not unskilled hands of old Madge, who, from an enemy, had, “by the force of couldn’t help herself,” as Nettleton declared, become a useful instrument at a critical moment.