CHAPTER XII.
Alfred Clarke lay between life and death. Miller's knife-thrust,although it had made a deep and dangerous wound, had not pierced anyvital part; the amount of blood lost made Alfred's conditionprecarious. Indeed, he would not have lived through that first daybut for a wonderful vitality. Col. Zane's wife, to whom had beenconsigned the delicate task of dressing the wound, shook her headwhen she first saw the direction of the cut. She found on a closerexamination that the knife-blade had been deflected by a rib, andhad just missed the lungs. The wound was bathed, sewed up, andbandaged, and the greatest precaution taken to prevent the suffererfrom loosening the linen. Every day when Mrs. Zane returned from thebedside of the young man she would be met at the door by Betty, who,in that time of suspense, had lost her bloom, and whose pale faceshowed the effects of sleepless nights.
"Betty, would you mind going over to the Fort and relieving Mrs.Martin an hour or two?" said Mrs. Zane one day as she came home,looking worn and weary. "We are both tired to death, and Nell Metzarwas unable to come. Clarke is unconscious, and will not know you,besides he is sleeping now."
Betty hurried over to Capt. Boggs' cabin, next the blockhouse, whereAlfred lay, and with a palpitating heart and a trepidation whollyout of keeping with the brave front she managed to assume, sheknocked gently on the door.
"Ah, Betty, 'tis you, bless your heart," said a matronly littlewoman who opened the door. "Come right in. He is sleeping now, poorfellow, and it's the first real sleep he has had. He has been ravingcrazy forty-eight hours."
"Mrs. Martin, what shall I do?" whispered Betty.
"Oh, just watch him, my dear," answered the elder woman.
"If you need me send one of the lads up to the house for me. I shallreturn as soon as I can. Keep the flies away--they arebothersome--and bathe his head every little while. If he wakes andtries to sit up, as he does sometimes, hold him back. He is as weakas a cat. If he raves, soothe him by talking to him. I must go now,dearie."
Betty was left alone in the little room. Though she had taken a seatnear the bed where Alfred lay, she had not dared to look at him.Presently conquering her emotion, Betty turned her gaze on the bed.Alfred was lying easily on his back, and notwithstanding the warmthof the day he was covered with a quilt. The light from the windowshone on his face. How deathly white it was! There was not a vestigeof color in it; the brow looked like chiseled marble; dark shadowsunderlined the eyes, and the whole face was expressive of wearinessand pain.
There are times when a woman's love is all motherliness. All at oncethis man seemed to Betty like a helpless child. She felt her heartgo out to the poor sufferer with a feeling before unknown. Sheforgot her pride and her fears and her disappointments. Sheremembered only that this strong man lay there at death's doorbecause he had resented an insult to her. The past with all itsbitterness rolled away and was lost, and in its place welled up atide of forgiveness strong and sweet and hopeful. Her love, like afire that had been choked and smothered, smouldering but neverextinct, and which blazes up with the first breeze, warmed andquickened to life with the touch of her hand on his forehead.
An hour passed. Betty was now at her ease and happier than she hadbeen for months. Her patient continued to sleep peacefully anddreamlessly. With a feeling of womanly curiosity Betty looked aroundthe room. Over the rude mantelpiece were hung a sword, a brace ofpistols, and two pictures. These last interested Betty very much.They were portraits; one of them was a likeness of a sweet-facedwoman who Betty instinctively knew was his mother. Her eyes lingeredtenderly on that face, so like the one lying on the pillow. Theother portrait was of a beautiful girl whose dark, magnetic eyeschallenged Betty. Was this his sister or--someone else? She couldnot restrain a jealous twinge, and she felt annoyed to find herselfcomparing that face with her own. She looked no longer at thatportrait, but recommenced her survey of the room. Upon the door hunga broad-brimmed hat with eagle plumes stuck in the band. A pair ofhightopped riding-boots, a saddle, and a bridle lay on the floor inthe corner. The table was covered with Indian pipes, tobaccopouches, spurs, silk stocks, and other articles.
Suddenly Betty felt that some one was watching her. She turnedtimidly toward the bed and became much frightened when sheencountered the intense gaze from a pair of steel-blue eyes. Shealmost fell from the chair; but presently she recollected thatAlfred had been unconscious for days, and that he would not know whowas watching by his bedside.
"Mother, is that you?" asked Alfred, in a weak, low voice.
"Yes, I am here," answered Betty, remembering the old woman's wordsabout soothing the sufferer.
"But I thought you were ill."
"I was, but I am better now, and it is you who are ill."
"My head hurts so."
"Let me bathe it for you."
"How long have I been home?"
Betty bathed and cooled his heated brow. He caught and held herhands, looking wonderingly at her the while.
"Mother, somehow I thought you had died. I must have dreamed it. Iam very happy; but tell me, did a message come for me to-day?"
Betty shook her head, for she could not speak. She saw he was livingin the past, and he was praying for the letter which she wouldgladly have written had she but known.
"No message, and it is now so long."
"It will come to-morrow," whispered Betty.
"Now, mother, that is what you always say," said the invalid, as hebegan to toss his head wearily to and fro. "Will she never tell me?It is not like her to keep me in suspense. She was the sweetest,truest, loveliest girl in all the world. When I get well, mother, Iant going to find out if she loves me."
"I am sure she does. I know she loves you," answered Betty.
"It is very good of you to say that," he went on in his ramblingtalk. "Some day I'll bring her to you and we'll make her a queenhere in the old home. I'll be a better son now and not run away fromhome again. I've given the dear old mother many a heartache, butthat's all past now. The wanderer has come home. Kiss me good-night,mother."
Betty looked down with tear-blurred eyes on the haggard face.Unconsciously she had been running her fingers through the fair hairthat lay so damp over his brow. Her pity and tenderness had carriedher far beyond herself, and at the last words she bent her head andkissed him on the lips.
"Who are you? You are not my mother. She is dead," he cried,starting up wildly, and looking at her with brilliant eyes.
Betty dropped the fan and rose quickly to her feet. What had shedone? A terrible thought had flashed into her mind. Suppose he werenot delirious, and had been deceiving her. Oh! for a hiding-place,or that the floor would swallow her. Oh! if some one would onlycome.
Footsteps sounded on the stairs and Betty ran to the door. To hergreat relief Mrs. Martin was coming up.
"You can run home now, there's a dear," said the old lady. "We haveseveral watchers for to-night. It will not be long now when he willcommence to mend, or else he will die. Poor boy, please God that hegets well. Has he been good? Did he call for any particular younglady? Never fear, Betty, I'll keep the secret. He'll never know youwere here unless you tell him yourself."
Meanwhile the days had been busy ones for Col. Zane. In anticipationof an attack from the Indians, the settlers had been fortifyingtheir refuge and making the block-house as nearly impregnable aspossible. Everything that was movable and was of value they putinside the stockade fence, out of reach of the destructive redskins.All the horses and cattle were driven into the inclosure.Wagon-loads of hay, grain and food were stored away in theblock-house.
Never before had there been such excitement on the frontier. Runnersfrom Ft. Pitt, Short Creek, and other settlements confirmed therumor that all the towns along the Ohio were preparing for war. Notsince the outbreak of the Revolution had there been so muchconfusion and alarm among the pioneers. To be sure, those on thevery verge of the frontier, as at Ft. Henry, had heretofore littleto fear from the British. During most of this time there had beencomparative peace on the western border, ex
cepting those occasionalmurders, raids, and massacres perpetrated by the different Indiantribes, and instigated no doubt by Girty and the British at Detroit.Now all kinds of rumors were afloat: Washington was defeated; aclose alliance between England and the confederated western tribeshad been formed; Girty had British power and wealth back of him.These and many more alarming reports travelled from settlement tosettlement.
The death of Col. Crawford had been a terrible shock to the wholecountry. On the border spread an universal gloom, and the low,sullen mutterings of revengeful wrath. Crawford had been soprominent a man, so popular, and, except in his last and fatalexpedition, such an efficient leader that his sudden taking off wasalmost a national calamity. In fact no one felt it more keenly thandid Washington himself, for Crawford was his esteemed friend.
Col. Zane believed Ft. Henry had been marked by the British and theIndians. The last runner from Ft. Pitt had informed him that thedescription of Miller tallied with that of one of the ten men whohad deserted from Ft. Pitt in 1778 with the tories Girth, McKee, andElliott. Col. Zane was now satisfied that Miller was an agent ofGirty and therefore of the British. So since all the weaknesses ofthe Fort, the number of the garrison, and the favorable conditionsfor a siege were known to Girty, there was nothing left for Col.Zane and his men but to make a brave stand.
Jonathan Zane and Major McColloch watched the river. Wetzel haddisappeared as if the earth had swallowed him. Some pioneers said hewould never return. But Col. Zane believed Wetzel would walk intothe Fort, as he had done many times in the last ten years, with fullinformation concerning the doings of the Indians. However, the dayspassed and nothing happened. Their work completed, the settlerswaited for the first sign of an enemy. But as none came, graduallytheir fears were dispelled and they began to think the alarm hadbeen a false one.
All this time Alfred Clarke was recovering his health and strength.The day came when he was able to leave his bed and sit by thewindow. How glad it made him feel to look out on the green woods andthe broad, winding river; how sweet to his ears were the songs ofthe birds; how soothing was the drowsy hum of the bees in thefragrant honeysuckle by his window. His hold on life had been slightand life was good. He smiled in pitying derision as he rememberedhis recklessness. He had not been in love with life. In his gloomymoods he had often thought life was hardly worth the living. Whatsickly sentiment! He had been on the brink of the grave, but he hadbeen snatched back from the dark river of Death. It needed but thisto show him the joy of breathing, the glory of loving, the sweetnessof living. He resolved that for him there would be no more drifting,no more purposelessness. If what Wetzel had told him was true, if hereally had not loved in vain, then his cup of happiness wasoverflowing. Like a far-off and almost forgotten strain of musicsome memory struggled to take definite shape in his mind; but it wasso hazy, so vague, so impalpable, that he could remember nothingclearly.
Isaac Zane and his Indian bride called on Alfred that afternoon.
"Alfred, I can't tell you how glad I am to see you up again," saidIsaac, earnestly, as he wrung Alfred's hand. "Say, but it was atight squeeze! It has been a bad time for you."
Nothing could have been more pleasing than Myeerah's shy yeteloquent greeting. She gave Alfred her little hand and said in herfigurative style of speaking, "Myeerah is happy for you and forothers. You are strong like the West Wind that never dies."
"Myeerah and I are going this afternoon, and we came over to saygood-bye to you. We intend riding down the river fifteen miles andthen crossing, to avoid running into any band of Indians."
"And how does Myeerah like the settlement by this time?"
"Oh, she is getting on famously. Betty and she have fallen in lovewith each other. It is amusing to hear Betty try to talk in theWyandot tongue, and to see Myeerah's consternation when Betty givesher a lesson in deportment."
"I rather fancy it would be interesting, too. Are you not going backto the Wyandots at a dangerous time?"
"As to that I can't say. I believe, though, it is better that I getback to Tarhe's camp before we have any trouble with the Indians. Iam anxious to get there before Girty or some of his agents."
"Well, if you must go, good luck to you, and may we meet again."
"It will not be long, I am sure. And, old man," he continued, with abright smile, "when Myeerah and I come again to Ft. Henry we expectto find all well with you. Cheer up, and good-bye."
All the preparations had been made for the departure of Isaac andMyeerah to their far-off Indian home. They were to ride the Indianponies on which they had arrived at the Fort. Col. Zane had givenIsaac one of his pack horses. This animal carried blankets,clothing, and food which insured comparative comfort in the longride through the wilderness.
"We will follow the old trail until we reach the hickory swale,"Isaac was saying to the Colonel, "and then we will turn off and makefor the river. Once across the Ohio we can make the trip in twodays."
"I think you'll make it all right," said Col. Zane.
"Even if I do meet Indians I shall have no fear, for I have aprotector here," answered Isaac as he led Myeerah's pony to thestep.
"Good-bye, Myeerah; he is yours, but do not forget he is dear tous," said Betty, embracing and kissing the Indian girl.
"My sister does not know Myeerah. The White Eagle will return."
"Good-bye, Betts, don't cry. I shall come home again. And when I doI hope I shall be in time to celebrate another event, this time withyou as the heroine. Good-bye. Goodbye."
The ponies cantered down the road. At the bend Isaac and Myeerahturned and waved their hands until the foliage of the trees hid themfrom view.
"Well, these things happen naturally enough. I suppose they must be.But I should much have preferred Isaac staying here. Hello! What thedeuce is that? By Lord! It's Tige!"
The exclamation following Col. Zane's remarks had been called forthby Betty's dog. He came limping painfully up the road from thedirection of the river. When he saw Col. Zane he whined and crawledto the Colonel's feet. The dog was wet and covered with burrs, andhis beautiful glossy coat, which had been Betty's pride, wasdripping with blood.
"Silas, Jonathan, come here," cried Col. Zane. "Here's Tige, backwithout Wetzel, and the poor dog has been shot almost to pieces.What does it mean?"
"Indians," said Jonathan, coming out of the house with Silas, andMrs. Zane and Betty, who had heard the Colonel's call.
"He has come a long way. Look at his feet. They are torn andbruised," continued Jonathan. "And he has been near Wingenund'scamp. You see that red clay on his paws. There is no red clay that Iknow of round here, and there are miles of it this side of theDelaware camp."
"What is the matter with Tige?" asked Betty.
"He is done for. Shot through, poor fellow. How did he ever reachhome?" said Silas.
"Oh, I hope not! Dear old Tige," said Betty as she knelt andtenderly placed the head of the dog in her lap. "Why, what is this?I never put that there. Eb, Jack, look here. There is a stringaround his neck," and Betty pointed excitedly to a thin cord whichwas almost concealed in the thick curly hair.
"Good gracious! Eb, look! It is the string off the prize bulletpouch I made, and that Wetzel won on Isaac's wedding day. It is amessage from Lew," said Betty.
"Well, by Heavens! This is strange. So it is. I remember thatstring. Cut it off, Jack," said Col. Zane.
When Jonathan had cut the string and held it up they all saw thelead bullet. Col. Zane examined it and showed them what had beenrudely scratched on it.
"A letter W. Does that mean Wetzel?" asked the Colonel.
"It means war. It's a warning from Wetzel--not the slightest doubtof that," said Jonathan. "Wetzel sends this because he knows we areto be attacked, and because there must have been great doubt of hisgetting back to tell us. And Tige has been shot on his way home."
This called the attention to the dog, which had been momentarilyforgotten. His head rolled from Betty's knee; a quiver shook hisframe; he struggled to rise to his feet, but his s
trength was toofar spent; he crawled close to Betty's feet; his eyes looked up ather with almost human affection; then they closed, and he lay still.Tige was dead.
"It is all over, Betty. Tige will romp no more. He will never beforgotten, for he was faithful to the end. Jonathan, tell the Majorof Wetzel's warning, and both of you go back to your posts on theriver. Silas, send Capt. Boggs to me."
An hour after the death of Tige the settlers were waiting for thering of the meeting-house bell to summon them to the Fort.
Supper at Col. Zane's that night was not the occasion ofgood-humored jest and pleasant conversation. Mrs. Zane's face wore adistressed and troubled look; Betty was pale and quiet; even theColonel was gloomy; and the children, missing the usual cheerfulnessof the evening meal, shrank close to their mother.
Darkness slowly settled down; and with it came a feeling of relief,at least for the night, for the Indians rarely attacked thesettlements after dark. Capt. Boggs came over and he and Col. Zaneconversed in low tones.
"The first thing in the morning I want you to ride over to ShortCreek for reinforcements. I'll send the Major also and by adifferent route. I expect to hear tonight from Wetzel. Twelve timeshas he crossed that threshold with the information which made anIndian surprise impossible. And I feel sure he will come again."
"What was that?" said Betty, who was sitting on the doorstep.
"Sh-h!" whispered Col. Zane, holding up his finger.
The night was warm and still. In the perfect quiet which followedthe Colonel's whispered exclamation the listeners heard the beatingof their hearts. Then from the river bank came the cry of an owl;low but clear it came floating to their ears, its single melancholynote thrilling them. Faint and far off in the direction of theisland sounded the answer.
"I knew it. I told you. We shall know all presently," said Col.Zane. "The first call was Jonathan's, and it was answered."
The moments dragged away. The children had fallen asleep on thebearskin rug. Mrs. Zane and Betty had heard the Colonel's voice, andsat with white faces, waiting, waiting for they knew not what.
A familiar, light-moccasined tread sounded on the path, a tallfigure loomed up from the darkness; it came up the path, passed upthe steps, and crossed the threshold.
"Wetzel!" exclaimed Col. Zane and Capt. Boggs. It was indeed thehunter. How startling was his appearance! The buckskin hunting coatand leggins were wet, torn and bespattered with mud; the water ranand dripped from him to form little muddy pools on the floor; onlyhis rifle and powder horn were dry. His face was ghastly whiteexcept where a bullet wound appeared on his temple, from which theblood had oozed down over his cheek. An unearthly light gleamed fromhis eyes. In that moment Wetzel was an appalling sight.
"Col. Zane, I'd been here days before, but I run into some Shawnees,and they gave me a hard chase. I have to report that Girty, withfour hundred Injuns and two hundred Britishers, are on the way toFt. Henry."
"My God!" exclaimed Col. Zane. Strong man as he was the hunter'swords had unnerved him.
The loud and clear tone of the church-bell rang out on the stillnight air. Only once it sounded, but it reverberated among thehills, and its single deep-toned ring was like a knell. Thelisteners almost expected to hear it followed by the fearfulwar-cry, that cry which betokened for many desolation and death.