The Frontier Angel Part 24

"Pale-face wan't die. McGable say kill white gal ef he no come back. He no come back--white gal must die."

"I have told you I am ready--why do you wait. Strike, now, and may G.o.d forgive you both."

Still the savage hesitated. A baleful light glittered in his black eye as he surveyed the vision of loveliness before him. His hand toyed with the buckhorn handle of his knife, and his chest sank and rose like the billows of the sea. Several times the knife was partly withdrawn, until Marian wondering at the stillness and inaction, looked up and encountered the fiery gaze of the Indian. The latter forced his knife to its place, and sucking his breath between his teeth, demanded,

"White gal no want to die?"

"I have not deserved death, and I do not wish to die, but I am prepared for death and expect nothing else at your hands."

"Be Indian chief's squaw?" asked the Indian with the rapidity of lightning.

Marian started, as if stung by an adder, and gazed into the eyes which fairly scintillated their electric light into her own. She comprehended the meaning of the words in an instant.

"No, Indian, I cannot be your squaw."

"Then die--think two, tree time, afore speak agin."

"No, never, Indian, kill me if you will."

"Then die--!"

[Ill.u.s.tration: "Then die--!"]

Marian darted backward with a piercing shriek, as the torch was dashed to the ground, and the savage sprang toward her. She had caught sight of a pale, horror-struck face that shot in from the mouth of the cave, and heard the words:

"We are here, Marian! Don't be frightened. We'll clear the cave of these monsters in a second!"

With ready wit, Marian had sprung one side, when the torch fell to the ground, and thus escaped the well-nigh fatal blow. All being blank darkness her a.s.sa.s.sin was at fault, even had he repeated the attempt.

But the Indians scented danger that second, and das.h.i.+ng the torch to the earth, whisked out of the cave and were gone in a twinkling, escaping the murderous onslaught Peterson had prepared himself to give them as they emerged.

A few moments of necessary confusion followed the announcement of Mansfield's presence. Guided by the unerring instinct of love, he soon had Marian clasped in his arms. A fervent embrace and he led her forth.

As they pa.s.sed out of the entrance, the dark body of the old squaw brushed by them and scurried off in the darkness.

"Thank G.o.d, the dead is alive!" exclaimed Mansfield impulsively, pressing a kiss upon the cold cheek of Marian. "Can you bear the walk, dearest? it is a long way to your home; let me wrap this blanket around you."

"I can bear _anything now_!" she replied in a low tone. "Are the Indians gone?"

"None but friends are around you."

"I saw some one just now move by me."

"It is Pe--a friend."

"Let us go on then. Is this dear, good Frontier Angel here."

"It is to her your life is owing. She is no longer crazy."

"Oh, this must be a dream!" cried Marian, as she was locked in the arms of her devoted friend. "It cannot--cannot be real."

For a few moments nothing but the sobbing of the two was heard. Peterson seemed restless, and moved uneasily but said nothing.

"Let us go," said the Frontier Angel, "for there is a long distance to travel."

The storm had partly ceased, though the wind was stronger than ever.

Through the woods again--through swamps and thickets--over brooks and the matted undergrowth--brus.h.i.+ng through the dripping bushes--until as the misty light of morning was breaking over the scene, they once more appeared upon the banks of the Ohio, opposite the block-house.

It was a happy reunion--one whose perfect joy our feeble pen can never give. There were two persons who, it seemed, had risen from the dead.

The Frontier Angel and Marian Abbot. When the ident.i.ty and remarkable history of the former became known through the settlement, there were many, even of the most intelligent, who believed it nothing less than a miracle.

If the reader, who has followed us through these pages, will examine the history of the West, he will find that in the summer of 1788, three flat-boats were attacked by the Shawnees, a short distance below the mouth of the great Sciota, and nearly all of the inmates ma.s.sacred. Two of the boats were sunk, and history states that every one on board were slain. On the remaining boat was a Methodist missionary by the name of Tucker, who fought as only those valiant old Methodist pioneers can fight. There were several women, who loaded their dead husband's rifles and handed them to him, while he fired with such deadly effect, that his boat finally escaped, and he reached Maysville, where, a few days after, he died of his wounds.

In one of the boats which were sunk by the savages, was a man named William Orr, with his family. Every one of these, it is stated by historians, fell a victim to the fury of the Shawnees. And here we take the liberty of saying that, not for the first time, the historical accounts are in error. The writer traveled over that section, where most of our scenes have been laid, some years since, and obtained from an aged man (who had known the rangers, Jim Peterson and d.i.c.k Dingle, years before) the following account of the affair:

The boat which contained Orr and his family was the hindmost, and upon the second volley of the Shawnees, every one was killed, except Myra Orr, the youngest daughter. Even she was wounded. A bullet grazed her forehead, pressing a piece of bone inward upon the brain, in such a manner as to render _her crazy_!

In a few moments, the savages came up and proceeded to scalp their victims, when noticing that she was still alive, she was taken as a prisoner to the sh.o.r.e. It was subsequently ascertained that she was demented and no harm was offered her.[A] In time, she dressed and painted like the Indians, but she was never one of their number. She mingled with them, but her singular manner impressed them with the belief that she was something more than mortal. After a year or so, she took to the woods, and somewhere in its recesses she built herself a home. In the year 1790, she appeared before a settlement, and warned them of an intended attack, and from this time up to the closing scenes of our story, she devoted her life to the one object of befriending the whites. In time she became known all along the frontier, and the unaccountable mystery which hung down over her, gave rise to the superst.i.tious belief that she was in reality an _angel_. Many attempts were made to discover her history, but none succeeded, until her reason was restored and she gave it herself.

[A] A crazy or idiotic person is always regarded with superst.i.tious reverence by the North American Indian.

But what is perhaps nearly as singular, is that Myra Orr, the "Frontier Angel," and Jim Peterson, the ranger, were lovers in their younger days.

They had separated much in the same manner that Mansfield and Marian had. When the tragic fate of his love reached the ears of Peterson, he turned ranger and acted with the celebrated Dingle in that capacity. He rarely referred to his great bereavement, but there were several who knew it. Among these, was Franklin Holmes, commander of the block-house, who was acquainted with the Orr family, before they removed from the East.

It will be remembered that Peterson left Marian Abbot, as he believed, in a dying condition, when the flat-boat was attacked. She was desperately wounded, and without the utmost care would have died.

McGable recognized her as he boarded the flat-boat, and carried her to the sh.o.r.e, where he gave her in charge of an Indian runner, with instructions to carry her at once to Pauquachoke, one of their old "medicine women." McGable instantly returned and joined in the ma.s.sacre.

A few days after, he visited the medicine woman, and learned that Marian would recover, although it would necessarily require a long time. In fact, she had not been able to walk until a month previous to her rescue. Escape was impossible, as Pauquachoke had been instructed never to permit her to pa.s.s out of the cave. By an accident, the Frontier Angel became aware of the state of things and visited the captive on several different occasions. This reached the ears of McGable, and fearful of losing his prey through her means, he determined to kill her.

His attempts and failures to do this, have been referred to. The fearful exertion through which Myra Orr went, on the night of Marian's rescue, well-nigh proved fatal to her. Reason flickered and fled for a time, but it finally returned in its full strength.

Marian for a long while was nearly delirious with joy--and so were the father and mother, and Mansfield, too. And Jim Peterson, the genial, good-hearted ranger, was heard to exclaim scores of times, "It beats all! it's powerful queer that I've met my gal here for nearly ten years, and was afraid she'd kill me ef she touched me. It's queer! Powerful queer!"

We wish our readers could have been down at the settlement, on the night of October 20, 1798. It would have required immense room, to have accommodated them we suppose, but the woods were large enough. This double wedding was a greater one than Seth Jones' and George Graham's.

Yet it was much the same, and we will not describe it, but close our story with a paragraph.

Jim Peterson gave up the ranger's life and settled down as a farmer. He had several children, and two of his grandsons are now prominent merchants in the city of Cincinnati. In the war of 1812, Russel Mansfield acted as Colonel, and at its close retired to his farm near Maysville, covered with honor and glory. Here he lived with his children and grandchildren, and it is only a few years since that he followed his wife to her last resting-place. d.i.c.k Dingle and Peter Jenkins became bosom friends, and spent many years of adventure and peril together. We will dismiss them, with the promise that their experiences shall not be withheld from the reader, and that they both shall be heard of again.

THE END.