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

"You're the man, yes, sir! Come out here, and get half killed!"

"That's right, Jenkins, give it to him. He'll larn better than to fire at you agin," said Dingle, with an appearance of just indignation.

"Go in, long-legs, and hammer him," repeated the others.

"Yes! come out here and take it, you old coward, you!" shouted Jenkins, stepping around and rubbing his fore-arms as though he were rolling up his sleeves. "Come out here, I tell you!"

The men now pushed the trembling man from behind them, and retreated so as to leave the two in an open space and facing each other. The sentinel now put off all semblance of fear, and demanded in a gruff tone,

"What do you want?"

"Why, I want you to stand still while I hammer you half to death!"

"Hammer away, but if your head isn't cracked before five minutes, I'll stand treat, boys."

The astonishment shown by Jenkins at this unexpected change was ludicrous in the extreme. His hands suddenly unclinched, and he stammered out,

"What – what did you say?"

"Why, come on and fight," replied the sentinel, blustering as vigorously as did Jenkins at first.

"You shot at me, didn't you?"

"Yes; and will do it again, too."

"I don't think it was the right thing. I wouldn't do it to you."

"Because you are afraid."

"No, – I don't think I would."

"Well, what of it?"

"I s'pose you didn't do it on purpose, and I won't say anything about it this time. But you mustn't do it again."

"Yes I will, if I want to. I shot at you, and am sorry I didn't hit you. Come, I thought you was going to whip me."

"Yes, Jenkins, give it to him. You said you were going to," cried the others.

"I don't s'pose he done it on purpose," he replied, turning toward the others.

"Yes I did, I told you so, and would as lief do it again as not."

"Jerusalem! here I'm standing in my wet clothes and catching cold every minute. This'll never do!"

And in spite of the jeers and laughs of the others, Jenkins with an anxious look, hurried away to "change his clothes."

CHAPTER XI.
A PRIZE GAINED AND LOST

Jenkins, as it afterward turned out, was in the wood reconnoitering the fort when the shot was fired which had well-nigh been so fatal to him. His object in doing this was to find out, before venturing to show himself, whether the Shawnees or whites held possession of the settlement. He had made the discovery of the attack when but a few miles off, and hearing the guns and becoming alarmed for his own safety, he ascended a tree and remained there until every Indian had departed from the neighborhood.

Some time after the closing scene of the last chapter, the sentinel confessed to Jenkins that he mistook him for an Indian when he fired, and he begged forgiveness for his great mistake. It is needless to say that the pardon was freely granted, and good humor held reign among them all.

The day after the attack and repulse, Dick Dingle, for the first time in his life, was taken sick. He was not dangerously so, but so severely that he was compelled to remain within doors. This happened unfortunately for Peterson, for the two had determined to pursue the retreating Indians for the purpose of capturing the renegade. A short consultation was held, when Peterson announced that he should make the attempt himself, accompanied only by Mansfield, who was all eagerness to join him.

Accordingly at noon, the two passed out of the gate and commenced the expedition by plunging into the forest. The trail of the retreating Shawnees was so recent that it had not been obliterated by the rain, and it was easily followed. It led up the river a couple of miles, when it crossed to the Kentucky shore and took a northwest direction directly toward Mad river.

Our friends had not proceeded far when Peterson assured Mansfield that they were gaining rapidly upon the savages. The latter, encumbered by their dead and wounded, were making their way very slowly through the wood, and evidently had no thoughts of pursuit. An hour or two later Peterson remarked,

"We're goin' too fast, Mansfield; we'll run our heads into some trap afore we know it. Let's set down a while."

The two seated themselves upon a fallen tree and engaged in conversation.

"If we don't stop we'll be up with them afore night," said Peterson.

"And why shouldn't we?"

"Because – sh! there's some one back of us now."

Before they either had time to conceal themselves, the bushes parted, and the mysterious Frontier Angel stood before them.

"What are you doing here?" she asked quietly.

"Looking for that renegade," replied Mansfield.

"Do you know how far the Shawnees are away?"

"Can't be very fur, I think," replied Peterson.

"They are encamped a half-mile from here, and have sent scouts back upon their trail to see who pursues. If you remain here twenty minutes longer you will be seen and shot."

"Whew! that's more than we bargained for," remarked Peterson; "if it's all the same, we'll decline at present and slide."

"Do you know anything of McGable – "

Our hero stopped, for she had disappeared as quickly and quietly as she came.

"It won't do to wait hyer – reds is about," admonished Peterson.

No time was lost by our friends in seeking safety. The trail of the retreating body was so broad and palpable that there was little fear of their pursuit being noticed. The scouts sent back would take the direction of the back trail, and keep alongside of it to ascertain whether any force was following them. If so, an effort would be made to draw them in ambush. They had no suspicion, and cared nothing for such pursuit as was really made.

Peterson and Mansfield proceeded in a direction at right angles with the main travel, for several hundred yards, where they secreted themselves. Here they remained for over an hour. By this time it was well toward night, and they ventured forth to resume the Shawnee trail again. After reaching it, they followed it a considerable distance, when finding that the Indian camp could be but a short distance away, they halted and again made off in a side direction.

It was while doing this, and when several hundred feet from it, that Peterson, who was slightly in advance, suddenly halted and raised his hand over his head as a signal for Mansfield to remain quiet. Both stood motionless a moment, when Peterson took several stealthy steps forward and motioned for Mansfield to come to his side. The latter did so, his looks showing more than words, the curiosity he felt. The ranger, by way of reply, pointed ahead, and downward. Mansfield followed the direction of his finger, and he felt every nerve thrill within him, as he saw a few feet in advance, the extended and sleeping form of the renegade, McGable.

"We've got him at last!" whispered Peterson exultingly.

The man, from all appearances, had lain down to rest a short distance from the camp to escape the hubbub and confusion occasioned by the presence of so many wounded and dying. That he was entirely unsuspicious of personal danger was evident from this fact.

Mansfield was too excited and fearful of awakening him to even whisper or suggest anything to Peterson. The latter, coolly and deliberately, stepped forward and removed the rifle from the nerveless embrace of McGable; then, stooping gently, pulled his knives from his girdle. This done, Peterson cocked his own gun, and holding it pointed toward the breast of the renegade, said:

"Now wake him, Mansfield – give him a kick on the shins, and don't be afraid of hurting him."

Our hero gave him a gentle touch with his foot, which, failing to have effect, he increased to a kick. Seeing him make a movement as though awakening, he stepped back as directed. The renegade, mumbling to himself, finally opened his eyes and stared bewilderingly about him, seemingly totally unable to comprehend his whereabouts.

"Mr. Thomas McGable, Esq., I believe," said Peterson, with much gravity, without removing the aim of his rifle.

"Who the devil are you?" demanded the renegade.

"Your master, sir."

"We'll see about that. Where – "

He paused as he reached for his rifle and found it gone; and his astonishment turned to furious indignation when he discovered that his knives had also been removed.

"What in the name of the furies are you doing with my arms?"

"Jest sot 'em one side for fear you might hurt yourself."

"See here, I understand your game, but it won't do. You think I'm your prisoner, eh? Did you know there is a hundred Shawnees within calling distance, who'd cut you to pieces ef they knowed you war here. Now, if you don't hand me my gun and knives back, they'll do it. I call 'em and then you may whistle for your hair."

Peterson's face grew as black as a thunder-cloud, and his eyes fairly scintillated with fierceness.

"Tom McGable," said he, in a voice as deep and rumbling as the distant thunder, "we come after you. You've got to go back to the settlement with us, and it don't matter whether you're dead or alive! I've swore that I will bring you back with me, and ef I thought it would be any trouble to drive you thar, I'd shoot you through your black heart this minute, grab you by the neck, and drag you along. You can holler to the Shawnees, but it would never do you any good; you'd never live to see 'em. Ef I hadn't made a promise, I'd knife you this minute. Tom McGable, you may take yer choice; you can either git up and walk along jist as we tell you, without making the least noise, or you can set still and be shot on the ground there. It don't make a bit of difference to me, but one or t'other has got to be done. I'll give you four seconds and a half to decide in. Ef you ain't started by that time, I'll shoot, by thunder!"

During the utterance of these words, the renegade manifested a curious compound of emotions. First indignation and blustering bravado were depicted upon his snaky face; this gave way to doubt and hesitation, and when the last expletive fell from Peterson's lips, he was the embodiment of trembling, craven-hearted fear.

"What – what will you do with me?" he asked tremblingly.

"Kill you, like as not."

"What do you want me for?"

"Come, you going to start? Your time's up. Speak quick!"

Pale as death and muttering a fearful curse, the renegade arose to his feet and faltered that he was ready.

"Trot along then, and we'll foller."

"Which way you going? This way?" he asked, turning his face in the direction of the Indian camp.

"I ruther guess not at present. Turn round t'other way 'zactly, don't turn your head, or try to come any of your dodges, for the minute you do, you'll be hacked to flinders, shot, and yur ha'r raised."

McGable wheeled around in the direction indicated, and started forward, our two friends following him closely. It was now quite dark, and the gloom in the wood was intense. There was no moon, and the sky was still cloudy and obscured. When the darkness became so great, Peterson took the renegade by one arm, Mansfield by the other, and the trio thus proceeded.

After walking an hour or so, the renegade, probably finding there was no immediate, personal danger, regained in some degree his courage and ventured to speak.

"I'd like to ask you a question. No 'bjection I s'pose."

"Not as long as you're respectful to your 'speriors," replied the ranger.

"Wal, then, how come you to find me?"

"We looked for ye."

"I s'pose, but you didn't s'peck I was such a cussed fool to go off in the woods to sleep, did you? Leastways, I didn't s'peck I was myself."

"No, it was kinder accident that we found you."

"S'pose so. How was it you was so well fixed at the block-house for us. How did you find out we were coming?"

Peterson reflected a moment before replying to this question. He was in doubt whether a disclosure would not be dangerous to the Frontier Angel. He asked Mansfield's advice upon it, and the two fell behind and debated it in an undertone for a few moments. They came to the same conclusion, that, as McGable was already condemned to death, and there seemed no possibility of his escape, there could be no harm in letting him know the truth. This decided, they stepped forward, took him by the arms, and the ranger replied, or rather asked:

"S'posen we tell you; what of it?"

"Oh nothin', only I thought I'd like to know before I died. There's a gal that's called the Frontier Angel, that I've had my s'picion of. I've told the Shawnees of it, but she acts so good, they won't believe it. Didn't she have nothing to do with telling you?"

"Yes, she told us."

"So I thought. It's lucky the Injins won't believe it."

"Now I wish to ask you a question," said Mansfield.

"Wal, what is it?"

"Who is Frontier Angel?"

The renegade maintained silence for several minutes till our hero repeated in a louder tone.

"Who is the person they call Frontier Angel? Do you know?"

"Yes, but I cannot tell you."

"Why not? I am sure it can do no harm."

"P'r'aps not, but I can't tell you. Let that be the answer."

"I am not willing that it shall be. I insist that you tell or give some reason for not doing so."

"I'll give you the reason, then. I know who she is, but have sworn never to tell a white, and I swear agin I never will."

"In that case, I have no right to question you further."

The renegade made no reply, and the three continued their journey for a considerable distance in silence, when he said:

"There's one thing, howsumever, I'll tell you without the axing. The gal they call the Frontier Angel is crazy!"

Mansfield started painfully at this.

"What made her crazy?" he asked, forgetting himself.

"Don't ax me, fur I can't tell you any more."

"She ain't white, is she?" demanded Peterson. "Won't hurt yer, I guess, ef you let us know that much."

"I won't tell you no more, so you can both dry up."

The journey was now continued without a word being spoken by any. The renegade seemed sullen and moody and maintained silence. His remarks had set both Peterson and Mansfield to thinking. It was not the first time they had both puzzled themselves thus. Who could the singular Frontier Angel be? was the all-absorbing question. She was crazy! that accounted for the reverence and awe in which she was held by the Indians. And yet her manner had never awakened the remotest suspicion that such was the case among the whites with whom she had come in contact. That accounted for the temerity with which she executed the holy object of her life – that of befriending the whites in peril.

Despite the improbability of the case, Mansfield could not avoid the thought that she was a white person. He could form no possible reason for thus thinking, and yet the thought would present itself. At last he imparted his singular idea to Peterson. The latter dissipated it at once by telling him that such could not be the case. Dingle, who knew as much, if not more of her than any of the rangers, assured him that he had noticed her features and face to satisfy himself, as he entertained and had heard so many doubts expressed about it. She had the black eyes and hair of the Indian, although the prominent cheek-bones and several other characteristics of the race were wanting. But the skin showed unmistakably that she belonged to the aboriginals.

"But where has she obtained that perfect knowledge of the English tongue that she evinces in her conversation?"

"Dick can't answer that, but h'yers as thinks that goes to show she's a sperit sure, 'cause if she ain't, what else can she be?"

This set Mansfield's thoughts in another direction. A darker picture presented itself. The refusal of McGable to answer his question added life to the picture, and our hero became satisfied that he had now struck the truth.

"Isn't she your wife, Tom McGable?" he asked, bending his mouth close to the ear of the renegade.

The latter started, as if stung by a serpent, trembled and breathed hard for a moment, but made no answer. Mansfield repeated his question in a more peremptory tone, but it was of no avail: the renegade had resolutely sealed his lips.

This, together with his manner, demonstrated to a certainty to Mansfield, that the Frontier Angel had been or was now the Indian wife of McGable. She had married him, he believed, when she dreamt not what a black heart she was taking to her bosom. Goaded by his cruelty and the subsequent knowledge of his awful crimes against his own race, her reason had become dethroned. And the safety of the people, that was the object of eternal hatred to her husband, now became the burden of her life. The change from the natural aversion which she, as an Indian, felt to the whites, to that of friendship and love for them, he believed was due to the unbounded horror created in her mind by the atrocities of McGable. It was one of those singular phenomena which the human mind often presents. Mansfield, previous to this, had felt some slight degree of compassion for their captive, but it was all gone now. The man who, independent of the last-named crime, could bring himself to forswear and massacre his own kindred, without a shadow of provocation upon their part, he felt deserved any death that the ingenuity of man could invent.

The march of the three was continued all through the night, and the halt in the morning was of but a few minutes duration, as Peterson felt fearful of pursuit in case the absence of the renegade was discovered. A short time after, the settlement was in sight, and before twenty minutes more had passed, Tom McGable, the notorious renegade, was ushered within the palisades by our two friends.

The astonishment and rejoicing created by his capture were unbounded. He was taken at once to the block-house and placed in the upper story, from which it was impossible for him to escape. There had been quite a heavy reward offered for his apprehension, and the commander assured Peterson and Mansfield that, as soon as it could be secured, they should have it. The latter, however, refused to receive any portion, as he had rendered no assistance worthy of mention in the capture of the prisoner.

The excitement became so great among the settlers that the commander, to quiet them, gave out that the garrison would determine what should be done with McGable at once. Abbot, hearing this, requested the commander that he might be allowed, as a great favor, to see the prisoner alone for a short time. The peculiar circumstances of the stricken father being known, this request was granted; and McGable, under charge of Dingle – who asserted that he had been cured by his capture – and the officious Jenkins, was conducted to Abbot's house. There being but one door by which the lower story could be entered the guards remained outside, and Abbot found himself face to face with the man who had so well-nigh killed his entire family at one blow. Mrs. Abbot, not wishing to be present at such an interview, had purposely absented herself, and the two, the murderer and the murdered, we might almost say, were alone. Abbot gave the renegade a seat, and then sat himself in front of him, where he could look directly into his face.

"I have petitioned that I might see you alone, McGable," commenced Abbot, in a low, quiet tone, "in order that I might ask you something, which, perhaps, you suspect. God knows that I have no desire to revenge myself upon you. Only grant me this privilege, and I will forgive you, McGable, for the awful crime you have committed. Last spring I sent Marian upon a flat-boat, expecting to rejoin her in this settlement a few months later. Instead of reaching her destination, the boat was decoyed and all on board murdered, with the exception of Peterson, who effected his escape. He left Marian dying, he believed, upon the boat as he sprang away. Had he left her dead, this interview would not have been sought by me. But there has been a doubt ever since in the mind of her mother and myself, of the manner in which she died, – for we do not pretend to hope that she survived. This doubt has so troubled us, that I have tried all means of solving it. You must know the circumstances, McGable, and now a broken-hearted father appeals to you to give this knowledge, and set his trouble forever at rest."

While Abbot was uttering these words, the renegade sat like a demon incarnate, his eyes blazing with the most baleful passion. His teeth were set and he drew his breath hard and gaspingly through them. He controlled this whirlwind of fury, in a measure, before Abbot had finished, and when he spoke it was in the low, frightful voice of suppressed passion.

"Richard Abbot, your daughter refused me, and I swore I would be revenged. I joined the Shawnees as Simon Girty and others did, but I kept watch upon your settlement. I found out that you was going to send her to this place in company with others. Then I cac'lated the time had come, and was only sorry that you wasn't there, too, that you could have been tomahawked, too! I found out when the boat started, and it was dogged till it reached the right spot, when we came down upon it. Don't ax me no more. I've had my revenge, and that's enough."

The stricken-hearted man sat as pale and silent as death while these burning words were being uttered. It was not his emotions alone that made him thus, but the mighty struggle it took to control them.

"Will you not tell me?" he asked, in a voice of wailing agony that it would have melted the heart of human.

"No; I'll tell you nothing!" fairly shouted McGable, glaring like a tiger upon him.

"Once more I ask you, McGable, and in the name of Heaven do not refuse me. Was Marian killed outright?"

"None your business," was the sullen reply.

Such a sudden dizziness came over Abbot at this point, that, for fear of fainting, he arose and hurried into the room which occupied the same floor, and which connected with the one in which he had been sitting. He hoped to return in a moment, and was so bewildered and overcome that he only thought of being alone till he could regain his self-command. It is said the Old Boy himself sometimes helps his favorites. Whether such is the the case we are not prepared to say; but what now took place is enough to make us skeptical, to say the least.

Most singularly it happened that just before Abbot withdrew, Dingle felt a sudden return of his sickness of the morning. It was so violent that his iron will could not resist it, and he staggered away for the same purpose of being alone; for, if our readers have noticed it, it is almost invariably the case that when a man, unaccustomed to sickness, is suddenly taken, his first wish is to be alone with himself. He felt, too, that perfect recklessness which is apt to come over us at such times, in regard to temporal matters, and had Dingle been admonished at this particular moment of his imprudence, his probable reply would have been that McGable might go to perdition for all he cared. Thus it happened that the terrible renegade was left with no guard at all except Jenkins.

Even then it might not have happened so unfortunately, had not the last-named individual taken it into his head to ascertain how matters were progressing inside. Being left without the companionship of Dingle, it was perfectly natural that he should take this means of passing away time.

"Hello! inside there, you, how you getting along?" he called out, poking his head in at the door. Receiving no reply, he shoved his head further in, and then made the discovery that the renegade was standing alone in the middle of the floor. "Hello! all alone, eh? what you thinking about? Your sins, I s'pose. Shouldn't wonder now if you did feel sorter down in the mouth."

"What do you want?" gruffly demanded McGable.

"Oh, nothing in particular. Dick has just gone off to see the doctor to get some medicine to take for the gripes he has just got, and I thought I'd look in to pass away time till he comes back."

"Where is he?" asked the man quickly, vainly striving to conceal his agitation.

"Just off here, a little ways. If you want to see him, I'll call him."

"Never mind."

"I s'pose now – umph!"

The last exclamation of Jenkins was perfectly involuntary, and caused by receiving a terrific blow from the foot of the renegade, directly in the stomach, which doubled him up like a jack-knife. As he gasped and rolled over upon the grass, McGable shot over his head like an arrow, and bounded away for the palisades. Nearly all the men were at the block-house, debating upon his fate, but several descried the flying fugitive, and shouted the alarm. An instant after he scaled the palisades, and Peterson and several other rangers sped across the clearing in pursuit. Dingle, who had nearly recovered, raised a regular war-whoop, and joined in the chase.

Late at night, several of the pursuers returned, moody and sullen with their ill success. In the morning, another made his appearance with the intelligence that Dingle and Peterson were still in rapid pursuit, but there was little hope of overtaking the renegade, as he possessed a wonderful fleetness of foot, and in all probability had given them the slip during the night.

So it proved. Some time after the two rangers returned and confirmed this suspicion. They had not even caught a glimpse of him after he crossed the clearing and entered the wood.