Ellis Edward Sylvester
The Frontier Angel: A Romance of Kentucky Rangers' Life

"Yes, I see her – she is waving her hands. Hark!"

"Keep off! keep off! You will all be killed! This man is a decoy!" called out the person alluded to in a beseeching voice.

"Who is she?" asked Marian, growing more excited every moment.

"Ah! she's the Frontier Angel. Haven't you heard of her? When she warns a white, he can depend on it she means what she says. This ain't the fust time she has done that thing."

"O Jim!" implored Marian, "this is awful; tell them before it is too late. They cannot but heed you."

The ranger hesitated a moment, as he remembered the cutting rebuff he had received; but the imploring voice of Marian, together with his own sense of duty, conquered. He turned his head and looked at the oarsmen. They had paused as the warning voice reached them.

"What does that mean?" asked one.

"That gal is the Frontier Angel that you've heard the boys talk about at the settlement. Ef any of you wants red night-caps, don't mind her; ef you doesn't, jest get back into the channel as soon as them oars will take you."

"I've heard that that gal you call the Frontier Angel is nobody but a crazy squaw," said one of the oarsmen, still hesitating.

"Go on, then," said Peterson, stung to the quick by this second repulse. "I shan't say no more," he added, in a lower tone, to Marian.

"Didn't you know that gal is a crazy fool?" said the stranger, sneeringly. "Of course she is, and I thought you knowed it. Ef you're going to help that dyin' feller, you've got to be quick about it, 'cause the reds can't be far off."

Thus appealed to, the oarsmen commenced, although it cannot be said all were free from misgivings. But in the face of the suspicious actions of the man upon shore, and the continued warnings of the Frontier Angel, the flat-boat gradually approached its doom. Several of the men already half-repented their rashness, and stood with their eyes fixed upon shore, and an expression of painful doubt upon their features.

Peterson saw all these manifestations, and thus communed with himself.

"No use of talkin', they're all goin' sure, and, Jim Peterson, the question is what you purpose to do. You can tend to yourself well enough, but how 'bout Marian? It won't do to leave her. You hain't forgotten, Jim, the time them same reds butchered your gal. No, Jim you never forgot that, and you never will; and how do you s'pose Mansfield will feel ef you leave his gal in the same fix? 'Twon't do, 'twon't do, Jim. Can you swim, Marian?" he asked, turning toward her.

"Yes; why do you ask?"

"It's what has got to be done, Marian. You see, we'll be inshore in a few minutes. Stick by me, and I'll take you overboard."

"Why not now, Jim?"

"You see it's getting dark fast, and every minute will help us. By the eternal! do you know that feller on shore? It is McGable! Hello! the boat has struck!"

Such was the case, and what was more alarming they were but a few rods from shore. It was noticed, too, that the wailing tone of the decoy had changed to a more commanding one, while the Frontier Angel had disappeared.

"What does this mean, sir?" asked one of the oarsmen, thoroughly alarmed.

"You're my prisoners, sir!" replied the stranger. "Don't get excited – it's no use. That man is McGable, and the Shawnees are waitin' fur yer ha'r. Ef you undertake to fight, you'll be tomahawked in a minute; but ef you give in nice like, p'raps some of yer'll be let alone. Ef you've no objections, I'll give the signal for 'em to come aboard."

All except Peterson were paralyzed with horror, and seemed utterly speechless. He stepped deliberately forward and said:

"I'd like to ax a question afore you does that thing. What yer going to do with me?"

"Burn and toast you as soon as we get ashore."

"I rather reckon not, old hoss. How does that suit?"

Before even his victim divined his intention, the ranger brought his rifle to his shoulder and fired, his ball passing clean through the breast of the villain. The latter gave a spasmodic start and gasp, a groan, and sucking the breath through his teeth, fell forward, the blood spouting in a stream from his wound.

"Hyer's as opines as how it won't be you that'll toast Jim Peterson just yit," remarked the ranger, coolly fastening his rifle to his back.

"O God! what shall we do?" frantically wailed the settlers.

"Fight! you was so anxious to see McGable, you'll have the chance now. Ef yer'd a minded what me and the Frontier Angel said, you wouldn't got into this fix. It won't do no good to touch the oars. You're fast in the mud, and have got to fight it out!"

Instantly the shore became alive with savages. Yells that might have curdled a demon's blood rent

Peterson saw the critical moment had arrived, and catching Marian by the waist, he sprang upon the gunwale, intending to leap over. But that instant a volley was poured into the boat, and a bullet struck her. The ranger felt her become a dead weight, at the same moment that a stream of hot blood poured over his hand. He bent his head down, and peered into her face. The dark, blue eyes were slowly shutting, and her head dropped heavily.

"I am dying, Jim," she murmured. "God bless you for your effort. Give my last love to Russel, mother, and father – good-by!"

"Heaven bless you!" said the ranger, laying her gently upon the deck, in spite of the wild scene that had commenced. "You've escaped that McGable, anyhow."

Peterson again sprang to the gunwale, and, with an almost superhuman leap, bounded outward in the darkness and disappeared.

CHAPTER III.
THE TWO SCOUTS

One day in spring, a border ranger was making his way through the cane-brakes of Kentucky, in what is now called Lewis county.

All through the frontier wars, such men were employed by the generals and leaders of the different forces, and they formed no insignificant part of their power. Of the American scouts is this especially true. A more daring, reckless, and effective set of men the world has never known. Scores of names have come down to us, whose record is but one long, brilliant array of thrilling acts, any one of which would have sufficed for the lifetime of an ordinary individual.

For a period of nearly half a century, the valleys of the Ohio, Sciota, Miami, Mad, and numerous other rivers, were constantly ranged by these characters, who generally went alone, but sometimes in couples, and very rarely in larger companies. Their whole duty was to spy the hostile Indian tribes. The warlike, revengeful Shawnees, a mighty and powerful nation in themselves, had so stirred up the other tribes, that nothing but eternal watchfulness could guard the settlers from the knife and tomahawk. Many long years was the government compelled to keep an independent force to protect the frontier. The disastrous results of many of these campaigns but prolonged the painful war; and the final success of our arms is much more due to the prowess of these border rangers, than we are apt to imagine. Every artifice was adopted by them to secure the necessary information. Should the tribes collect in unusual numbers in any village, there was sure to be a pair of keen eyes watching every movement from some hiding-place. Their deadliest enemies ventured in disguise among the Indians, dogged their trail for days, or lay concealed in such proximity that only at night did they dare to creep forth. All perils were undergone by these hardy men.

Such a character we have now to deal with.

Had we been in close proximity to him, we might have heard a slight rustling now and then, and perhaps the breaking of a small twig. The scout was proceeding with caution, but it was evident that it was more from habit than from any suspicion of danger. Were there savages in the vicinity, not the slightest noise would have betrayed his presence to the most watchful one.

A moment after, the bushes parted, and the ranger, in a half-crouching position, emerged into the open wood. Here he straightened himself up, and disclosed a frame wondrously like that of Peterson. Tall, sinewy, graceful, and thin almost to emaciation, with a sharp-featured face, half-covered by a thin, straggling beard, and small twinkling eyes of such glittering blackness that they fairly scintillated fire in excitement – these were the noticeable characteristics of the man.

After coming into the open wood, he stood a moment, as if listening, and then strode rapidly forward, trailing a long nitid rifle as he did so. Reaching the edge of the river, he suddenly halted and darted behind a tree. His quick eye had discovered "sign." From this point he peered cautiously out, and then instantly jerked his head back again. This movement was repeated several times, until, at last he held his head in a stationary position. After gazing a few minutes, he muttered:

"Yes, it's a flat-boat aground, sure as my name's Dick Dingle. Things look s'pishus the way it's sticking in the mud thar. Some of the blasted Shawnees' work, I'll swar; and I'll bet my head that

For over two hours Dingle reconnoitered the flat-boat, and all the time kept himself carefully concealed from it. He glided around in the wood, viewing it from every imaginable position that could be reached from the shore. At last he seemed satisfied.

"Whosomever is in that flat-boat ain't livin', that's sartin; and whosomever is watching it from shore ain't nigh enough to hurt you, Dingle, so hyer goes."

With this, he stepped softly into the water, and waded out toward the flat-boat. After reaching it, he again paused a moment, glanced toward the shore, and then placing his hand upon the gunwale, bounded over into the boat. The ranger, probably the first time in his experience, instead of alighting firmly upon his feet, slipped and immediately fell flat upon his side; but he instantly sprang up again, and then saw the cause of his mishap. He had alighted directly in a pool of dark, thick, sticky blood! The sight that met his eye was enough to freeze with horror, for a moment, even him who was used to meeting death in every repulsive shape! The deck was slippery with blood, and from the cabin came the sickening smell of death. Blood and brains were scattered around, against, and upon everything, but not a corpse was visible!

"They've tomahawked 'em all, and pitched 'em overboard. Ef that ain't enough to make a minister or even a scout swear, then my name ain't Dick Dingle, that's all. That ar' McGable's been hyer, sure; 'cause whar he's been nobody lives, and I ca'c'late nobody of them poor whites has lived in these parts. Wal, wal, it's bad business. I like scouting it when the killin' is all on our side; but it ain't, by a heap. Ef it wan't, why we wouldn't need to scout; but that ar' McGable is bound to squar' accounts with me yit for this night's business."

The ranger remained a short time longer, examining the flat-boat, which, as the reader has probably supposed, was the one whose sad fate was recorded in the preceding chapter. He was satisfied that not a soul had survived the frightful massacre, and after a few minutes' further delay, he again dropped into the water, and made his way to land. He stepped cautiously ashore, and, as was his invariable custom, commenced talking to himself.

"Old Mad Anthony sent me down in these parts to find out what the reds ar' drivin at, and reckon as how I've found – hello, Dingle, what are ye about?"

With the last question, uttered in a hurried whisper, the ranger disappeared like a shadow. Had any one been beside him, he would have been at a loss to understand the cause of the sudden movement, for not the least noise was audible, nor the slightest movement visible. But the truth was the scout, all at once, became aware that some person beside himself was in the wood. The instant of discovery he dropped upon his hands and knees, and glided swiftly and noiselessly away, and commenced reconnoitring the stranger to ascertain his identity and intentions.

Now, it so happened that the latter was in precisely the same situation, and it was a singular coincidence that both should make the discovery of the other's presence, and commence seeking to know him at the same moment.

But thus it was, and the stratagems, maneuvers, and artifices resorted to by each to accomplish his ends, were extraordinary. For nearly two hours they dodged and feinted, glided and retreated, without coming any nearer success, and finally made the discovery by accident. Dingle came to the conclusion that whoever his rival was, he was certainly a genuine woodsman, and, if an Indian, one who was well worthy of coping with him. But the consummate tact and skill displayed, led him to suspect the other was a white man, and for this reason he became more careless in his movements. The consequence was that, after he had flitted from one tree to another, he began to doubt whether he had accomplished the movement successfully; and, while thus doubting, he heard his name called.

"Shoot me, if that ain't you, Dick Dingle! Why don't you come out and shake paws with an old friend?"

And the next minute Jim Peterson stepped boldly forth.

"Wal, Jim, I might've knowed that was your ugly picter. Whar'd you come from?"

The two grasped hands, and gave, what Edward Everett terms, the genuine tourniquet shake. They had been brother rangers through Gen. St. Clair's war, and had ever been together, encountering all imaginable dangers, and were the joint heroes of the most wonderful escapes. And when we say that neither had seen the face of the other for over six years, it may well be supposed that their meeting was of the most pleasant kind. As they stood, grasping hands, and smilingly exchanging jocose remarks in their characteristic way, the resemblance between them was most remarkable. In fact, they had often, when in service, been taken for brothers, and their identity was often confounded. The Shawnees, who knew them rather more than they cared about, termed them the "Double Long-Knives." Both were tall, graceful, and sinewy, as straight as arrows, and with faces sparsely bearded, and, to increase the perplexity of separating them, they dressed precisely alike. But Dingle had small, black eyes, and a sharp Roman nose, while Peterson had eyes of a light gray color, and a nose a perfect Grecian in cast.

"Come, Dick, what are you doin' in these parts?" asked Peterson.

"I'm out fur Mad Anthony, as you might know, and have been taking a look at the flat-boat there. Ah! bad business! bad business, Jim!"

"Yas, if you'd have only seed it, Dick, you might say so."

"Do you know anything 'bout it? Who the poor wretches was? – when 'twas done? – how they came to do it? – and who done it?" asked Dingle, excitedly.

"I war on that boat, and the only one who saved his hair."

"The only one, Jim?"

"The only one; and when I got clean off, I jist clapped my hand on my head to see ef my hair was thar still, fur I had strong doubts of it. I was the only one! I took a long jump and a dive fur it."

"How was it, when you was on, that they come in for one of the all-fired decoys?"

"I couldn't hender them;" and Peterson proceeded to give, in a few words, what is already known to the reader.

"Let me ax you one thing," said Dingle, when he had finished. "Do you know whether that renegade McGable had anything to do with this business?"

"He was the decoy himself; but a feller come on board up at the Kanawha who got the poor fools to run into shore."

"Was he a short, squashy-looking imp?"

"He war exactly so."

"Then 'twas Pete Gammock. I know him. He and McGable have hung together fur three – four years that way. That's his plan; he's tried the same trick afore. He goes on the flat-boats, at some place up that way, and purtends he's one of us going down the river to the 'Three Islands', Marysville, or some of the forts. After he gits on, he fixes so as to pull the wool over thar eyes, and when McGable bawls out fur 'em to come ashore, he persuades 'em to do it."

"He'll never do it agin, fur I settled the business with him soon as he owned up he'd come the gammon game. I feel sorry, Dick, mighty sorry fur them poor whites that was sarved that mean trick; but thar was one among 'em that went under, and I ain't ashamed to own it makes me feel watery to think on it. I left her dyin' on board just as I jumped over and the imps clambered up."

Peterson drew the sleeve of his hunting-shirt across his eyes, and Dingle, with respect to his feelings, remained silent a moment, when he returned: "P'r'aps she ain't gone under, Jim; maybe the reds have gone off with her."

"No they haven't; she's out in the river yender somewhar. The reds tomahawked every one. I kinder had a faint hope she might be among 'em, and I've been follerin' them to find out. I seed all the Injuns, and that infarnal McGable among 'em. They had plenty of hair hangin' to their girdles, but they hadn't a captive among 'em. That ar' McGable tried to get Marian Abbot, and because she wouldn't have him, he has done this. I b'lieve he fired the gun that killed her, when I had her in my arm just goin' to jump overboard to take a swim for it. And, Dick, I swear that I'll never rest till that renegade McGable pays for this."

"I jine you in that!" said Dingle, taking his hand. "We'll hunt him together. He's murdered enough of his own blood, and we'll stop it right off."

"I've got to go and tell the old folks of it, and young Mansfield. I know it'll break their hearts, and I'd rather be shot and burnt than do it; but it's got to be done, and I must do it."

"Are you goin' now?"

"Yas, right away. As soon as I see 'em, I'll be back agin. I'll wait fur you down at the fort below."

"And what then, Jim?"

"We'll start off on that hunt," said Peterson, in a low tone, and with this, the two rangers separated, and took different directions in the forest.

CHAPTER IV.
THE FAINT HOPE

There is a scene that we must not dwell upon. There are some that awaken emotions which no pen can describe, no imagination conceive. When Peterson, the ranger, communicated the dreadful intelligence of the fate of Marian to her parents, the shock was terrible. The mother swooned away, and for nearly a week remained more in death than life. The father received the shock like the oak when riven by the thunderbolt – firm and unbending, but still shattered to the very heart. He groaned in spirit, but, for the sake of his wife, bore up with superhuman calmness. But it well-nigh killed him; and his wife, when she was pulled from the grasp of death, felt that she could never, never recover from it. Her heart was broken.

Russel Mansfield bore the affliction like a man. He held up in the presence of others; but there were moments when alone in which he gave way to his great woe. We have no desire to dwell upon this painful scene, but hasten forward.

The resolution of Abbot to emigrate still farther to the west, instead of being weakened by this sad calamity, was strengthened into a determination. Why it was, he would almost have been at a loss to tell. We all know that when death, for the first time, strikes down some one near and dear to us, it is difficult to believe that such is the case; it is a long time before we can bring ourselves to realize it. There is a singular, lingering doubt, the faint shadow of a hope that, after all, it is not death, and that through the subtle power of medicine the lost one will still return to us. And even, after burial, for a long time, there will be moments when we give way to the same extraordinary hope and find ourselves indulging in dreams of fancy in which the lost one is again found.

Those who have had a similar experience to this, will appreciate the feeling that led Abbot and his stricken wife to emigrate to the scene which was so full of horror to them. The same motive strengthened the determination of Mansfield, although his parents now refused to accompany the party. Several of the other families also refused, so that the company bid fair to be alarmingly small. Peterson had whispered to Mansfield the intention of Dingle and himself of seeking out the renegade McGable and revenging themselves upon him, and he was anxious to either join them or be so situated that he could receive the earliest intelligence of their success.

Accordingly, one morning in September, another flat-boat floated away from the village referred to at the commencement of this work, and carrying with it four families only, together with young Mansfield. The weather continued fine all the way, and they experienced no difficulty in reaching their destination. Just before they reached the Sciota, a desperate attempt was made to get them ashore. Mansfield, shrewdly suspecting that it was McGable himself who acted the part of a decoy, raised his rifle with the intention of shooting him; but the wily demon was too quick for him. He suspected something, and secreted himself before Mansfield could secure his aim. The latter, however, fired, and came so uncomfortably close, that the decoy ceased his entreaties, and, by way of a return for the compliment, a whole volley was fired at the flat-boat by the concealed savages. Some of the bullets struck the boat and the others whistled overhead, but they did no further damage.

The settlement, which was the destination of our friends, was a few miles further down the river, and they came in sight of it about the middle of the afternoon. As Peterson had given the settlers notice of their coming, they were expected and joyfully welcomed. The flat-boat was swept into shore and fastened, and, with the aid of the willing settlers, its contents removed in an incredibly short space of time. The boat itself was then hauled as far up the bank as possible, and taken carefully apart, and its timbers preserved for building purposes.

As this village is to be the location of many of the succeeding incidents of our story, we will here briefly describe it, and then hasten forward to the incidents that follow.

The settlement consisted of about twenty cabins, and numbered a hundred inhabitants. A small block-house was erected near the lower end of the village for immediate refuge in case of sudden attack; but the governor of the territory had ordered a large one to be erected and continually manned by men well-skilled in border warfare. This block-house was erected in advance of the settlement itself, so as to better guard the approach of an enemy. It stood in a broad clearing, protected on the one hand by a marshy swamp, and the other by the Ohio river. The block-house consisted of two stories. The lower one was about thirty feet square, and the upper thirty-three, so that it projected over the lower, giving those within an opportunity of defending the door and windows, in case a determined attack was made. A well had been sunk in one corner, so that if besieged they could not be brought to terms by thirst. The roof was so steeply-shelving as to prevent any burning missiles from remaining upon it, and the planks themselves were so smooth-shaven that the most agile savage could not maintain a position upon it for an instant. The sides were built of solid green logs of some eighteen or twenty inches in diameter, dove-tailed at the ends in the usual manner, and the interstices filled in with mortar. The doors and windows and shutters were bars of ponderous puncheons, secured by massive bars of wood on the inside. The upper part of the house was pierced with numerous loop-holes, through which a large force could keep up a constant fire upon their assailants.

The block-house was surrounded by a substantial wall of palisades. These were made by cutting trees of a foot in diameter into pieces fifteen feet in length. These pieces were then quartered, hewed off sharply at one end, and driven four feet into the solid ground, leaving eleven feet above. The palisades were kept firmly in their places by means of stout braces and wall-pieces upon the inside; and, as they were set with their smooth side outward, and close together, no force could scale them without the aid of ladders.

A flagstaff stood a few feet from the block-house, and the stars and stripes ever waved from the summit. At the second story was a projection, facing the forest, upon which the sentinel passed most of his time while on duty, and which supported a swivel, so hung that it could be brought to bear upon almost any point from which danger was to be apprehended.

This fort was quite a celebrated one, and being manned by the governor with an active force, was much resorted to by the scouts and rangers along the frontiers. Dick Dingle was enrolled as a member of this company, although the governor and the commander of the fort knew there was no use of undertaking to bring any such character under discipline. He was allowed to go and come when he pleased, and it may be said, in fact, that the whole class of frontier rangers were a set of Border Zouaves. They were ever in the most perilous situations, did the most dangerous service, and acknowledged no leader other than their own free will. The commander, with several of his leading men, had served in the capacity of rangers, and were all adepts in Indian warfare.

It was the duty of Dingle to range through the adjoining country, to keep a constant watch upon the movements of the Indians, and to return as often as possible with his report to the commander. At this time there were other scouts performing similar duties in other situations, who have since become celebrated in history. McArthur, White, McCleland, and Davis, and the Whetzel brothers are the ones to whom we refer. They occasionally visited the fort singly, but never in company, and sometimes remained several days in conversation and feasting with their friends.

Peterson, upon his return with Dingle, had had his name enrolled as a member of the company at the block-house; and they had already made several excursions in company. When Abbot and his friends arrived at the settlement, these two scouts had just returned from a journey up the Sciota valley to one of the Shawnee towns. The genial settlers, having known of the coming of their new friends, showed their good-will by erecting several cabins and presenting them to the new-comers immediately upon their arrival. By dusk, Abbot, with his wife and Mansfield, were snugly domiciled in theirs, and ready to join their neighbors, on the morrow, in clearing the forest, breaking the ground, or whatever their duty might chance to be.

Although Abbot had not seen Peterson, he had heard that he was in the settlement, and sent for him in the evening. The good-hearted fellow had purposely kept out of the way, for fear that his presence would be painful to them, but upon hearing the wish of Abbot, he immediately went to his house.

The meeting could not be but painful upon both sides. There was a manifest restraint about the ranger, for he well knew the feelings that must be awakened by his presence. The conversation turned upon ordinary subjects, and each carefully refrained from any allusion that might bring up the matter that was in the mind of every one.

In the course of a half hour or so, the quick eye of Mrs. Abbot saw her presence was a restraint upon something her husband wished to say; and she made an excuse for withdrawing and retiring for the night.

After she had gone, the conversation continued a short time as usual, and then, as it sometimes will, it suddenly came to a dead pause. Utter silence fell upon all.

"Jim," said Abbot, glancing furtively around to assure himself that his wife was not within hearing, "Jim, I must once more speak about that."

"Wal?" queried the ranger, uneasily.

"I must ask you once more to narrate, as particularly as is in your power, the account of the attack upon the flat-boat, and the death of Marian. I will not ask you to give anything else but that alone."

"I dunno as I can tell anything more, but, howsumever, I can tell that over again if you want it," and thereupon he proceeded to give with fearful vividness, the dying-words and actions of Marian Abbot. The father heard him all through, without a syllable of interruption, keeping his lips compressed, his brow knit, and his eye fixed upon the smoldering fire before him.

"You think, Jim, then, that she is – she must be dead?" he inquired.

"Why, Abbot, 'sposen I had fifty bullets right smack through this h'yer noddle of mine, and you should ax me if I had any s'pishions I'd survive, and I should tell you I was as dead as a door nail, wouldn't you believe me?"

"Of course."

"Wal, then, though I'm sorry to say it, there ain't a bit more hope for her. She never seed the devils that climbed over the boat. She died afore I got twenty feet from the boat."

"You are certain of it?"

"Yes, sir; I'm certain."

"You must wonder at my talking thus, Jim; but I have no hopes either; I have given her up long since. I have still one wish – to know what fate attended her body."

"I can tell you that."

"What was it?"

"She was thrown overboard with the others."

"You did not see that done, Jim, and cannot be sure of it."

The ranger was about to contradict him, and tell that he had followed the murderers and seen that they bore no body with them; but he did not, and Abbot continued.

"It is this doubt – this uncertainty that still troubles me. When that has been cleared up I shall never speak of the subject again. Russel has told me that you and Dingle are going to seek revenge upon McGable?"

"We are not going to seek it; we are going to get it."

"I profess to be a Christian, and the Bible teaches me that vengeance is not for us, but for One alone. And, Jim, I can really say that I have no desire that McGable should suffer at your hands. God knows that he has broken two hearts, but the time will come when he will have to answer for it."

"That's my idee, exactly, and I reckon as how 'twill be a little sooner than he expects."

"He knows, if any human being does, the fate of Marian. Obtain, if possible, first of all, the truth from him."

"I can't see just now, Abbot, how that's gwine to be done."

"Take him captive and bring him in, and we will make him answer. Do you not think you and your companion may succeed in capturing him?"