The Phantom of the River - Edward Sylvester Ellis (book club books txt) 📗

from each other by a space varying from two yards to a distance twice as great.

Whether intentional or otherwise, Hastings stationed George Ashbridge immediately on the left of Agnes Altman, while her mother, Mrs. Ashbridge, and Mabel were near at hand. The lovers were so close, indeed, that there was little risk in their exchanging a whispered word or two at intervals. When either raised his or her head, the other could catch the faint outlines of the loved one.

While the temporary refuge was a most fortunate thing for the distressed fugitives, it had several features which caused uneasiness to Hastings and his experienced rangers. Although the moon soon appeared in the sky, its light was treacherous and uncertain, because of the skurrying clouds. Sometimes an object would be visible for a number of rods on the river, and then it took a pair of keen eyes to identify a canoe at half that distance.

More serious, however, than all was the west wind. This blew steadily, and with considerable force, directly upon the river. It sighed among the trees, and so stirred the branches that the rustling was continuous. Thus it afforded a diversion that was wholly in favor of the Indians, for, without taking any special precaution, they could approach as near as they chose to the fortification, with little, if any, fear of detection.

That they would be quick to turn this to account was certain.

Hastings had not forgotten to impress his friends with the fact that they were awaiting the coming of Simon Kenton, and incidentally of Daniel Boone. Each, when he did appear, would do so with the noiselessness of The Panther himself, and too great care could not he taken to guard against mistaking them for enemies.

There really was little, if any, danger of this, since all understood the situation, and would run no risk of harming their friends. Furthermore, Kenton and Boone were sure to give timely notice of their coming by means of signals which every one of the rangers would understand.

The sleep of most of the men had been broken and scant during the past twenty-four hours, but the situation was so strained that there was no danger of any one falling asleep until the peril passed. If any one thing was certain, it was that the watch within that rough circle would be unremitting and vigilant while it lasted.

Mabel Ashbridge laid her head on the lap of her mother, who like Mrs. Altman, sat with her back against the splintered ash, and with little appreciation of the fearful shadow that rested upon all, soon sank into unconsciousness. The mothers were so nervous and unstrung that though they occasionally shut their eyes, the slumber was fitful and brief.

But among all the party there was none more alert than Agnes Altman. She had not yet quite forgiven herself for her weakness in showing mercy to the imprisoned Panther the night before, when he came within a hair of slaying her beloved George Ashbridge, and, without hinting her intention to any one, she determined that, with the help of heaven, she would do something to erase that criminal imprudence, as she viewed it, on her part.

It may have been this resolution, supplemented by her own consummate faculties of sight and vision, or, more properly, it was both, that brought to her a knowledge of peril before it was suspected by any one of the rangers, or even by George Ashbridge, who, as may be said, was at her elbow.

Agnes was seated on the leaves, the same as her mother, and with her back resting against a boulder, which rose a few inches above her head. In this posture she closed her eyes. They could be of no use to her, and by shutting them she was able to concentrate her faculties into the single one of listening; upon that alone she now placed her dependence.

And seated thus, and listening with absorbing intensity, she speedily became aware of a startling fact; some one was directly on the other side of the boulder, and separated by no more than three feet from her.

That that some one was a Shawanoe Indian was as certain as that her name was Agnes Altman.


CHAPTER XII.

CARRYING THE WAR INTO AFRICA.

Jethro Juggens, the brawny servant of Mr. Altman, the dusky youth with the strength of a Hercules, the intellect of a child, or a skill in the use of the rifle hardly second to that of Kenton and Boone, has a singular but momentous part to play in the incidents that follow. The reader must, therefore, bear with us when now and then we turn aside from the graver and more tragical sweep of incidents to follow the doings and the fortunes and misfortunes of the one who rendered such signal service to his friends, already related in "Shod with Silence."

Simon Kenton denounced himself times without number for bringing Jethro with him when he set out to recover the canoe that had been left at the clearing; and yet that act, ill-advised as it seemed, changed the whole course of events that followed quick and fast, and became the foundation of one of the most remarkable legends connected with the romantic Ohio and the stirring events that marked the history of the settlement of Ohio and Kentucky.

With no thought of the mischief he was likely to cause, Jethro Juggens, as the reader has learned, circled part way round the cabin in the clearing, passed through the door, drew in the latch-string, devoured nearly all of the bread that was left behind, and then lay down and went to sleep.

He had managed to gain so much slumber during the past twenty-four hours that he was in need of nothing of the kind. As a consequence, he remained unconscious less than an hour, when he opened his eyes, as fully awake as he ever was in all his life.

The room was in darkness, and he was so confused that for a brief spell he was at a loss to know where he was. Rising to a sitting position, he rubbed his eyes and stared around in the gloom.

"Am dis de flatboat, and am I in de cellar ob it?" he asked himself.

But a moment's reflection recalled what had taken place.

"Gracious! I wonder if anyting hab happened to Mr. Kenton?" he exclaimed, starting to his feet and stumbling headlong over one of the boxes, unnoticed in the gloom.

"Dar's no tellin' what trouble he may get into widout me watchin' and tookin' keer ob him. I's afraid I'm too late to help him."

He would have opened the door and hurried out, but at that moment his keen nostrils caught the appetizing odor of the loaves of bread, amid which he had created havoc a short time before.

"I hab an obspression dat I done eat some ob dat afore I took a nap, but I ain't certain; don't want to make any mistake, and I feels sorter hungry."

There was enough food left to furnish him another good meal, and he did not stop using his peerless teeth and massive jaws until he had secured it.

His rifle was leaning against the wall near the door, where he had left it. He took it in hand, with the intention of opening the door and passing out, when the first real thrill of alarm stirred him. He heard some one attempting to open the door.

He knew it was an enemy, for Kenton, the only friend he had in the neighborhood, would never come there to look for him.

The latch-string being drawn in, it was impossible for the door to be opened, except by great labor from the outside. Nevertheless, some one was pushing at it repeatedly, and with such vigor that there could be no mistake about it.

"Who dar?" demanded Jethro, in his deepest voice, holding his rifle ready to use it in case the Indian effected an entrance.

There was no answer, but the efforts on the outside ceased for a minute, to be resumed more guardedly than at first.

"Go way from der, I toles yo' or yo'll get into trouble," called the youth, in a louder voice, meant to be as threatening as he could make it.

Again the pushing ceased, and all became still.

Jethro heard the wind blowing strongly around the cabin and among the trees beyond. Standing in the open clearing, as did the cabin, no shadow was cast upon it. The narrow windows, therefore, were clearly outlined against the dim moonlight. The youth glanced furtively at them, comprehending more fully than at any time before the sad mistake he had made in disobeying the orders of Kenton. But for that he would not have been in his present plight.

But it was too late for regrets to avail him. All he could do was to fight it out as best he knew how to the end.

Stepping nearer the door, he bent his head and listened. The pressure against the structure had ceased, but he caught the murmur of voices when a few broken sentences were uttered. Their meaning, of course, was beyond his reach.

"Why don't dey be gemmen?" he asked himself, "or talk in American, so dat anoder gemmen can understand 'em? I don't know what dey's talkin' 'bout, and it sounds as if dey don't know demselves."

He could understand, however, that no immediate cause for fear existed.

A dozen brawny Shawanoes could not force the door, and the windows, as has been explained, were too narrow for any one to push his body through.

But, all the same, some mischief was afoot at one of the rear window's--the one into which Jethro Juggens had fired that very day with fatal effect. The disturbance was transferred from the door to the window.

The youth was standing in the middle of the lower apartment, gun in hand, watching and listening. The moon was so placed in the heavens that this particular opening was seen more clearly than any of the others, and peering intently at it, Jethro became conscious of some dark object that was slowly obtruding into his field of vision.

"What de mischief am dat?" he muttered. "Looks like a hobblegoblin, but I knows it am an Injin."

Dimly seen in the partial illumination, the resemblance to the head of a warrior was so close that all doubt was removed from the mind of Jethro Juggens.

"Dat's what I's waiting for," was his thought, as he brought his piece to a level, took the best aim he could in the darkness, and let fly.

The report within the close room was so thunderous that his ears tingled, but confident of the accuracy of his shot, he looked through the smoke at the moonlit opening.

"I didn't hear no yell, but I reckoned dat blowed de top ob his head off afore he could let out de war-whoop dat Mr. Kenton says an Injin always gibs when he cotches his last sickness--gracious hebbins! how's dat?"

Could he believe his eyes? The head at which he had fired only a few feet away had not vanished. There it was, the owner apparently staring in upon him, with the same interest he had shown from the first.

"Dat beats all creation! I knowed I hit him, 'cause I couldn't miss him if I tried. He must had a head as hard as mine--"

If Jethro Juggens was astounded by what had just occurred, he was almost lifted off his feet by