CHAPTER VI.
THE FROG’S HOLE.
Meanwhile events were elsewhere taking place, which are so essentially necessary to the proper understanding of our narrative that we must leave Custa to perform his journey, the inhabitants of the block to grieve for Amy, and she herself to continue on her way with the Indians, while we introduce characters who will have much to do with the elucidation of events, and the clearing up of the mystery which attaches to a very large portion of our narrative. The early events of our story have, however, been, in relation to incidents, so rapid that we have not been able to turn to what may in the outset appear a subject of minor interest, but which will in the end be found to be absolutely necessary to the understanding of what follows.
At some distance from the Scioto river, up toward the hills, hitherto chiefly frequented by wild trappers and men of the woods, by bordermen, and by a race of some bandits left by the war, horse-stealers, cow-thieves, and others—about three hours’ hard ride from the Moss, and an equal distance from Scowl Hall—was a shanty, log, or farm-house, which had obtained, from the locality in which it was situated, the name of the Frog’s Hole. It was notorious by name to most of the wild bordermen—had been used as a place of refuge by runaway negroes; but was chiefly the rendezvous of the abominable race of White Indians, or renegades, who played so infamous a part in the war, and who, as outlaws and outcasts of society, were compelled, when they wished to meet for the purposes of conspiracy or amusement, to select some spot where they were safe from the honest white men: from the Indians they had nothing to fear. Here it was that the spies, too, of the British army were wont to quarter during the war; and here might often be seen Red-Bird the Shawnee, Simon Girty the ex-American, now the bitter enemy of his countrymen, whom he had betrayed; Captain Peter Druyer, a Canadian, once in the service of England, now a wanderer; and here, during the war, the celebrated Captain Duquesne had often organized his expeditions.
A small and beautiful glen, with pine and larch and elms bursting from its fertile sides, conducted the waters of a pleasant stream into a little pool or lake, which, after barring up the entrance of the valley, again fell away to the west, and by a winding course gained the Scioto, and then the Ohio. A path round this pool led, by a number of steps in the rock, to a rustic lodge, opening on to a platform, upon which was built, leaning against the rock, a house of somewhat antique appearance for that part of the world. It was built partly of stone, and partly of wood.
It was a quaint old building, the inn of the Frog’s Hole. For about five feet from the ground it was of stone, moss-covered, and fastened together by plaster. Then rose a wall of planks, supported on the inside and the out by beams of wood that reached to the first story, which was a kind of loft, made use of as bedrooms, and to be reached only from the outside by means of a ladder. The house was longer than it was deep or high, extending some distance along the rock, and showing such a goodly row of chimneys as to hold out a promise of plenty within. And plenty there was for those who had money to pay, as Ralph Regin was a man who respected his customers, and took care they should want for neither meat nor drink in his house. There were hams, and ribs of beef, and legs of mutton, and fowls, and turkeys, and corn-cakes and hominy; but whence they came was another thing—a question, however, which none of the visitors ever asked. And there were whisky and Hollands, and brandy in profusion; and whence these came all knew, for few who frequented the house but aided in bringing up a supply of fiery liquid, which sometimes brought more wretched Indians about the place than was agreeable or pleasant.
The platform, when the bridge was crossed, circled round the house on the side of the pool, which it towered over by some thirty feet—a steep and rocky descent of great difficulty, and which never would have been attempted in the face of a resolute enemy. It was, however, here that water was drawn up by a bucket, which hung over the part where the pool was shallow, and showed the golden sand at the bottom bright and sparkling.
On the evening of the day before Amy Moss fell into the hands of the ruthless gang of Shawnees it is that we introduce this place to the notice of our readers. It was a pleasant evening, and the rich tide of sunset fell with deep glow on the mossy walls of the inn, and illumined the face of a girl who stood beside the bridge, looking down with thoughtful mien upon the plain below. She was about nineteen—a tall, handsome girl, of rather bold and decided mien, as if accustomed to rude life and the companionship of rough men, especially those who frequent inns and grow boisterous, maudlin, or ferocious over the demon drink, which, let a man’s prejudices be what they may, is an awful master to get complete hold of a man.
She had bright, sparkling eyes and white teeth, which she was rather fond of displaying; and she wore a bodice like a Swiss girl, and short woollen petticoats, and red stockings; the whole neat and jaunty and fascinating—a little jewel, in fact, of a Dutch picture. Her character will better appear from our narrative than from any description.
“Father,” said she, suddenly, in a cold voice, as of one who spoke that word from necessity rather than choice, “there is a traveler crossing the dyke.”
“Who on airth is it?” replied a thick voice from within.
“Well, I don’t know; I think it’s Ezram Cook, the peddler-merchant.”
“My!” said the other, coming out and shading his eyes with his hands, to catch the figure of the wayfarer.
His eye fell first on the deep foliage of the forest, which could be seen mellowing away into the far distance, golden and sparkling beneath the setting sun; then it came down to where the trunks and roots of the trees were left in deep shade; and then it settled upon the figure of a man moving along steadily on a horse with a small pack.
“Well, it is Ezram Cook, I do declayre; he’s been up selling and collecting in his money, I expect. Martha! thar’s one with a mighty good craw coming to supper. So you’re a-looking out for him, are you? He won’t come here to-night.”
This was said in a half-sneering, half-anxious tone, as if the speaker hardly knew how the listener might take it. He was short, thick-set, and powerful in make, but every thing in him was ungainly. He wore a dog-skin cap close over his low forehead, which formed a perfect pent-house over little round gray goggle eyes, that were forever moving restlessly about, as if afraid each instant of Indians, or constables, or something terrible—he could hardly, perhaps, say what. He wore a thick beard over chin, face and upper lip, so that little could be detected of expression, save where his thin lips, closed over his projecting teeth, gave a savage and brutal expression which never failed to strike all beholders. He wore a great loose blanket coat, corduroy trowsers, and huge, heavy boots made for contending with mud and swamp; and his name was Ralph Regin. He had once been hostler at Scowl Hall, years before, but, detected in a theft, had left it, and never been seen again, until one memorable occasion, hereafter to be described, when the negroes said they saw him lurking about the premises.
A terrible murder had been perpetrated about the time of his disappearance. An inoffensive Dutch settler, with a very pretty wife and child, and possessing, it was well known, considerable wealth, had been murdered near his home down by Wheeling, and his log-house fired, and his wealth, family and furniture destroyed with it. The fire was so tremendous in its effect, that when there came neighbors from the nearest station, it was reduced to a pile of ashes, and was ever after left a memento of a terrible and mysterious tragedy.
“I know better than you,” said the girl, after a pause, “that he will not come to-night. His beauty will not be here.”
“I reckon not; it ain’t likely; the boys ain’t up yar yet, and I don’t conclude one or tu will like to go down to Crow’s Nest. Harrod ain’t no chicken, I know. He’ll fit.”
“Of course he will, and I hope he’ll kill the wretches. What does he want with this work? She is to be his wife—”
“Wake snakes and walk chalks, my pretty Kate,” said the ugly innkeeper; “not so sure—”
“What mean you?” exclaimed the girl called Kate, clutching his arm.
“Well, don’t be so raspish. It seems she don’t convene to him just as much as she used; she’s kicked once or twice; she don’t like to break off, and jist right away, but she’s riled him a few. Howsomdever, he knows she don’t like him.”
“Why, then, will he persecute her? Why will he not give her up? He must be meaner and baser than an Indian.”
“You women is so mighty quick. She’s rich, and my! ain’t she bootiful—sich eyes, and sich a skin; she’s about the smartest gal in these parts.”
“Ralph Regin,” said the girl, advancing close to him, “what is the meaning of all this? Why am I tortured thus? Did you not say she never should be his, and that I should be his wife? Speak, I ask you?”
“Don’t hollo! I ain’t deaf; I wish I was. Lor! a catamount’s nothin’ to a ’ooman. Well, I did say so, and the mole-eyed varmint shall, tu. I’ve sot him a riddle. S’pose I say s’pose”—and the fellow laughed—“s’pose some few of Injins war to be afore them spekilators, eh?”
“What mean you? Give her up to the bloodthirsty red-skins?”
“You’re mighty pertiklar, you are. But they ain’t toe kill her—not by no means. She’ll fetch ten thousand dollars, she will, and no mistake; and I go halves.”
“But what is the use of all this? He’ll be angry, and that will not serve me.”
“Kate, now du tell, what on airth makes you like that varmint?” said the other, imploringly.
“Ralph Regin—for I can not and will not call you father—will you ask why the wind shakes yonder trees? Will you tell me why the panther will come to one particular place to clutch his prey, despite all danger? Will you tell me why the bird clings to its mate, and the chicken runs to seek shelter near its mother? I can not—I only know that I love him. He is a bad man—a bold, bad man—but I knew not this at fifteen; and then he said soft words to me, and his eyes looked love, and he smiled, and his voice was gentle, and—and—I loved him. What then that I know he loves another—that he would wed her, and not me? I can not alter it. I hate and love him both. Now love is uppermost; but hate may be one day, and then—”
“What then?” sneered Ralph Regin.
“Never mind; here comes the peddler.”
“Hillo! Leave the old hoss in the stable, Mister Ezram; he’ll never ran up thyat ladder; thar’s no horse-thieves up yar.”
The peddler made no reply, but took his horse into a stable at the foot of the rocky stairs, and after a few minutes returned with his bags, pistols and a somewhat heavy portmanteau, which Ralph assisted him to carry up the steps.
“Evenin’, stranger,” said Ralph, pretending not to know the peddler, who had never been up there before; “jist time for supper; come doon country?”
“Well,” replied the other, a down-east Yankee, “I are; I’ve been doin’ a considerable slick trade; got in the browns mighty well. Sold yup considerable figure uv watches and chains; glad to yar supper is ready, ’cause I’m famished and tired.”
They had now reached the top of the steps. Kate was looking hard at Ralph Regin, in whose eyes even in that twilight, she thought she detected a strange expression.
“Give me your bags and let me show you a room,” said she, abruptly.
The stranger started as he gazed on one so fair and neat, and his countenance assumed an expression of satisfaction as he followed her. They passed through a room used as kitchen, dining-room and tap-room, went up seven steps to the door of a room which Kate threw open, and in this the traveler deposited his goods. When he had done so, the girl, who was bustling about in rather an angry way, as if this kind of work disgusted her, pulled the key out of the door and gave it to him.
“There are many travelers here sometimes, so keep the key of your room.”
The peddler started, but the face of Kate was so calm and careless that he took the key, made no remark, and went down-stairs.
The room was large and airy. A large fireplace, which admitted of benches within its ample dimensions, was occupied by a huge iron pot and a turkey roasting. A woman of about forty, somewhat stout, handsome still but for a wild and savage expression, was preparing the evening meal. A dresser covered by abundance of crockery, a bar filled with colored bottles, a huge table, several chairs and stools, guns, hams, sides of bacon hanging round the walls, with two windows and many doors, completed the scene.
“I guess that smells fine,” said the peddler, rubbing his hands.
“What kind o’ livin’ have you had lately, then?” asked Ralph.
“Nothin’ solid or pleasant—birds and dry jerked beef.”
“Poorish! Well, it’s better farin’ yar, so turn to; we’re all at home.”
All sat down—the woman, who had black hair and eyes, and tawdry finery, and a coral necklace, and a watch, and a dirty lace cap, at the head, Ralph Regin at the end of the table, Kate and the peddler opposite the fire. The supper was plentiful and well cooked. There was liquor in plenty, and the peddler, who was very weary, ate his meal in silence, swallowed a horn of corn-juice, lit his old pipe, and stretched himself on a bench by the fire. Kate helped to clear away, and then sat down also, and took up a book—a strange thing up there, and yet there were many in that house, for Mrs. Regin had been almost a lady once, and had, despite crime and guilt, educated her child up to a certain time. Kate now wanted no assistance, and one who wished to obtain her smile, often brought her such books as he thought would suit her taste.
Presently the peddler-merchant rose, yawned, said he must start “airly,” and taking a light, wished all good-night, and went to bed. Kate, who had never turned over a single leaf of her book, and who had been watching every motion and look of the man who called himself her father, also lit a candle and went to bed. Her room was beside that of the peddler, but on a level with the kitchen.
“Now, Martha,” said Ralph Regin, in a low, hushed voice, hissed forth from between his teeth, “that peddler’s box is full of dollars and watches. He must sleep in the pool.”
“No more murter,” replied the woman, sinking into a chair, and hiding him from her with her hands.
“Hush! the girl may be listening!”
And Ralph rose, crawled across the room, but stopped as he heard Kate singing merrily at her window.