“I remain yours in Christ,
“Paul Earnshaw.”
The reply did meet the Reverend Ainesley’s approval, and every arrangement was at once made for the meeting of the two settlements upon the tenth of September.
But little did the great, kind-hearted settlers dream of the deep and damnable plot that was being laid for their destruction by one of these men wearing the sacerdotal robes of a minister of God.
CHAPTER IV.
THE ATTACK.
About four miles north-west of Clontarf’s Post, in a secluded spot, stood a solitary log-cabin, surrounded on all sides by the dark, towering forest. It was a rude structure without, but its interior bore evidence of ease and comfort. But, the location was one sufficient to inspire the heart with awe, for, from morning till night, the dark forest shadows hung over the hut. Even if a patch of sunlight did fall upon it, it came and went like a white-robed specter.
Here, within this lonely and desolate hut, dwelt, with his daughter Madge, Talbott Taft, the Indian trader. Why he had selected this obscure spot for a dwelling was a mystery to settlers thereabouts. And why he, a man of no little intellectual culture, had left the refinement of civilization and brought his beautiful and accomplished daughter into the wilderness of a savage land, was still a greater mystery.
Talbott Taft was in the prime of manhood, with but little gray in his hair and whiskers; and the “crows’ feet” about his eyes seemed rather premature, than the marks of Time. His features, though extremely delicate, bore no evidence of dissipation, yet his dark eyes were wonderfully strange in their expression.
His articles of traffic consisted of whisky, tobacco and beads. These he obtained at a large trading-post on the Missouri river, and traded to the savages for furs and peltries.
The settlers of Clontarf’s Post often called at the cabin of the trader, and were kindly received and cared for. But no one had ever been there but what, on leaving, had declared that there was some mystery about Talbott Taft.
Madge Taft was a woman of more than ordinary beauty. She was not more than eighteen, judging from her looks, but from the beautiful and perfect development of her form, one would suppose her to be one and twenty. Her eyes were dark, lustrous and brilliant, possessed of an expression that was indicative of a wild, joyful and fearless spirit—such as only a true heroine could possess. Her hair was black and fine as silk, clustering about her head in shapely ringlets. Her complexion was healthful and white as alabaster, and the hues of the rose and lily were blended in her cheeks. Her hands were small, white and shapely, yet no circlets of gold flashed upon her tapering fingers.