Vol. V.] [No. 56.
AUGUST 19, 1876.

JOE NAPYANK;
OR,
THE RIVER RIFLES.

BY BILLEX MULLER.

NEW YORK:
BEADLE AND ADAMS, PUBLISHERS,
98 WILLIAM STREET.

Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1870, by
FRANK STARR & CO.,
in the Clerk’s Office of the District Court of the United States for the Southern District of New York.

CONTENTS

[I. On the Ohio] 9 [II. Night on the Ohio.—A Visitor.—An Original Character.—Premonitions of Danger] 19 [III. Teddy O’Donnell and His Love Adventure. Startling Catastrophe] 28 [IV. On the Island.—Environed by Peril.—Sad Forebodings.—Young Smith’s Desperate Adventure] 33 [V. Sad News.—Recovery of a Rifle] 45 [VI. A Reckless Adventure.—Capture of Teddy.—A Visit to the Flat-boat.—Thoughts of Rescue] 52 [VII. Death and Capture.—The Companions in Captivity] 59 [VIII. A Night Voyage Down the River.—Singular Appearance.—The Departure] 65 [IX. In the Dark and Bloody Ground.—The Separation] 74 [X. A Vain Hunt.—The Indian Camp.—Discovery.—Pursuit.—Desperate Conflict.—A Meeting] 81 [XI. Teddy O’Donnell and Ruth McGowan—Irish Shrewdness—A Pugilistic Triumph—The Indian Fight—Liberation] 90 [XII. The End] 98

JOE NAPYANK.

CHAPTER I.
ON THE OHIO.

“I’ve had a pretty good tramp to-day, that’s sartin!” Such was the exclamation of a tall, gaunt, ungainly hunter,—Joe Napyank, as he dropped the butt of his rifle upon the ground, and folding his arms over the muzzle, looked out upon the broad Ohio, rolling by in quiet grandeur.

“I’ve tramped nigh unto twenty miles without once stopping; and, when a fellow goes that distance through woods, cane-brakes, and thickets, dodging the redskins and varmints, it’s no wonder if he’s a leetle blowed. Can’t be I’m too late after all.”

The thought seemed to bring him some discomfort for a moment.

“No; it can’t be, no need of thinking that. I’ve made pretty good time, and have struck the river low ’nough down.”

From his position, a view of the Ohio, for several miles below was afforded him, but the prospect above was cut off by a sweeping bend in the river. The hunter—for such he evidently was—took a long searching scrutiny of the river below, as if in quest of some object. Suddenly he started.

“Yonder is something that’s sartin, but it must be an Injin canoe. Yes, I know it is.”

The object referred to was simply a dark speck, gliding straight across the stream. In a few moments, it struck the other shore and as speedily disappeared.

“Yes; that’s a canoe, that can be told by the way it acts. It’s plain McGowan has not reached this point yet.”

Thus satisfied beyond all conjecture, Joe took a seat upon a tree, prepared to wait the appearance of some object. As we have already remarked, he was very tall and remarkably attenuated,—his weight barely a hundred pounds, while his height was fully six feet. His features were sharp and angular, characteristic more of the New Englander than of his native state of New York. His face seemed as devoid of beard as a child’s; but he had a pleasant blue eye, and there was an expression of good nature on his face, more prepossessing than otherwise. When he talked or laughed he displayed a fine set of teeth, and a remarkably musical voice. His hair was sandy and almost as long and straight as an Indian’s.

Joe Napyank sat some time in a reverie, when chancing to raise his head, he saw in full sight, coming around the bend above, a goodly sized flat-boat, such as were frequently seen upon the western waters, three-quarters of a century since. The hunter’s eyes sparkled.

“That’s McGowan! I knowed he couldn’t be far out of the way. I don’t see any of ’em on the look out, which, howsomever, is a good sign, as it’s one that ought to do the looking out,—that is such looking out as makes me show myself.”

Joe kept his seat for a few minutes longer, and then withdrawing into the wood so as to conceal himself, he deliberately raised his gun and discharged it in the direction of the flat-boat and then, dropping his piece, looked to see the result.

He caught a glimpse of two or three hats moving around near the stern of the boat. Enough to satisfy him, that his friends were not asleep, nor so reckless as to expose themselves, when no possible good could result from it. The hunter now stepped forward, and called out,

“Helloa there, you, can’t you take a poor fellow on board?”

All this time, he was careful to keep his body concealed; and, observing, that his call attracted no notice, he speedily repeated it, still hiding his body, and disguising his voice as much as possible.

“I say you, won’t you take a poor fellow on board, that’s been badly cut up by the Injins, and can’t get off.”

Still there was not the least sign that his words were heard, which perhaps rather curiously did not seem to displease the hunter. By this time, the flat-boat had approached a point directly opposite, so that he was compelled to begin walking to keep pace with it. This he managed to do, without exposing himself to the inquiring eyes, that he knew was piercing out upon him.

“I say, be you so cruel as to leave a poor wounded man of your own race and blood to perish among these outrageous Injins?”

Still no response, and the hunter tried it once more.

“Can’t you let me know that your hear me?”

A moment later, a huge red face appeared over the gunwale,

“Git out! you can’t come that game over me.”

Joe Napyank now stepped forth to view, and swung his hat with a loud laugh.

“That’s right, McGowan, belive every man in these parts an enemy till he’s proved a friend.”

The same rubicund face rose like the moon over the horizon of the high gunwale, and a cheery laugh rolled over the water—

“Ha! ha! ha! you can’t hide that voice of yours, Joe; I knowed you all the time.”

“You did, eh?” replied the hunter somewhat crestfallen, “why didn’t you answer me then?”

“You didn’t apply in the proper manner,—that’s it, ha! ha! ha! Now when you show yourself like a man, I’ll notice you. I suppose you want to come on board.”

“If you’ve no objection, I should like to do so.”

“How do you propose to do it?”

“I ’pose you work your old pile of lumber into shore.”

“No, you don’t. It would be a little better if you should work yourself a little out from shore.”

The hunter could not avoid laughing at the good natured shrewdness displayed by McGowan.

“I’m glad to see you’ve larned something. ’Twouldn’t be safe to get along the shore when there’s no current.”

“What made you ask me to do it then?”

“Just to see whether you had enough sense not to mind me. I tell you what you can do though, McGowan,” added Napyank in a more serious voice.

“What’s that?”

“Work the boat a little toward this bank so that I can wade out to you. A few yards will answer.”

“I suppose there is no objection to that, but you will have to go down stream a little further.”

“Of course.”

The long sweeping oars that were hung at either end of the flat-boat were now called into requisition and applied by seemingly invisible hands. Under their influence, the huge unwieldy mass of lumber began sidling toward the bank, somewhat after the fashion of a cautious turtle, that had not made up his mind as yet, whether he was doing an exactly proper thing or not. The hunter kept pace with it, manifesting considerable anxiety, and surveying both shores, as though he were not satisfied with their appearance. One or two things had caught his eye that gave him some uneasiness, and he was rather impatient to get upon the boat. This perhaps made the movements of McGowan and his friends unnecessarily tardy.

“There! I think that will do!” exclaimed the man on the flat-boat. “Now see whether you can walk out to us.”

But Joe was already several yards out in the stream, carefully feeling his way. The water slowly rose, so that he was to his arm-pits before he had passed half the intervening distance.

“Ay g-r-a-c-i-o-us!” he shivered out, as he tediously made his way along. “This is awful cold, and is getting deeper and deeper.”

“Keep along. You’re in the deepest part,” cheered McGowan.

“I—I—don’t know about that.”

“A few more yards and you will be here.”

“I—oogh!”

The last exclamation was forcibly ejected, as he suddenly dropped out of view. Just as McGowan’s hearty laugh was ringing over the water, he shot upward again and struck out vigorously for the flat-boat.

“Confound it! Why didn’t you tell a feller?”

“How could I know there was a hole there? Let your feet drop and see if they don’t touch bottom.”

The hunter did as was requested and was surprised to find that he was again in five-foot water.

“That’s better,” he added, as he rapidly neared the flat-boat. “In a minute——”

Joe Napyank suddenly paused, at the sharp crack of several rifles upon the bank, and the whizz of the bullets in alarming proximity to his own person.

“Indians!” exclaimed McGowan, excitedly. “Quick Joe, for God’s sake; you’ll be killed!”

The hunter was fully impressed with the danger, and was making all haste toward the flat-boat. He sank down so that nothing but the upper part of his head was visible above water. The bullets rained like hail around his head but still he was unharmed.

“McGowan, can’t you give ’em a shot?” he called out.

“I can try.”

Saying which his gun was speedily raised and discharged among the shouting savages, who took no pains to conceal their bodies. The shot seemingly was a good one, for they scattered to cover like a flock of frightened partridges. During the temporary lull the hunter reached the flat-boat and with the assistance of two or three friendly hands was received on board.

The Indians disappeared with almost the suddenness of magic. Not another yell was heard, not another gun fired. Five minutes after the discharge of the first shot, a stillness deep and profound reigned over wood and river.

For a long time those in the flat-boat maintained an unremitting watch upon both shores. More than once they were certain they saw some redskins leaping stealthily from cover to cover—they were in momentary expectation of another volley. But none came. It seemed as if the savages had been controlled entirely by the desire to slay or obtain possession of Napyank, and failing in this, they had quietly withdrawn.

“They have left, I guess,” finally remarked Napyank.

“I don’t know,” replied McGowan, “it seems to me that every rod of these bordering woods, contain a dozen of the creatures, and it does seem as if they had all taken a great notion to watch us.”

“No doubt about that, and they will keep on watching us till we reach the settlement. Haven’t they attacked you previous to this?”

“I should think they had. There hasn’t been a night since we got fairly into the West, that they haven’t tried to board us.”

Joe Napyank, although an experienced hunter, seemed really surprised to hear this. McGowan added by way of qualification.

“I speak the literal truth when I say there hasn’t a night passed without some hostile attempt upon their part; but I must say, that it does seem to me that they didn’t try very hard.”

“That is qu’ar. When Injins try such things, they’re apt to do the best they can.”

“Perhaps they had a good fear of the mettle of those on board this boat,” smiled McGowan.

“Per-h-a-p-s,” drawled the hunter, in a voice that was far more significant than a simple denial could have been.

“I don’t think any of them have learned how many we have on board,” added McGowan.

“It is well they didn’t.”

But it is high time the inmates of the flat-boat should receive a more special introduction to the reader.

Theophilus McGowan, the author of this emigration scheme, was a middle aged man of large frame, weighing considerably over two hundred pounds. He came from Western Pennsylvania, where he was a prominent citizen, greatly respected, having performed a very important part in the Revolutionary war, now brought to a close. He procured a wife as obese and genial-natured as himself, and a daughter as pretty and plump as it is safe to imagine. This was their only child, and, at first, it may seem hard to find a reason why he should leave his comfortable home and emigrate to this great solitude, the abode of the deadly red man. But it requires no prophetic eye, to see that this very region—the great West—was destined speedily to become settled, civilized, and one of the most important sections of the young nation. His experience in camp life and the vicissitudes of the great contest, had nurtured a roving disposition in him, and he had entered into the scheme with as much zest, as if he were a young man, and was in quest of a bride and a new home.

Associated with him was Abram Smith, a man somewhat younger than himself, who brought with him his two sons, Abram and Stoddard. Abram was a quiet, reserved sort of man like his father, and nearly thirty years of age. Both had the true mettle of the pioneer in them. Reticent and undemonstrative, yet they possessed that noiseless, unwavering determination, which could be checked by no obstacle that it was possible for human will to overcome. Every trial and difficulty they took as a matter of course, and it may be safely ventured that if father and son ever knew that it was appointed to run a gauntlet of Indians, in order to reach their destination, they would not have hesitated or turned aside for an instant.

Mrs. Smith was a cypher,—meek, uncomplaining, faithful, she went through her routine of duties, greatly after the manner of a machine that is regularly wound up and runs itself down. She would no more have dreamed of questioning the authority and wisdom of her husband, than a slave would have dared to dispute with a despot.

Stoddard Smith, who was several years younger than his brother, (it may as well be expressed at this point,) was prompted more by admiration of Ruth McGowan, than a love for this outrageous solitude. Brought up in the neighborhood, he had learned to look upon her with admiring eyes, and came in due time to be accepted as her lover, in preference to scores of others, who had cast longing looks in that direction. His disposition was such that he would have been pronounced a son of McGowan, far sooner than one of his rightful father. Free, open-hearted, brave almost to recklessness, sometimes noisy in his exuberance of spirits, he was the very antipode of his family.

“Friend and companion! I greet you,” was his salutation, as Joe Napyank came over the gunwale. “You seem rather anxious to see us.”

“And so would you be,” answered the hunter, as he turned towards McGowan, and the other two devoted themselves to the danger that had sprung so suddenly upon them. A few more words which have been already recorded, and the conversation was reduced to disjointed sentences, principally occasioned by what was happening around them. Finally, when it became certain there was no fear of further molestation from the savages, they mingled more freely with each other. Mrs. McGowan and Smith came above and greeted the hunter, who was a most welcome addition to the party, and after remaining a few moments went below. Ruth, however, staid on deck in converse with her father, lover and Napyank. Abram Smith and father were at the bow, where they had abundant opportunity for their favorite pastime—silence.

“It seems to me you don’t look very much scart,” replied the hunter, addressing Ruth McGowan.

“I have been frightened for all that—but we are getting so accustomed to these Indians, that I am in constant expectation of their guns.”

“She was frightened enough when the first shot was fired the other day. She believed it was certainly all over with us,” said her father. “She ain’t so brave as you are trying to make out. I’ve no doubt she would run into the cabin, if we should be boarded by a half hundred of the red skins.”

“I’ve no doubt of it either,” returned Ruth, not detecting the quiet humor of her father, beneath the serious surface.

“Yes; she is a regular coward; I don’t know what we shall do with her in this western country. I almost wish we had left her at home.”

“I am sure you can’t wish it any more than I do,” rejoined the daughter, with some feeling. The father looked her quietly in the face a moment, and then with a pleasant smile drew her affectionately to his heart.

“No, my darling,” he said, as the tears came in his eyes. “I would not have left you behind for the world.”

Ruth covered her face, and for a few moments complete silence held reign. Joe Napyank considered the tableau quite interesting. Stoddard Smith was reflecting how truly he might appropriate the words just uttered by McGowan, and how decidedly agreeable it would be if he were her father for the time being.

In the meantime, the keen eye of the hunter was scrutinizing the Ohio and Kentucky shore in search of signs that it may be said were hardly ever invisible.

CHAPTER II.
NIGHT ON THE OHIO.—A VISITOR.—AN ORIGINAL CHARACTER.—PREMONITIONS OF DANGER.

The eagle eye of Napyank, the hunter, failed to detect anything suspicious. He knew that they were journeying through the most dangerous part of the great wilderness which at that day, stretched for hundreds of miles west of the Alleghanies. As he reflected upon the unanimity which his friends had enjoyed thus far, he could but wonder at the cause. There had others attempted this same project, and bitterly rued the day that the thought entered their heads.

Only a few months before, Napyank himself had attempted to pilot a flat-boat down the river. In the dead of night, when the whole crew were on the watch, a large body of Indians stole upon them, and in a twinkling had possession of the boat, and most of its inmates. What became of the unfortunate captives, none could tell, for neither Napyank, nor the two or three who escaped with him ever saw or heard of them again. But imagination can easily decide their fate, in the face of what was so well known to all those who had heard of the North Americans Indians.

The afternoon was far advanced, and still the flat-boat glided uninterruptedly forward. As yet no further sign of their enemies were visible. The vast forests lining the shores, were as quiet and motionless as if no man or animal had disturbed the solitude. The river flowed as placidly forward as it had for centuries. The sun had risen on the same scene that day that it had thousands of times before, and was about to set as it had for ages, when this sudden evidence of the advancing white men made his appearance.

Not another sign of life except the whirring of a flock of birds overhead was seen. The flat-boat with its handfull of human beings, was alone in that great solitude floating slowly and gently down the river, in which hundreds of similar adventurers were yet to find their graves.

In a few moments, the flat-boat swept around a bend in the river, and came in view of another extended portion of the Ohio. Viewed from a distance, it had much the appearance of a huge square box floating aimlessly onward. At either end a lengthy oar was hung, which now and then some hand dipped into the water, when, after surging a few moments, it remained at rest. The box-like appearance of the boat, ended at the prow and astern, where it took more the shape of a lawful boat. The cabin ran the entire length, except at each end stern was left a space of sufficient dimensions to contain a half-dozen men. Above these spaces, the heavy bullet-proof planks rose for fully five feet. A small narrow window was pierced in the side, opening and shutting from within, while a trap-door above afforded still more secure means of obtaining light, or of affording egress to those within. The spaces referred to at the end communicated with the cabin, so that the entire length of the flat-boat could be traversed, without being exposed to a shot from the most vigilant enemy outside. This was McGowan’s arrangement, and he deserved credit for the originality he had shown. Under his skilful management the lumbering vessel had been constructed into a regular floating fort. A hail-storm of bullets were as harmless as so many pebbles. To this fact, perhaps, may be attributed the remarkable good fortune that had attended our friends from the start. The ever-watchful savages, seeing such a craft,—so different from that which had usually met their gaze—naturally supposed there was a formidable force behind it, and frequently were reluctant to attempt to board it.

Still Napyank was too experienced and shrewd to believe this state of things would last much longer. The prize was too tempting for the savages to allow it to glide quietly through their grasp.

The hunter informed McGowan, that he strongly suspected the real crisis was to come that night.

“Yes, sir, I do,” he exclaimed in a low and emphatic tone. “Look out for night.”

“If we get through that?”

“Well enough; you ain’t got much furder to go.”

“We’d better stay up to-night.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then, I’ll go below for awhile.”

A moment later and Joe Napyank was left alone on the deck of the flat-boat.

As he stood with his right arm partly raised, resting upon the oar his keen nervous eyes fixed upon the river beyond, he was a fine specimen of the daring pioneer of the West.

Gradually the day waned and the gloomy shadows lengthened over the river. The great wilderness became darker and gloomier and the form of the hunter gradually blended with the night.

An hour later, the full moon rolled above the forest, and the river glistened brightly in its rays. Silently the flat-boat glided onward, its skilful pilot ever maintaining its position as near the centre of the river as possible.

The cabin, we may remark in this place, was divided into two compartments of nearly the same size. The forward was the sleeping one for the females, and was only occupied by them during the night. The other was the general sitting-room in which all remained most of the day, and in which the men spent the night.

A dim light was burning, sending forth a heavy oily smoke, which found vent through the trap-door above. The faces of all looked wan and ghastly in the sickly yellow light.

They, however, remained but a comparatively short time below. Their meal finished and they all went above,—the two Smiths, including also the wife, took their position at the bow of the boat, when they could look, fight if necessary and—keep still.

It was far from being the case at the bow, where were congregated McGowan, Napyank, young Smith, and Mrs. McGowan and her daughter. They were disposed to enjoy the scene as much as possible.

“If we could feel safe,” remarked Ruth, “how happy we could be. This scenery is splendid.”

“Yes,” replied the father, who was somewhat impressed by the majestic solemnity of his surroundings. “It’s enough to make any man feel solemn.”

“This would be a grand old night to go on a serenade,” said young Smith, glancing at Ruth.

“I’ve no doubt there are several Indian residences in the vicinity,” said McGowan. “Suppose you sing a song in front of them. No doubt it will be appreciated.”

“I should like to sing the death-song of all of them.”

“How soon before we reach our home?” inquired Ruth McGowan of the hunter.

“We ought to be there to-morrow afternoon, if we suffer no interruption.”

“And this is the last night we are to spend upon the river?”

“I hope it is.”

“How rejoiced I am!” exclaimed Ruth with a glowing face.

“But,” said the hunter deeming it best to check her exuberance, “we haven’t reached that point yet.”

“Of course not, but we soon shall. How brightly the moon shines! It is almost as light as day.”

“It is not going to last,” said Napyank, “there are clouds coming up in the sky, and it will not be long before we are in the darkness. Hello? Smith there has discovered something. What is it, Smith?”

“Look over the side of the boat,” said the elder, making a desperate effort to break his reticence.

The hunter did so, and instantly detected the head of a man on the surface of the water, approaching the boat.

“I ought to have seen that,” he said catching up his rifle. “There is a man swimming out to us. I say, you,” he called, addressing the individual in the river, “What is it you want?”

The man puffing and blowing, continued rapidly to near the vessel, but made no reply. The hunter raised his rifle in a significant manner.

“Don’t shoot,” admonished McGowan, “one man can do no harm.”

All were now crowding toward the gunwale, when Napyank requested them to keep back. A moment later, the form in the water had reached the flat-boat and now called out,

“Would yees have the onspakable kindness to lower a rope jist, and assist a gintleman on board?”

What a revulsion the sound of that voice created! The cheery brogue, of a humorous Irishman established a feeling of brotherhood on the moment.

“Teddy O’Donnell, as certain as I’m alive,” exclaimed Napyank, as he assisted him on board.

The next moment a great, huge, strapping Irishman came floundering over the gunwale, like a prodigious porpoise that had just been hooked.

“The top of the morning to yees, barrin it isn’t morning but night,” said he. “I graats yees with plisure.”

“You are welcome, very welcome,” said McGowan. “We are glad of a friend at any time. But you are very wet. Would it not be best to change your clothes.”

“Yas,” drawled the Irishman, with irresistible comicality, “there’s only a slight objection to these same. This is the ownly suit I possesses, and therefore if I should attimpt to change it, me costhume would be rather too airy for the obsarvers.”

There was such a dry humor in all that the man uttered, that he soon had his listeners on a broad grin. The Irishman seemed totally unimpressed by the gloom and threatening stillness of the woods, and could joke even over his own descomfiture. The manner of his meeting with the hunter showed that both were friends, though none of the others recollected ever having seen him. Five minutes after his advent upon the deck, all were as well acquainted, as if they had known each other for a lifetime.

“I did not exactly mean that,” said McGowan, alluding to his last remark. “We are well provided with clothes, and if you will go below with Smith here, he will see that you are speedily adjusted in a comfortable rig.”

“Your obedient sarvant,” said Teddy, tipping his hat to young Smith, with all the gallantry of a cavalier, and descending with him into the cabin.

“He is what I call an original genius,” remarked McGowan to Napyank, when Teddy had departed.

“He is a great fellow Teddy. He’s one of the best hearted Irishman I ever met.”

“I noticed you were acquainted.”

“I’ve known him for a dozen years; he’s sort of a scout for the frontier posts. I can’t say I’m really glad he has joined us.”

“Why not?” inquired McGowan in astonishment.

“’Cause he’s always been considered the onluckiest dog in these parts. I never knowed him to go on a scent but what he had got into some confounded scrape.”

“I should consider him very fortunate then, that he has escaped with his life, and lives to tell the tale,” said Ruth.

“Perhaps he is,” answered the hunter, who did not wish to occasion any alarm. “I didn’t think of that way of looking at it.”

“Why does he continue such a life?”

“It’s just his delight. That feller is covered with cuts and scars, and hacks he’s got from the Injins. I couldn’t tell how many times he’s had his skull cracked.”

“What brings him here?”

“He’s had the redskins after him, and has had to take to the river to get away from ’em. If it hadn’t been for the flat-boat, it would’ve been all over with him.”

“He must be a brave man indeed.”

“He’s all that; he’d rather fight any time than eat. If he can work it to get into a scrimmage with the dogs, before we reach the settlement he will do so.”

“If he is so pugnacious as that, I trust you will be able to restrain him. He has no right to run us into any danger to justify his predilections.”

“He won’t do that; it will be himself only that he will try to get into trouble. Last summer, I went out in Kentucky with him. Afore we knowed it, we got a whole batch after us, and had to take to the river to give ’em the slip. We managed to throw ’em off the scent, and being pretty well worn out, hide under some bushes. We hadn’t been there long, when another party came along and squatted down right by us. They staid awhile and was going off without disturbing us, when this Teddy jumped up with a yell, and went right among ’em, using his gun for a shillalah, and whacking ’em over the head.”

“Of course, I had to pitch in with him, and it was about the worst scrimmage of my life. We gave some of the tallest kind of yelling, and I s’pose it must have been that scart ’em, for it want long before they left.”

“It is strange he escapes with his life.”

“Some of these days he will go under. His head is so hard that it seems to me he never can get it hurt, and, as that’s where he does generally get basted, that must be the reason he stands it so well.”

At this juncture, the subject of their remarks reappeared on deck, in such grotesque attire, that laughter was involuntary upon the part of all who saw him. His pantaloons were too baggy and far too large, his coat reached to his heels, and the sleeves were rolled up to his elbows. As for the shirt there can be nothing said regarding that, as there was none at all; for shoes, he retained his moccasins.

“That’s what I tarm a butiful shtyle of avening dress; also a choice one, bein’ there is no other to take your choice from.”

“You are comfortable at least,” remarked McGowan.

“I faals so jist at praisent. I haven’t got exactly, sot to ’em but I s’pose I will pretty soon.”

“You remain with us, I hope.”

“I hopes the same; I s’pose you’re bound for the settlement down the river?”

“Yes.”

“I have an appointment to meet Simon Kenton there, so if yees doesn’t object to my company, I’ll jine yees.”

“With all pleasure. The sight of a white face in these parts does us good.”

Teddy laughed heartily.

“It’s meseelf that doesn’t lay claim to being the same. When I had to dodge me head to give the redskins the slip, it was the first washing I had given my face since this saison set in—that’s the fact the first time since this saison set in.”

Ruth McGowan’s horror was unbounded, until her lover reminded her that this was the first day of summer, so that Teddy perhaps was as tidy as the generality of humanity.

“You came on us rather unexpectedly,” said young Smith.

“Yees did the same wid meself if you’ll allow to make the observation.”

“Another scrimmage?” inquired Napyank.

“Nothing hardly worth of mentioning. I undertook to crack the heads of a half-dozen I found slaping, and would have done it, if it hadn’t been for a thrifling thing.”

“And what was that?”

“They cracked mi own widout given me the chance to return the compliment.”

“You then took to the water?”

“I did not. I tuk to the woods, with the intention of coming back and given ’em a partin’ crack, when I cotched sight of this old barn floating down shtream.”

“Why didn’t you hail us?” inquired the hunter, with a peculiarly significant intonation.

“Arrah git out! din’t I try that last shpring, and you holding the guiding oar in your hand all these times, and knowin’ it was meself, and you bawling it was a decoy so as to keep me thramping till I had to shwim out to yees and haul meself on boord? Git out wid yer nonsense.”

Napyank laughed as if the recollection afforded him great pleasure.

“Yees are an unfaaling creature,” continued Teddy. “Yees have sarved me more that one ongintlemanly thrick.”

“Why, what now, Teddy?”

“Yees remimbers when ye wid not lit me tackle the ridskins out in Kaintuck.”

“But they were a dozen, and we were only two.”

“What the odds! We had not cracked a head for a waak, and there was emminent danger of me losing the scientific touch of the business.”

“It’s plain to see when you are in your element,” commented McGowan, and then addressing the ladies,

“Come, it is time you went below; it is getting quite late.”

The females took this palpable hint; and bidding their friends good night descended into the cabin. Teddy tipped his hat and scraped his foot, with all the politeness at his command and then turned to his new made friends.

CHAPTER III.
TEDDY O’DONNELL AND HIS LOVE ADVENTURE. STARTLING CATASTROPHE.

For the last hour the sky had been rapidly becoming overcast, and a thick fog was gathering over the river, which beyond doubt would enclose our friends in impenetrable gloom. There was not much probability of a storm, but it was certain regarding the obscuration of the moon and the approaching darkness.

Napyank, on the whole, was inclined to regret this. While it gave them a greater chance of being discovered by their vigilant enemies along shore, as they could proceed absolutely without noise, it still was emphatically venturing in the dark. Whether they were drifting in toward shore could not be known, until too late. Beside this the hunter called to mind that there was a large island near the center of the river which could be at no great distance from them, and it was his wish to avoid running upon this. As all were opposed to lying to for the night, the plan was not broached.

The settling gloom around them finally attracted the notice of young Smith who remarked,

“It’s getting dark as sure as we live.”

“I observe too, that a heavy mist is settling over the river,” added McGowan.

“In an hour you won’t be able to see tother end the boat,” replied Napyank. “Smith there will have all he can do to manage to spy out the Injins.”

“Do you think they will trouble us?”

“Not unless we run right into ’em.”

“And how can we do that?”

“We can’t very well unless we get into a powerful big island that is somewhere in these parts.”

“I am certain we ought to be able to steer clear of that.”

“If we can only see it—there’s the trouble.”

“Joe,” said McGowan, after a few minutes silence, “Why not run into the shore and tie up for the night?”

The hunter shook his head.

“’Twouldn’t do; I seen that tried once, on jest such a night as this. Them reds, it seems to me, can smell a flat-boat a mile off. They’d swarm down on us like a lot of flies.”

For some time Teddy had stood silent and thoughtful. His arms were folded, and he was looking out upon the still surface of the river.

“What is it you’re thinking about?” inquired Napyank.

“I feels sorryful, by the same token,” he replied in a sad tone, heaving a tremendous sigh.

“What is the cause?”

“I was jest thinkin of a wee bit of a girril that I had left at me home in ould Ireland—God bless her.”

“An affection of the heart, eh?”

“It bees; and it’s sthrange—there’s a very sthrange sarcumstance connected wid the same girril.”

“What is it?”

“It’s now good ten years since I last saw her, and I’ve niver once brought her to mind till this same minute.”

“You certainly could not have thought much of her.”

“I sartinly did; I’ve just thought of what it was that brought her to mind. It’s this ould coat.”

“And how should that do it?” inquired young Smith, who seemed about the only one who felt any interest in the matter.

“The last time I saw her she had on jist the same article; Ah! but she looked swate in it. She was diggin pataties at the time. It was the same that had the sphlendid fut for yees—none ov yer little cramped up nothin’—but a reg’lar stunner—as flat as a pancake. Ah! she was a girril.”

Another great sigh, showed how deep the Irishman’s feelings were regarding his almost forgotten love.

“And her ringlets—ah! if ye could but have seen them. They war’nt twisted up like a nagur’s, but long and graceful with jist the slightest twist to ’em, and as red as the fire in me own pipe.”

“It is strange you left her Teddy, if you held her in such high estimation.”

“I didn’t hould her, she staid there widout the howlding. Ah! she was the gal for me. I niver called on her but what we had a fight. We both used a shillalah, and it was there I got the scientific touch of that beautiful instrument. We always had black eyes after we left each other. It was that what gave me the high respect for her, that I shall entertain up to the day of my death.”

“But you haven’t told me why it is you left her society?”

“That was alas strange, but when I state the circumstances, you will see how great should be my respect toward the young lady.”

“I’m anxious to hear it, I’m sure.”

“Wal!” proceeded Teddy, with another great sigh. “I called an her one evening in the spring time of the year, when the flowers were in bloom and the petaties were getting ready to be, I proposed that we should have another set to, when we went at it right away. Begorrah but Bridget got the best of me that time. She fetched me a whack over the eye afore I knowed anything about what was comin’ and laid me out shtiff. When I came to she was still lambasting me, and she kept at it, till I had to lave the counthry to get away from her. Ah! me own swate jewil, if I but had you here this minute,” sighed Teddy, after he had concluded the narrative.

“What was the name of your love?” inquired Smith.

“Bridget Moghoghlmeoghan.”

By this time the gloom had become so heavy, that the heads of the two Smiths could scarcely be discovered, as they stood at the prow silent and faithful to their duties. The obscurity became greater and greater until the hunter’s prediction was literally fulfilled. The prow of the boat was a dim, vague, shadowy representation, whose outlines could not have been defined, had not one known its identity. The shores had long since faded from vision, that our friends were drifting helplessly forward—knowing that if danger lay in their path there was no possibility of discovering it, until they were fairly upon it.

Under these circumstances, the hunter considered the propriety of tying to the shore until morning. If they could hit upon some retired spot, where there was little probability of attracting attention, they ran far less risk of being molested, than by continuing onward in this aimless manner.

“What I’m the most afeard of,” said Napyank, “is that they’ll hear the creaking of the oars. The night is very still, and such a racket as they would make, a noise you could hear a half mile.”

“Be the same token don’t let ’em make any noise,” was the brilliant suggestion of Teddy O’Donnell.

“Easier said than done. Then the splashing wo’d make; that would be just as bad.”

“Can’t we work into shore gradually?” inquired or rather suggested McGowan. “We can dip the oars very quietly and work them with great care.”

“I can’t hardly think what to do,” said the hunter in some perplexity. “I think, howsumever, we’ll go ahead for the present.”

“But the island.”

“That is the only thing that troubles me.”

“Most likely the current will drift us by that.”

“I hope it will, but it is powerful onsartin.”

After some further consideration, it was concluded that it would be best to glide onward as they were doing at present, keeping in the meantime, as close a watch as was possible under the circumstances for the island that they all had so much reason to fear.

“The poorest part of this boat is the bottom,” remarked McGowan.

“We couldn’t get the proper timber, I remember we put in or two pieces that I am anxious about.”

“That makes it worse nor I thought,” replied Napyank, betraying his anxiety in his words. “By gr-a-c-io-us! if we should run into the island, it would be sure to punch a hole in the bottom.”

“And what if we did, couldn’t we fill the same hool up agin?” asked Teddy.

“Hardly——”

“Hello! what’s the matter with Smith?” interrupted the hunter.

“Here’s the island!” exclaimed the old man.

“Use your oar!” called Napyank, dipping his own deep in the water and swaying it with all the force at his command.

And here a most unfortunate mistake occurred. The two Smiths worked in one direction, and the hunter, assisted by his friends, in the opposite. Before the error was discovered, the flat-boat swung around, and the next moment went broad-side upon the island.

“By heavens! we have struck!” exclaimed McGowan.

“Yes; and the boat is sinking,” added the hunter. “Git the women out and be powerful quick about it!”

CHAPTER IV.
ON THE ISLAND.—ENVIRONED BY PERIL.—SAD FOREBODINGS.—YOUNG SMITH’S DESPERATE ADVENTURE.

It was an appalling fact that the flat-boat had staved in its bottom and was rapidly filling with water. With one bound McGowan sprang to the cabin and aroused the inmates. Before they were fairly arisen, he discovered they were in no immediate danger. The bow of the boat rested on the sand, while the stern had swung around and was settling some five or six feet—a depth sufficient to carry the rear entirely below the surface.

It was the work of a few moments, to land Mrs. Smith, McGowan and Ruth upon the island. Napyank leaped down, and assisted them to the ground so successfully that all landed dry shod. Their valuables (which being few were indeed valuable) were speedily cast out and in fifteen minutes after the flat-boat struck, its entire contents, both animate and inanimate were upon the island.

“This is a little too bad,” said McGowan gloomily. “Those few rotten planks have played the mischief. The boat can never do us any more good.”

“Can’t yees repair it, as the cobbler axed the docthor after he’d cracked his wife’s skull.”

“Repair it? No, we should never have started with such an old hulk as that.”

“Perhaps now we’re near enough to the mainland to be able to wade over,” suggested young Smith.

“Can’t do it,” replied the hunter shaking his head. “We’ll have to make a raft and paddle over.”

“With the old hulk bulging up there, it will be sure to be seen in the morning,” said McGowan gloomily surveying the dark mass of useless lumber. “Can’t we shove it further back into the water, and let it sink out of sight.”

“We will try it.”

The six men waded into the stream and pressed their shoulders against the boat. Teddy’s first essay was accompanied by a slipping of the foot which left him fall flat upon his face, where he floundered some time before he regained his upright position.

The united effort of the half-dozen men failed to budge the craft. It was as heavy and had settled so firmly that it was absolutely immoveable unless by more strength than our friends had at their command. As Teddy remarked, the “owld critter had sat down to stay.”

“We can’t do anything with it,” said McGowan, “and that being the case, what shall we do with ourselves?”

“Get off the island as soon as possible,” replied young Smith.

“It is now so dark that I don’t suppose anything can be done before morning,” added McGowan.

“Take things easy,” said Teddy. “Don’t you see we’re safer here than we was on that owld mud-scar. We could go to the bottom of river wid that any time; but here we can sleep as sound as snorting tapple.”

“We may as well make ourselves comfortable like till morning,” added Napyank. “Fix up the women-folks, and we can take care of ourselves.”

The island was found to be larger than they had at first supposed. It was more than an eighth of a mile from one end to the other, thickly wooded, and covered with rank grass and a dense undergrowth. It was oval shaped, and very regular in its outline, being rather more than two hundred feet broad in its widest part.

“What a magnificent summer sate this would make for a gintleman like meself,” said Teddy, as the two stood in the shadow of a tree, on the lower part of the island.

“So it would,” replied young Smith. “I shouldn’t be surprised if it was used for that purpose before many years.”

“Be the same token it’s the summer sate of a party of travellers at this very minute, and it’s probable we’ll make quite a stay upon it.”

“I hope there ain’t any Indians looking at us,” said McGowan with a shudder, as he glanced toward the shore of the dark and bloody ground. “I am afraid for the women.”

“So does I,——but——”

“Look there!” exclaimed McGowan fairly springing off his feet.

“What? where? I don’t see anything.”

“Here! here! this way!” said he pulling his companion around. “’Tain’t there——it’s on the island, right below us! look, can’t you see it?”

“I saas the traas and the fog and that’s all.”

“It disappeared the very minute you looked. There it is again! Now it’s gone! I wonder what makes it act that way.”

“What is it, man, you’re making such a noise about?”

“Why sir,” said McGowan solemnly, “as sure as you and I stand here, I seen a light moving about on the island.”

This being the case, McGowan and the two silent Smiths at once returned to the women, while the others passed down the shore of the island. They had gone a considerable distance in silence when young Smith suddenly caught the arm of the Irishman like a vice, and without a word pointed meaningly toward the trees where the alarming manifestations had first been seen. There was no mistaking this time. Napyank saw a bright light shining steadily through the trees—so brightly and steadily that he was certain it could not be far from them. Moving back more closely under the shadow of their own tree, he whispered,

“We must find out what the dogs are doing.”

“I say, there ought to be only one or two of us,” said young Smith. “Suppose you let me and Joe go?”

“I can, to be sure, but then what use would it be?” replied the hunter. “I can go, while you stay here and keep watch.”

“And where’s the naad of our keeping watch here?”

“You know some of the Injins might slip onto the island while I’m gone, and it wouldn’t take them long to play the mischief with the women folks.”

“Do yees do the same duty then, for I’m naaded ilsewhere, and here’s good luck to yees,” said Teddy.

“But——”

But the Irishman and hunter disappeared.