The Frontier Angel Part 15

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 bl.u.s.tering 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, a.s.sured 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?"

"d.i.c.k 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.