CHAPTER XVI.
ALL’S WELL THAT ENDS WELL.
For a moment the people stood aghast at this second revelation. But it was only for a moment. The startling transformation of Jonathan Boggs into Russell Trafford had prepared them for almost any change of this description. When the first shock of surprise was over, the loud, prolonged cheers burst forth again, and shouts and screams of joy, amazement and congratulations, once more filled the air. The excited pioneers gathered round the smiling doctor, as he pleasantly exchanged salutations with one after another, and a hundred inquiries were propounded to him in such rapid succession that he found it impossible to answer any. The ugly, expressionless face of Nick Robbins, the hunter, was gone, and in its place was the very expressive and finely-cut features of Doctor Trafford, the man who all had supposed was long since dead, burned alive in his bed.
The confusion of voices still continued, until the doctor requested the crowd to fall back, and be still, that he might tell them what they were clamoring to know.
The request answered the purpose. They widened the space around the doctor, and quiet was once more restored.
“You need not stare at me as though I were superhuman,” began the doctor. “I can explain to you clearly how it happened that I am still alive, and how you were so easily deceived. On the night of the fire, and supposed tragedy, I was not in the house at all. It was about the hour of midnight, as you must recollect, and, being unable to sleep, I had gone out to take a stroll in the open air, which some of you know I frequently did. To be sure my chamber-door was locked, as Mike Terry reported to McCabe, but that need not seem strange. I, being a prime old bachelor, never left the house without first locking the door of my private apartment, as I never could bear the thought of having my things disturbed in my absence.
“After walking about until my nerves were so settled that I thought I should have no further difficulty in winning the spirit of sleep, I bent my steps toward home. But my approach was checked by the sight of somebody prowling around the house. At first I thought it was my nephew, the manner of his dress giving me the impression, but his singular actions speedily convinced me that I was mistaken. I stood and watched the man with some curiosity, wondering what he meant by sneaking around my cabin at that late hour. He went clear around the house in a stooping posture, and when he arrived at the point where I had first seen him, he turned and ran away at the top of his speed. He came straight toward the spot where I was standing. Moved by a sudden impulse, I jumped behind a tree to let him pass without discovering me. The man approached swiftly on tiptoe. I heard him breathing hard, as if with excitement, as he came up. Somewhat to my alarm he stopped within three feet of my hiding-place, and looked back. This pause in his flight was of scarcely more than a moment’s duration, but that was enough. Within that moment I distinctly heard him say:
“‘It is done—it is done! Doctor Trafford will never leave that house alive! The deed will be imputed to his upstart of a nephew, and my purpose will be accomplished!’
“The next instant he was gone. I had not recognized the fellow, nor his voice, nor had I time to follow him before he was out of sight. A light, flashing in my face, startled me. I looked toward my cabin, and saw that it was in flames. I guessed the truth at once. The unknown had set fire to the building for the purpose of burning me in my bed. The words I had heard fall from his mouth convinced me of this fact, and, as I reflected, I began to suspect that the would-be-murderer was Jim McCabe. I could not think that this man had any direct cause to attempt my life, but I knew that Russell was his rival in love, and I thought it quite probable that he had chosen this circuitous way of getting rid of his rival. The prowler had said, in my hearing, that I could not escape with my life—that my nephew would receive the penalty of the deed—and that thus his purpose would be accomplished. This led me to believe that the blow was aimed at Russell, after all, indirect as it was.
“By this time there was an uproar all around me, and people were pouring out of their homes to see the fire. I saw them gathering around the burning structure, but I did not move. An idea struck me. I hastily decided to steal away from the fort, and leave you all to suppose that I was really roasted alive in my own house. Then I could return in disguise, and hunt out the real perpetrator of that night’s work, nor make myself known until I had proved his guilt. I went. By careful maneuvering I managed to get outside of the stockade unseen, the sentry at the gate having temporarily deserted his post at the alarm of fire. Once beyond the limits of the fort, I felt that my flight was well commenced. I then struck out in a southerly direction, and traveled many, many weary miles toward the interior.
“At last I came upon a solitary hut in the woods. I found it occupied by a good-natured old hunter, who gave me rest, shelter and food. Luckily, I had met with the right man, for the old hunter furnished me with this disguise, with which I have deceived you all. He told me it had been of great service to him while acting in the capacity of spy, in the French and Indian War, and amused me with the recital of many thrilling adventures through which he had passed. Having assumed the appearance of an old rover of the forest, and the name of Nick Robbins, I returned to this place. I arrived here at the very hour that my nephew was to be executed. I was astonished, and thought at first that I would have to reveal myself in order to save him. But I did not. You will remember that I ascended the scaffold, and talked with Kirby Kidd. He told me of the artifice resorted to by which they hoped to save Russell’s life, and on hearing that, I concluded to wear my disguise yet longer.
“When the hanging affair was over, I consigned myself assiduously to the task of watching McCabe, and clearing the name of my innocent ward. How I succeeded in my self-imposed mission you have been told. During all, only four persons, besides myself, knew that I was other than what I seemed; those four were Kirby Kidd and his Indian friend, Isabel Moreland and my nephew.”
Doctor Trafford ended his explanation with this, and for some time after he had ceased speaking, all seemed to be occupied with their own thoughts. Then a raw-boned, bean-pole-looking individual, who could not get the idea out of his head that he was in the presence of a ghost, drawled out:
“That ’ere’s all very fine, doc., but how the de’il are you goin’ to account for the skeleton we found in the ruins of your house?”
Doctor Trafford smiled.
“Why, sir,” he replied, “isn’t it quite natural that one of my profession should have a human skeleton in his house? Moreover, had the bones been mine, it is hardly probable that the flesh would have been entirely consumed by the fire.”
This settled that point.
Now Jim McCabe once more became the center of attraction. Some of the most vengeful cried out clamorously for his blood, and the majority were in favor of hanging him on the spot, without any ceremony whatever. But Mr. Moreland earnestly remonstrated against such a proceeding. He told them there was no necessity for haste, and that the criminal should be allowed time to repent before ushering him into the presence of his Maker. Many were loth to wait, but none would disregard the wishes of the speaker.
At this juncture, however, an incident occurred that put an end to the disagreement. All the time that the revelations and explanations were chaining the attention of the whole crowd, Jim McCabe had been struggling desperately with the cords that bound him. Nobody had noticed him, and, by the time Doctor Trafford finished his story, he ceased his squirming and lay perfectly quiet.
All of a sudden he sprung to his feet with the agility of a panther, and bounded into the open space in the midst of the crowd. Here he stood, with limbs entirely free, glaring about him at the mass of people on every side, his face deadly pale, his eyes bloodshot and his nostrils distended.
“Ha! ha! ha!” he screamed, “did you think I would become an easy victim to the tortures you propose to inflict upon me? I did set fire to the house of Doctor Trafford, and it was for the purpose of having his nephew die by the hand of the law. What of it? I shall deny nothing, nor shall I attempt to escape your vengeance. But, hark ye! I shall not go alone. There is one here who must go with me across the dark river!”
He whirled round, as he concluded his wild speech, and stood face to face with Russell Trafford! Thrusting his hand into his breast, he drew forth a glittering dagger, and flourished it over his head with a maniacal yell.
Then, before anybody could make an effort to detain the maddened brute, he crouched down and made a flying leap toward young Trafford. For a single instant his bending form was suspended in mid air—the next it fell sprawling on the grass at the feet of the man he had intended to kill! Almost before he touched the ground Jim McCabe was dead!
Then there were screams of affright from the females, mingled with shouts of surprise and alarm from the males, and scores of excited men crowded around the fallen wretch. In his death-spasm McCabe had turned over on his back, in which position he now lay, his eyes fixed and glassy, his features horribly distorted, and his brains slowly oozing out through a small hole in his temple! Every one seemed struck with a feeling akin to awe by the sad spectacle, and a profound silence ensued. It was broken at length by the deep, solemn voice of Mr. Moreland, saying:
“God have mercy on his soul!”
But who had fired the fatal shot? The question, though unuttered, seemed to strike the whole party at once, and all as of one accord, turned their eyes to see which of their number had won the honor of saving a fellow-creature’s life. Who can describe their astonishment and admiration when they beheld Mike Terry standing a few yards away, with a smoking pistol in his hand! He it was who had snatched Russell Trafford from the very jaws of a horrible death. The young man stepped up to him, seized him by the hand and said, with much feeling:
“God bless you, Mike! You have done a noble act, and proved yourself a true-hearted fellow after all.”
A great many others echoed these words, and the Irish boy was the hero of the hour. The body of the miserable wretch, Jim McCabe, was now borne away, and, shortly after, the crowd dispersed, and the people sought their different homes, there to muse and remark on the extraordinary events that had occurred in their midst.
Subsequently Doctor Trafford erected another and much larger cabin on the spot where the first one had stood, and Mike Terry was once more installed in his service, now more loved and trusted than ever before. Russell and Isabel lived long and happily together, and in after years were wont to gather their children’s children upon their knees, and tell the story of the Phantom Hunter.
THE END.