The Rival Trappers: or, Old Pegs, The Mountaineer

“You came here for that!” she cried, with dilating eyes, “Who and what are you, then?”

“Rafe Norris, at your service! Curly-headed Ned, so called at the forts upon Hudson Bay; and Edward Forrester within the realms of civilization. But come—have you rested enough?”

She rose at once and followed him, but the name which he had given last troubled her. “Curly-headed Ned” she knew by report, as a chief over one section of the Modoc Sioux, and a man whose name was stained by a hundred crimes. But, why did he lay claim to the name of Forrester?

“I see that you are puzzled,” he said, with a smile. “I am afraid that you doubt that the name of Forrester is really mine. Is it not so?”

“I can not see why you claim it.”

“Because it is my right name. I have the honor to be your cousin, my dear girl, and this will in some sort account for the affection which I bear you.”

“You claim kindred with me, and yet seek to wrong me in the basest manner. There—I believe that it is all false, and— Where are you taking me? I have been in this pass before.”

He smiled in a superior sort of way, and turning a sharp angle, stepped suddenly into the path down which she had forced Velveteens on the day when she made him prisoner. Her captor was taking her to her former home! A great fear came into her heart, for she knew that he would not dare to bring her to the cabin of Old Pegs unless that brave man had ceased to breathe.

CHAPTER XIII.
A DREADFUL ORDEAL—FINIS.

Boston Jake and his men did not resist very long after the departure of Rafe Norris. They stood out long enough to give a good excuse for yielding, and then sent out a flag to sue for peace. The Sioux would not trust to that, but took to the mountain at once, and sought to find their way back to their own country in small parties. Boston Jake surrendered his party in person, and Dave received his submission.

“Where is the man who was captured while carrying a flag?” he demanded. “You know well whom I mean.”

“Yes—I know that well enough, boss, but he’s pegged out. ’Tain’t my fault, you know.”

“Who, then, is to blame?”

“Jim Diggs shot him on the jump, trying to escape. It were rough, but Jim couldn’t help it.”

“I shall hang three of your men for the murder,” replied Dave, quietly, “and they will be selected by lot.”

“That ain’t according to Hoyle, boss,” said Boston Jake. “I kain’t see that play of yours, after we guv up.”

“He was taken with a white flag in his hand.”

“It were cussid mean, I know,” replied Jake; “but it ain’t right to do evil acause some one else did, eh?”

“Enough; where is Rafe Norris, better known as Curly-headed Ned?”

“Curly? Why, he went away, two hours ago. He don’t hanker arter you chaps, you understand; they don’t suit him, nohow.”

“The scoundrel! It will go hard with him when we once lay hands on him. Where is the daughter of Old Pegs? Tell me quickly before I put a bullet through your head.”

“You needn’t rare up that ar’ way,” said Boston Jake, sullenly. “I don’t keer two cents what you do with me, and I don’t skeer at all so you mout as well let me down easy. That’s the way I talk it. Curly-headed Ned hez got the gal.”

The forces of Whirlwind satisfied that their sworn enemies—the Sioux—were scattered in the mountains, at once set out in pursuit, breaking up into squads of ten or less for that purpose. Woe to the Modoc Sioux whom they ran down. His scalp quickly adorned the belt of some son of the Blackfoot tribe, and hung afterward in the smoke of his lodge. The prisoners were quickly bound, and leaving ten men as a guard the rest of the trappers began to search for the trail of Rafe Norris. But they missed the keen eyes and subtle skill of Old Pegs, the man who could read in rocks and sod the slightest pressure of the human foot, and the search for a long time was vain, and Dave Farrell began to despair of success. They could find no trail.

In the meantime, Myrtle was a prisoner in the hands of Rafe Norris. He rapidly descended the slope which led to the hunter’s cabin, holding her by the hand, and led her in at the open door of her former home.

“Here we are, my dear,” he said quietly. “You see that it becomes my province to make you welcome to the home which was once yours. Do not mistake me, sweet girl. I will do you no wrong, unless it is wicked in me to wish to make you my wife.”

“It is more than wicked—it is cruel and unmanly. Oh, if my hands could reach a weapon your life would be short.”

“Doubtless you are right, Myrtle,” he said mournfully. “You would slay one who stands ready to lay down his life in your service, and who is willing to devote that life to make you happy. Can I say nothing to make you change your purpose, my darling?”

“Can you bring the dead to life? Will you be able to call Nicholas Fletcher from the bloody grave your hounds have given him? Oh, how base I should be if I ever forgot or forgave this last crowning crime!”

“Enough,” he cried, harshly. “I see that good words are but thrown away upon you, and that harsh measures are necessary. My mind is fully made up, and you will find that I can be harsh if it seems to be needful and can compel obedience to my wishes. Hold out your hands; I must bind you or you will attempt to escape.”

She put out her hands as if to comply, but as he stooped to take up the buck-skin thong from the table, she bounded past him, and the sharp click announced that she had opened the trap beneath the bed. Before he could reach it the second click announced that it was closed again. Furious with passion he tugged at the light couch, and literally tore it from its place, but the trap remained firm in its place and all his efforts could not move it in the least. Dashing out into the next room he caught up a heavy ax and darted back.

“Stand out of the way below,” he cried, “or you may be hurt.”

The boards flew asunder under his furious strokes, and in an inconceivably short space of time he had made an opening large enough to permit him to descend. As he was about to step upon the stairs he heard the clear voice of Myrtle.

“For your life—stand back!”

He looked once—and obeyed! She was standing in the little passage, holding a lighted taper in her hand. Just in front of her stood a small keg of powder with the head knocked out, and as he saw her pale, determined face by the light of the taper, he knew that she would destroy herself sooner than fall into his hands again.

“Mad woman,” he screamed. “What would you do?”

“You can find out readily by coming down,” was the quiet reply. “If you set your foot upon that step again it is the signal for your death.”

“And yours—also!”

“And mine. I think that I should be doing good service in killing you even though I lose my life.”

The man hesitated and stepped back into the room with a look of absolute terror on his face. He had not lied when he said that he loved her dearly, and it was terrible to him to think that she hated him so much that she would sooner die than be his wife. He tried persuasion, but to that she would not answer, standing statue-like, holding the taper in her unshaking hand.

“What good can it do you?” he said. “You must yield in time.”

“If I feel that I am growing weak,” she replied, “at that moment I will fire the powder. At the least I shall go to my Maker pure, and send you to your Judge at the same moment. From this time I will not answer you a word.”

She drew a block close to the side of the keg and sat down with a bundle of tapers by her side. The one she held burned low, and she lighted another and waited as calmly as before, while above her the hungry eyes of Rafe Norris looked down at the prize he could not reach. He hoped that she would sleep, but the peculiar brightness of her eyes convinced him that it was impossible. Only fatigue, hunger or thirst could overcome her, and she had sworn that when that time came she would fire the train.

Twice he called to her as the hours passed on, but neither by sign, word or look did she show that she knew any thing of his presence, although her eyes never left the opening in the floor. In his madness he revolved in his mind a thousand plans to get her away from the powder if but for a moment, but it was useless; none of his plans were feasible while he could not draw from her a single look or sign of recognition. He felt that he could not bear this suspense much longer, but it must be borne. Hour after hour crept on; the tapers burned out, one by one, and as the first gray streaks of the morning light showed themselves in the east she took up the last taper and calmly lighted it.

“Ha! ha! ha!” he cried, exultantly; “your lights are gone. In a moment I shall have you in my power.”

She spoke now for the first time since she had sealed her lips.

“It will burn for an hour,” she said. “I will spend that hour in praying to God to take me in mercy to his rest, and when the taper burns low I will fire the powder.”

“You dare not, girl,” he hissed. “It is murder. You cannot destroy yourself in that cruel way. Oh, heaven, what shall I do? I will give you up—do you hear? I will give you up.”

“I cannot trust you. If I throw away the taper, you will treat your word as you did when my guardian fell into your hands.”

“I will not—I swear by everything I hold holy and pure. I will go away and never come back if you will throw away the taper. I swear it, on my soul.”

“Swear by something else. I will not trust you. Keep silent, base man, and let me at least spend my last hour in quiet.”

“You shall not do it,” he screamed. “Here are my weapons, and I have no others—my revolvers. Take them, and then you can surely consider yourself safe.”

“Will you give them?” she cried, eagerly. “If you do that, I may put some trust in your promises, for I shall be able to enforce obedience.”

He hesitated for a moment, but as she advanced the light in the direction of the keg, he took the weapons from his belt and threw them down to her. Shifting the taper into her left hand, she caught up a weapon and glanced at it, her quick look assuring her that it was ready for service, and she sprung to her feet, hastily hurling away the taper which was burned half-way down. Myrtle was young, and life was in its bloom for her, and she was happy in her escape.

“Go outside,” she said, “and let me see your face at the window of my room.”

He hurried out at once, and looking up through the trap, she caught sight of his pale face peering through the little window. In an instant she was out of the passage and at the door, holding her revolvers cocked in each hand.

“It is over now, Rafe Norris,” she said. “Go, before I forget myself and avenge in your person my murdered friend, my more than father, Nicholas Fletcher.”

But he folded his arms and looked at her fixedly, the light of a strange resolve in his eyes.

“You think you have conquered,” he said, “because I have given up my weapons. But not yet, my dear, not yet. I swear that you shall either kill me where I stand or go with me.”

He made a step in advance, and she brought down her right-hand pistol with a stern, decided movement. Thus they stood at bay, each looking into the eyes of the other.

“If you miss!” he hissed, speaking through his set teeth.

“I shall not miss,” was the stern reply. “Beware what you do.”

He was doubling himself for a spring, and her bright eyes were glancing resolutely along the barrel of the deadly weapon, when a calm voice said:

“Hold on! I meander in and take a hand.”

Myrtle turned with a wild cry of delight. Old Pegs in the body, to all appearance sound in every part, stood before her.

“Come hyar while I hug yer!” cried the old man, with a suspicious catch in his voice. “Rafe Norris, I’ll attend to you, right soon, I will.”

He passed his strong arm about the slender form of Myrtle, and pressed his lips to her fair cheek.

“Give them yer playthings ter me, darlin’,” he said, taking the revolvers from her. “I ain’t got ne’er a weepon. Now stand one side and see me mount this cuss.”

“Don’t fight him, father,” she said. “I’m not afraid of him, and beyond the fact that he has kept me prisoner he has done me no wrong.”

“It won’t do,” replied Old Pegs, fiercely. “I’m going ter wipe him out, sure, and I don’t want you to interfere or you and I’ll hev words. Look hyar, Rafe Norris, Curly-headed Ned, Sarpint, whatever yer name is, you’ve got ter fight me.”

“I am willing,” he cried, anxiously. “I’ll fight you in any way you name.”

“Wait; I wanter leave the gal safe in case I go under. I don’t wanter, but then I mout. Whar’s yer carbine, Myrtle?”

“In the cabin.”

“Git it and put a new charge in. You’ve got ter boss this skrimmage, you understand, and see fa’r play. This yer skunk hez lived long enuff, I kalkilate, and the sooner he’s wiped out the better.”

Myrtle knew the determined character of the old hunter well and that it was useless to oppose him. She hurried into the house and brought out her carbine, discharged it and put in a new load. She had the utmost confidence in her guardian and believed that he was able to overcome Rafe Norris in a fair fight. When she had loaded, Old Pegs turned to Norris.

“We’ll stand off at about twenty paces and begin ef you hev no objections. Thar’s a shooter.”

He tossed one of the revolvers to Rafe, who snatched it up eagerly.

“Ef I go under, gal, take to ther foot-hills and don’t come out till you find Dave or some of the boys. Now we’ll stand back to back, walk ten paces and wheel when you give the word. After that let the best man win, but ef one of us tries to turn till you do give the word—send fur him, thet’s all.”

“I’ll do it,” replied Myrtle, quietly, “and you may be sure I will not miss. Get ready.”

The men placed themselves back to back.

“March,” she said.

They advanced ten paces each with his revolver ready.

“Ready—turn!”

The pistols exploded at the same moment. Old Pegs staggered a little, but quickly recovered himself and fired again. Rafe Norris spun round upon his heel, uttered a short, quick cry and fell upon his back while the revolver dropped out of his hand. They ran to raise him and he made a feeble effort to lift his weapon but his hand refused its office and dropped heavily to his side.

“I’m done for,” he groaned, “and it served me right for all my villainy. Old Pegs, open my coat and take out the paper you will find there.”

Old Pegs obeyed and found two or three letters and a legal-looking document.

“I told you the truth, Myrtle, when I said I was your cousin. That paper is a copy of our grandfather’s will which you will find in the hands of Justin Lawrence, attorney, at St. Louis. When you read the will you will understand why I wished to make you my wife. Never fear for me; I’ll die as I have lived—game to the last. Here’s luck to the Hudson Bay!”

He shook his hand above his head and with the effort his life went out. The will when read was found to be in favor of the heirs of Edward Forrester, or, failing that, all was left to a benevolent institution at St. Louis. To Edward Forrester, Jr., the only child of his youngest son, the testator left one dollar “on account of his dissolute and unmanly conduct.” The secret of his persistent effort to make Myrtle his wife was explained.

There is little more to tell. They buried the unhappy man in the little valley next day, and just as Old Pegs had laid the last sod upon him Dave Farrell, followed by a portion of his men, rode into the place. The yell which the trappers gave as they saw Old Pegs and Myrtle alive made the mountains ring again, and Myrtle with a glad cry threw herself into the arms of her “teacher,” brave Dave Farrell, the Beaver Captain.

A few days later the party set out for the fort, Old Pegs taking charge of the papers left in his hands by Myrtle’s father by means of which her identity was easily established, and she took possession by the will of a property valued at one hundred thousand dollars.

But, prosperity did not spoil her; she still remained the same, and loved her guardian and her trapper lover as of yore. Six months after their return there was a quiet wedding and Dave Farrell with his beautiful wife started for the East. Old Pegs left them in St. Louis, resisting all entreaties to spend his life with the woman who had been a daughter—more than a daughter to him. He could not leave the mountain yet, but promised that when old age comes on him Myrtle shall smooth his pathway to the grave. So promising he turned his face to the west and was gone.

Whirlwind was killed in an attack upon a trapping camp, some years since. The men who had followed Edward Forrester in his last expedition scattered, and the time has nearly passed when the two great companies strive for the possession of the trapping-grounds. But often by the trapper’s fire some gray-haired man will tell the tale of the old days when he took sides in this strange struggle.

Every year Old Pegs comes down to St. Louis and spends a month in the company of his son and daughter—for he so regards them—and tells the boys wild stories of the plains and mountains where he has lived so long. May the day be far distant when he must lay his armor down.

THE END

DIME POCKET NOVELS.
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Transcriber’s Notes

• Silently corrected a few typos.
• Retained publication information from the printed edition: this eBook is public-domain in the country of publication.
• In the text versions only, text in italics is delimited by _underscores_.
• Created a Table of Contents based on the chapter headings.