CHAPTER IX.
NICK ON A TRAIL.
Nick Robbins jumped back as if stung by an adder. Had a thunderbolt rent the cloudless sky above him, he would scarcely have been taken more by surprise than he was by the conclusion of the renegade’s last remark. While listening to the conversation we have recorded, though certain the chief was not an Indian, he had not once suspected that he was lying so near that notorious traitor, who, in the last few years, had become the terror of white settlers all through Kentucky and Ohio. Simon Girty! That name, coupled as it is with some of the most atrocious deeds that ever darken the pages of history, was, at that time, as familiar as household words to every ear on the border. And the hunter, as he thought of it, recalled the incident, as he had often heard it, connected with this man’s desertion of his race. How General Adrian Lewis had employed Girty as a scout for his army, which was then stationed at Point Pleasant—how the cruel General had beaten him so unmercifully with his cane, because this brave and valuable scout had dared to ask pay for his services—how the latter had fled with a fearful vow of vengeance—and how terribly that vow was fulfilled.
All this flashed through the mind of the eavesdropper, as that well-known name struck upon his ear. But, quickly recovering from his surprise, he leaned forward again and continued his listening, now with increased interest.
“Good!” cried McCabe. “I am glad you enter into my scheme so willingly. You are a first-rate friend.”
Simon Girty sneered.
“Pooh! pooh! man, you don’t understand me. I doubt if I could induce myself to do this thing if you were the only one to be benefited by the massacre, although I will try to secure that girl and place her in your arms alive. Pshaw! I am not what I used to be. I would not enter so willingly in your little scheme if it did not possess the attraction of blood! Ha! ha! I’m an Indian now, and it is pastime to lift the scalps of the detested pale-faces. Ah, McCabe, experience has taught me that revenge is sweet, sweet, sweet! Depend upon it, I will see that every mother’s son of the white-livered devils becomes food for the buzzards before another dawn. But to help me to bring this about, you must do your duty by causing them to linger on the island a sufficient length of time after dark, and you will do well to put them off their guard at the same time, if you can.”
“Trust me for that,” rejoined McCabe, earnestly. “I will go over to them this afternoon, and the interval between this time and that, shall be spent in planning the best way to deceive them. But how shall I get to them? I have no means of going out to the island, unless I swim.”
“There is no need of that. Concealed in a little cove, a short distance above the island, are the canoes in which I and my warriors came over here. You will have no difficulty in finding them. Go; take one of them, sharpen your wits and play your part.”
“I’ll do it, by Jove! Have no fears for me. If you don’t come off victorious I shall not be to blame.”
“I suppose not—unless you play me false.”
“And you know I will not do that.”
“I am not certain.”
“Well,” laughed McCabe, “my deeds shall be proof of my fidelity. But where will you remain till the time for action?”
“Here,” replied Girty. “I shall not leave this spot before sundown.”
“Very well; you know best how to act in a case like this. I will leave you now, and as like as not I won’t see you again until after the fight has taken place.”
“Why? I want you to come back here toward evening, and report your success, or failure, in your part of the performance.”
“All right; I will do that, if you wish.”
“And, also,” continued the renegade, “I hope to find you somewhere near the boats when we go to the river to embark, so that you can take part in the fight. You will make an addition of one, you know, to our side, and I have no doubt we will need your services. Of course you will be there, ready to accompany us!”
“Ye-e-es, I suppose so,” was the hesitating answer. “But if I am not there you need not wait for me, as you will readily understand that I am on duty at some other point. At all events, I shall not be absent when it comes to fighting.”
So saying, Jim McCabe turned on his heel and walked away, while Simon Girty joined his warriors by the fire.
Nick Robbins, as soon as he saw that the conference was at an end, slid off the rock, sprung lightly to his feet, and glided swiftly away from the spot. Stopping suddenly, however, he quickly jumped behind a tree, and then he looked cautiously forth from his concealment to watch the movements of the man whose villainous plot he had overhead. He saw Jim McCabe come out of the ravine, and walk leisurely off in the direction of the river, and observed the smile of evil triumph that lighted his countenance as he went.
The hunter’s mind was made up on the instant.
“I’ll follow him,” he said to himself. “I’ll dog his footsteps, nor let him leave my sight. I’ll do even more than that, for I think—yes, I’m sure—that he may be easily deceived.”
He slipped out from behind the tree, and started off in the tracks of the unsuspecting ruffian, taking care to keep the latter in sight as he followed.
“Low, cowardly traitor!” he hissed, as if addressing the man in front of him; “who would have thought you were leagued with that most terrible of the white man’s enemies? Wicked as I knew you to be, I am surprised to learn that you are a friend of the Indians, and doubly so that you are a confederate of the worst apostate and murderer that ever lived. Wretch! Fiend! I can not believe God will permit you to succeed, and if the stain on Russell Trafford’s name is not purged away before the setting of to-morrow’s sun, I have overrated my ability. Poor Isabel Moreland! She shall not fall into the hands of that man if I can prevent it, nor shall the massacre be so complete as they have pictured it. I will put them on their guard, and I believe they can build fortifications that will enable them to repulse the assailants without loss. They will be astonished when I tell them Simon Girty is to lead the attack.”
Thus cogitating, Nick Robbins followed the villain for some time longer, neither allowing the distance between them to diminish nor increase. At length Jim McCabe emerged from the woods, and stood upon the bank of the river.
The hunter did not hesitate then, but strode boldly forward and, without the least ceremony, laid his hand on McCabe’s shoulder.