Among the last to leave Forty Fort after its surrender was Barnabas Otter. In the dusk of the evening he slipped through the gate with others, and made his way, unobserved, to a large rock several hundred yards back from the river. He was joined almost immediately by Nathan, and presently Reuben Atwood and Collum McNicol arrived at the same spot. The two latter knew all about Captain Stanbury's papers, and were to assist in getting them. The little party had previously arranged to meet here secretly for this purpose, and they hoped to complete their task and push some miles down the Susquehanna that same night.
"All here, are ye?" said Collum McNicol, who was the last to arrive. "Let's make haste and have done with the business. My heart is sore after what I've seen yonder this afternoon—"
"Peace, man," interrupted Barnabas. "The less said the better. We're all sore at heart, I'm thinking—aye, an' something more. I feel myself like a panther stripped of her cubs. Don't put fire to our passions, or we'll be tempted to some desperate deed."
"It ain't likely, with not a fire-arm among us," said Atwood. "There's no chance of a shot at Tory or redskin. We must bide our time for vengeance till we're back with the army."
"Aye, we'll have a reckoning then," replied Barnabas. "Every Redcoat will stand for Wyoming—Hist! who comes?"
Soft footsteps were heard, and a settler named Morgan Proud glided up to the rock. "Four of ye?" he said, peering at the group. "I won't be intrudin', men, but I followed hither for a purpose. Do you want arms?"
"Do we?" exclaimed Barnabas. "An' kin you pervide them, man?"
"That I can," said Proud. "When we come up to the fort from Wilkesbarre yesterday—ten of us—we brought nearly two muskets apiece along. But we hid the guns and ammunition down by the river, half expectin' the fort would be surrendered and all arms given up. And we acted wisely—"
"Lead the way, man," broke in Barnabas. "This deed'll win you a golden crown some day. But are you sure the stuff is there yet?"
"They're well hid," replied Proud, "and I told our men, who just started, to take a musket apiece and leave the rest. Will your party join us, Barnabas? We're going down river in flat-boats from Wilkesbarre."
"We have an errand over yonder first," said Barnabas, jerking his thumb northward. "We might ketch up with you, but don't wait on us."
"No, we'll take no risk," Proud answered, "seein' as we'll have women and children dependin' on us. But you're welcome to the arms all the same."
Without further speech he led the party obliquely toward the river, and they came speedily to a windfall under the bluff. Proud's friends had been here and gone, but the extra muskets were safe in their hiding place. The man handed out the requisite number, adding a generous supply of powder and ball.
"I'll wait here a bit," he said. "There'll be others coming by, and I have three guns left."
Barnabas and his companions wished him farewell and good luck, and then mounted the bank and struck into the woods. Now that they were armed they felt like new men, and a great weight was lifted from their minds. In single file they made a detour to the rear of the fort, and pressed rapidly northeast through the woods for a mile and a half, speaking not a word on the way. Every heart beat faster as the northern edge of the battle-field was skirted, and now a sharp turn was made to the left. Ten minutes later, as the moon peeped above the horizon, the party reached a little cabin in a clearing. The tears came into Nathan's eyes as he saw the home where his happy boyhood had been spent—the spot sacred to the memory of his lost father. Here was the spring, and there the out-shed where the winter's supply of logs was always stored. The path leading to the step could still be traced between the weeds and grass.
"Cheer up, lad," said Barnabas, divining his thoughts. "It'll all come right in the future. And now we'll be making that search."
They entered the cabin, the door of which was wide open. It had escaped the torch of the Indians, and the interior was much as it had been left on the day when Captain Stanbury started for the war. The end window was closed, but the shutter was off the one in front. The ladder still led to the sleeping-loft overhead, and in the room down-stairs were a table and a broken chair. A few earthen dishes stood on the shelf, and a layer of ashes covered the fireplace.
"It's a bit out of the way," remarked Barnabas, looking around, "an' that's why no one has lived here since. Where shall we begin, lad? Which, to your mind, is the most likely spot? The captain said the papers were under the floor."
"I never knew the boards to be loose," Nathan answered, in a husky voice. "Suppose we try the fireplace."
"A good idea," approved Barnabas. By the light of the moon he scraped the ashes off the big slab of stone that was set in the floor of the chimney, and he was about to pry the stone itself loose when something seemed to occur to him. He straightened up, and glanced toward the door.
"What is the matter?" asked Nathan.
"I'm thinking of Simon Glass," Barnabas answered.
"Why, I forgot all about him," exclaimed Nathan. "He and what was left of his party must have turned back. I didn't see them at the fort."
"But I did, lad," declared Barnabas. "Glass marched in with the Rangers, and that young Godfrey was close behind him."
"Yes, I seen 'em both," corroborated Atwood.
"I was watching the Indians all the time, and Colonel Butler," said Nathan. "So Glass has arrived then? But you don't think he'll give us any more trouble?"
Barnabas only shook his head.
"McNicol," he said, "stand yonder by the door, an' keep your ears to the wood. Watchin' won't come amiss."
The man went to his post, and Barnabas stooped down and lifted the slab. He dropped to his knees, dug rapidly into the dirt with a knife, and lifted out a flat tin box, much rusted. He forced the lid open and handed Nathan a packet of papers sealed with green wax.
The lad pressed it reverently to his lips. "I won't look at them," he declared. "The seal shall remain unbroken until I find my father, or until I am satisfied that he is dead."
"It would be wise to learn the contents, lad," said Barnabas.
Nathan shook his head. "My father's secret is sacred to me," he replied. "If he is alive, he would wish me to guard it, I know. But the papers must not be lost. Will you keep them for me?"
Barnabas readily—even eagerly—assented. The packet was not large, and he thrust it deep down into one of his wide-topped boots. "It's just damp enough not to crackle," he said, as he dropped the slab back into place, and cunningly strewed the ashes over it again—a wiser bit of forethought than he knew.
"Now," he added. "We'll be off—"
"Hist, men!" McNicol interrupted, in a whisper. "Come hither, quick!"
The three joined the Scotchman at the door, but they did not need to ask what he meant. The forest was alive with whispering voices—with the passage of feet over dry twigs and rustling grass. A light danced among the thick foliage.
It was too late for retreat, and, as the little band crouched behind the shadowy doorway, they beheld a startling sight.
By twos and threes a group of Tories and Indians glided into the glade, close to the spring. The two foremost held a shrinking man between them, and as they came nearer, one said aloud, in a familiar voice that made Nathan shudder: "Is this the place, you rebel dog?"
"It's Captain Stanbury's cabin," muttered the prisoner, who had evidently been made to serve as an unwilling guide.
"You know what you'll get if you're lying," Simon Glass—for it was he—replied with an oath. "Come, men," he added.
"God help us!" whispered Barnabas. "There's no escape unless we kin keep hid. But they're comin' to the cabin, an' Colonel Butler's promise won't count with such fiends. They'll kill every man of us in cold blood."
Low as the words were spoken, they reached the ears of the enemy, and a creaking noise made by McCollum's heavy boots completed the betrayal. "There are rebels here!" roared Simon Glass. "Don't let a blasted one escape! Surround the cabin!"
"It's all up," cried Barnabas. "Give 'em a volley, an' remember the massacre. Now—fire!"
Four muskets flashed and roared, and, as the echo fled down the valley, the night rang with yells of rage and agony.
There was no time to look for the result of the volley through the drifting smoke. Barnabas instantly slammed the door shut, and dragged the heavy table against it. "Down, all of you," he shouted. "Stick to the floor. Nathan, you guard the rear wall, an' watch through the cracks of the logs. McNicol, you an' Atwood take the two ends. I'll tend to the open winder here in front."
The three crawled to their posts of duty, and for a time the silence outside was broken only by an occasional moan of pain. The wary enemy had taken to cover at once, until they could learn the strength of their assailants.
"Did you kill Glass?" McNicol whispered across the room.
"He ain't in sight," replied Barnabas. "He moved his head just as I fired. The Tory with him is lyin' dead here on the grass, an' the prisoner is beside him—he's better off, for he'd a been tomahawked anyway. An' there's a wounded Indian dragging hisself past the spring. I won't waste powder on the wretch."
"Glass must have learned where we were bound, and followed us here for revenge," said Nathan.
"It's either that or a deeper motive," Barnabas answered, and even as he spoke a hot fire was opened on the cabin from three sides. The fusillade lasted for several minutes, the bullets tearing through the crevices or burying themselves in the thick logs, but by crouching flat all escaped harm.
As the fire slackened the enemy boldly showed themselves here and there in the moonlight, but they learned a lesson in prudence when McNicol shot two of their number from a loophole, and Atwood picked off a third. Barnabas kept blazing away at the gleam of a torch some distance off in the wood, where a part of the enemy was probably assembled. As nearly as could be judged, the besieging force numbered nearly a score.
"It's a bad lookout," said Atwood, "we can't count on help from any of the settlers."
"More likely the shooting will bring the whole party from the fort," replied Barnabas. "We might make a dash by the rear if there was a winder. The enemy ain't showed up on that side yet."
"They're here now," whispered Nathan. "I see the bushes moving—" Bang! the lad's musket cracked, and with a screech an Indian fell dead. Two more who had been reconnoitering the rear of the cabin bounded into the woods.
"That's the way to do it," said Barnabas. "Load quickly, men, an' don't all let your muskets get empty at once."
An interval of silence followed, lasting perhaps ten minutes, and then a harsh voice from the forest called for a truce.
"Only one kin come near," shouted Barnabas. "What do you want, Glass, if that's you?"
"I'm willing to make fair terms," replied the Tory, who was careful to keep hidden. "Come out and give up your arms, and not one of you shall be hurt."
"We'd sooner surrender to a rattlesnake than to you, Simon," Barnabas answered. "We're goin' to hold the cabin, an' that's our last word."
Glass accepted the ultimatum with a torrent of profanity and threats, and a moment later the firing recommenced. For some minutes the bullets rained against the logs, while the besieged, flattened on the floor, kept watch at loopholes and crevices for any of the enemy who might expose themselves. The plucky little band well realized that their fight was desperate and well-nigh hopeless, but not a word or sign of fear betrayed what they felt.
Presently the firing ceased, and now there were indications that the foe intended to make a combined rush. So certain of this was Barnabas that he summoned Nathan and his companions to the front wall. But for at least once in his life the old woodsman was outmatched. The Indians and Tories advanced only to the edge of the clearing, whence they let drive a straggling volley, and while this diversion was going on, three torches were thrown from the rear upon the roof of the cabin.
A strong breeze happened to be blowing, and with amazing rapidity the flames took hold and spread. The roof was soon burned through in patches, and now the loft floor caught fire. Clouds of suffocating smoke rolled to the lower room, and a shower of sparks and blazing embers made the situation unbearable.
"It's all up with us here," cried Barnabas, "an' there's nothin' left to do but die fightin'. Come, men, let's open the door, give the devils a volley, an' make a rush. Each one for hisself arter that, an' mebbe one or two of us kin reach the woods."
Without waiting for an answer, Barnabas jerked the table away and swung the door partly open. The enemy were on the watch and immediately opened a hot fire. Two bullets struck Reuben Atwood, and he fell dead across the threshold. The others dodged back into the heat and smoke, and just at the critical moment the firing ceased in response to a loud command.
"It's the Tory colonel hisself," exclaimed Barnabas, as he peeped through a crevice. "He's just arrived, an' there's lots of Royal Greens along with him."
"Colonel Butler," he added loudly, "we'll surrender, providin' you spare our lives."
"Come out first, and then we'll talk," the officer shouted back after a brief pause.
There was hope in the words, and Barnabas and his companions lost no time in scrambling to their feet. Half-choked, and sweating from every pore, they stepped over Atwood's dead body and staggered across the clearing. At sight of the three figures there was a loud murmur of astonishment.
"Where's the rest?" demanded Simon Glass, as he roughly stripped the prisoners of their muskets.
"We're all here but one," Barnabas answered, pointing to the doorway, "an' he's dead."
"I'll send you to join him," snarled Glass, and with that he presented a gun to the old man's head. But before he could fire, Colonel Butler knocked the weapon aside.
"You ruffian!" he exclaimed. "Would you shoot a prisoner in cold blood?"
"He deserves it," remonstrated Glass, in an injured tone. "Why, this is the leader of the rebel band that attacked my party a couple of days ago, killed four of us, and stole our horses."
"I have nothing to do with that affair," snapped Colonel Butler. "When I want you to play executioner I'll tell you. Don't interfere again!"
With a scowl Glass slunk away, and for a few moments the officer scrutinized his three captives in silence. The upper part of the cabin was now wrapped in flames, and the red glare made the scene as light as day. Tories and Indians stood grouped in a half-circle, the former with cold, pitiless faces, while the latter looked ferociously at the prisoners under their painted cheeks as they gripped their blood-stained tomahawks and edged nearer with fiendish anticipation. Godfrey, who had been with the attacking party, was standing to the rear, and his face alone expressed pity. He blushed as Nathan discovered him and gave him a quick glance of contempt and defiance.
"You can't expect mercy," Colonel Butler finally said. "Within a few hours after the surrender you are found here with arms in your possession—a direct violation of my terms. And you took the offensive, firing deliberately on a part of my force."
"That's right, Colonel," chimed in Glass. "They shot first. We've six dead here."
"We were compelled to fire, sir," said Barnabas. "We had no way to retreat, an' that ruffian yonder told his men not to let one of us escape."
"Exactly," assented Glass. "But my object was to take you prisoners. I saw you and your men recover the arms you had hidden in the woods, and I was justified in following to discover your purpose."
At this Godfrey started to come forward, but changed his mind and stopped. His face was pale and haggard.
"Man, you lie," cried McNicol, turning to the one-eyed Tory. "You never saw us get the guns, and you didn't even know we were here till you reached the cabin. And had we surrendered at the first, every one of us would have been massacred in cold blood. I know you well, you dirty traitor."
"Colonel, don't believe that rebel," retorted Glass, with a glance of fury at McNicol. "The affair happened just as I said."
"Hang the affair!" testily exclaimed the officer. He moved aside for a moment to converse in a whisper with Captain Caldwell, of the Royal Greens, and then turned to the prisoners. "My duty is very simple," he said. "There is but one question at stake. You were found bearing arms in violation of my terms. You have brought your fate on yourselves, and now—"
"Sir, would our lives have been safe anywhere in this valley without fire-arms?" interrupted Barnabas.
Colonel Butler bit his lip with rage. "You rebel dog," he cried, "do you dare to assert that I can't enforce my own commands? But enough. Captain Caldwell, a platoon of your men, please. Stand the prisoners out and shoot them."
Nathan turned pale. Barnabas and McNicol heard the sentence without moving a muscle. A file of the Royal Greens stepped forward, bringing their musket butts to earth with a dull clatter. But just as several Tories laid hold of the victims to place them in position, an unexpected interference came from Godfrey Spencer.
"Colonel Butler," he exclaimed, "let me speak to you before this goes any further."
"Stop, you fool," muttered Glass, trying to push the lad back.
"Let me go," Godfrey whispered fiercely. "If you don't, I'll tell all."
"What do you want to say?" asked Colonel Butler. "Oh, it's you, Lieutenant Spencer!"
"Sir, I beg you to spare these men," pleaded Godfrey. "With justice to yourself, you can waive the question of their bearing arms, since their object in coming to the cabin to-night was in no wise contrary to the terms of the surrender. We came for the same purpose, and the meeting was accidental. Simon Glass has lied deliberately, and I can vouch for it that he would have shot the prisoners at once, had they given themselves up."
Glass ground his teeth with rage, and had looks been able to kill, the lad must have fallen dead.
"I can't understand this hurried march of your little detachment from the Jersies to Wyoming," replied Colonel Butler. "You told me you were sent by Major Langdon, and now I infer that this cabin was connected with your mission; also, that the prisoners marched from the Jersies with the same purpose in view. I would like a further explanation."
"That I can't give, sir," Godfrey answered firmly.
"Perhaps you can?" and the Colonel turned to Barnabas.
The old man shook his head. "It's a private matter, sir," he replied, "an' my lips are sealed. But what this young lieutenant says is all true."
Colonel Butler looked puzzled and vexed. "Whom did Major Langdon put in command of the party?" he sharply inquired of Godfrey.
"Simon Glass, sir."
"And why were you—an officer of rank—sent along as a subordinate?"
"I don't know, sir. I don't even know fully the object of the expedition."
"Glass, you can explain this mystery," exclaimed the Colonel, losing patience.
"Sir, would you have me betray my trust?" demanded Glass, with well-feigned indignation. "You saw my papers yesterday. You know that they are signed by Major Langdon, and that I am acting under his orders."
"And under mine as well, sir," replied the Colonel, with a frown. "There can be no independent commands while I have control here. Come, we'll drop the question of Major Langdon's authority. I want you to do some work for me to-morrow. You are just the man for it, and you can have the force you led out of the fort when my back was turned."
"I am at your service, sir," Glass replied in a mollified tone.
The Colonel nodded. "You may as well camp here for the balance of the night, and start early in the morning. Scour the whole upper part of the valley, and burn every cabin and house to its foundations."
A wicked smile showed how well pleased the ruffian was with his orders. "How about the prisoners, sir?" he asked carelessly.
"The sentence stands," Colonel Butler replied grimly. "I will give them a few hours to prepare for death. Hang or shoot them at daybreak."
"I can't entertain your appeal," he added, to Godfrey. "Your arguments do not mitigate the fact that these rebels were found in arms. I must do my duty."
In spite of Glass's angry and threatening looks Godfrey made a second attempt to save the prisoners, but Colonel Butler cut him short in a manner that forbade further appeal. The officer was in an ugly mood, for his natural curiosity to solve the mystery connected with the cabin had been baffled. But matters of more importance demanded his immediate presence at the fort, and without delay he marched off at the head of the Royal Greens.
Glass's first act after the departure of Colonel Butler was to search Nathan thoroughly from head to foot, and the lad submitted with an air of surprise that was more feigned than real; by this time he had an inkling of what it all meant.
The ruffian could hardly conceal his disappointment when he failed to find what he wanted. He proceeded to search McNicol and Barnabas—luckily omitting the latter's boots—and then he reviled the prisoners with the most bitter taunts and insults his brutal mind could invent.
Nathan lost his temper and answered back, thereby receiving a cruel blow in the face; but Barnabas and McNicol stoically endured the shower of abuse. None of the three showed any sign of fear, though they knew they were to die in the morning, and their courage might well have won admiration and pity from a more chivalrous foe. But Simon Glass's half-dozen Tory comrades—who numbered among them the survivors of the squadron of dragoons—were as brutal and degraded as himself. The rest of the force were Indians, and mercy or pity could have been better expected from a pack of panthers than from these blood-thirsty Senecas.
The ruffian finally wearied of his pastime and walked toward the cabin, which was now nearly consumed. After watching the dying blaze for a moment he returned.
"How soon will those ruins be cool?" he asked of one of his companions.
"I should judge in about two or three hours," the man replied.
Glass looked pleased. "We'd better be turning in," he continued, "for we must take an early start in the morning. We'll hang the rebels before we go. Bring them over yonder now."
He led the way to a thicket of low bushes that stood on the near bank of the spring. In the centre of the thicket were three saplings, and to these the prisoners were secured in a sitting position, with their arms fastened behind them and their backs turned to one another. Having seen that the work was done thoroughly, Glass departed.
"You'd better be praying, you rebels," he said, in a sneering tone, "for your necks will stretch at the first light of dawn."
The night was very warm and the Tories and Indians stretched themselves in groups amid the thick grass that carpeted the clearing. A sentry was posted on guard at the thicket, and as he paced to and fro with loaded musket the upper part of his body was visible to the captives. They could see no others of the party for the bushes, but the silence indicated that all were asleep. Godfrey had kept in the background after Colonel Butler's departure, either for the purpose of shunning Glass or to avoid those he had vainly tried to befriend.
There was no hope of escape, and for a while the wretched little group talked in whispers, each nobly endeavoring to cheer and comfort the others. None had rested much on the previous night, and finally Barnabas and McNicol fell asleep.
Nathan was now alone with his thoughts, and in the face of death his fortitude almost deserted him, and his mind yielded to bitter anguish. He lived the past over again—his boyhood days here in the valley, his years at college in Philadelphia, and then the string of terrible events that had begun with the loss of his father on Monmouth battle-field. But amid the conflicting thoughts that distressed him the memory of Godfrey's strange words was uppermost.
"What can it mean?" the lad asked himself. "Is it possible that Major Langdon sent Simon Glass here to find and steal these papers? He heard my father tell me where they were, but why would he want to get them? It is a deep mystery—one too incredible to be true!"
Vainly the lad puzzled himself, and at last he fell into a restless sleep. A couple of hours later he awoke with a start, realizing at once where he was, and dreading to find that dawn had come. The moon was far down and under a bank of clouds, and the cabin had long ago burnt itself out to the last spark. But, from the direction of the ruins, floated a dull noise and the sound of low voices.
"Barnabas, are you awake?" Nathan whispered.
"Yes, lad," muttered the old man, and as he spoke McNicol opened his eyes and twisted his cramped body.
Before more could be said the bushes rustled, and a dusky figure shouldering a musket crept softly into the thicket. Godfrey—for it was, indeed, he—put a finger to his lips. "Hush!" he whispered. "I've come to save you. All are sleeping, except Glass and four of the Indians. They're poking about in the ashes of the cabin, and we must get away before they return. I am going with you, for my life is equally in danger."
He stooped down with a knife in one hand, and quickly severed the cords that held the prisoners. "Now come," he added. "Look where you step, and don't even breathe loudly."
Nathan and his friends rose, trembling with joy, and almost doubting the reality of their good fortune. But they knew by what extreme caution safety must be won, and as noiselessly as shadows they trailed their sore and stiffened bodies behind Godfrey to the farther edge of the thicket.
The young officer had thought out his plans beforehand, and with a warning gesture he stepped into the spring at the point where it became a narrow rivulet, and brawled its course swiftly across the lower corner of the clearing. The others followed, and the murmur of the waters drowned what slight noise was unavoidable.
Now came the critical moment. With anxious hearts the fugitives waded slowly down the stream, crouching low beneath the fringe of tall grass that concealed, on both sides, the sleeping forms of Tories and Indians. On and on they went amid unbroken silence, and at last the dense foliage of the wood closed over them like an arch. They had safely passed the limits of the camp. They waded twenty yards further, and then stepped on land.
Godfrey handed his musket to Barnabas. "You know the country," he whispered. "Lead as you think best."
"We'll make a wide detour back of the fort," Barnabas replied, "an' then come around to the river at the lower end of the valley."
On a brisk trot they started toward the northwest, and as they hurried along the forest trails that the old woodsman chose, Godfrey briefly told what all were anxious to know.
"I got awake a bit ago," he said, "and heard Glass instructing four of the worst Indians to tomahawk you people just before daylight. They were to kill me at the same time, and pretend it was done by mistake. That was to be Glass's revenge for what I said to-night. I remained perfectly still, pretending to be asleep, and when Glass and the Indians went over to the cabin, I decided all at once what to do. I told the sentry I had been ordered to relieve him, and he handed over his musket without a word. He was asleep in two minutes, and my way was clear."
Barnabas and McNicol warmly thanked the lad, and Nathan impulsively clasped his hand.
"I hope we are friends again, Godfrey," he said. "I will never forget what you did to-night."
"I will do more, if I ever get the chance," Godfrey answered. "But I can't explain now—wait until we are certain of freedom."
By this time the fugitives were a mile from the enemy's camp, and before they had gone twenty yards further a faint outcry behind them told them that their escape was discovered. All now depended on speed, for it was certain that the Indians, by the aid of torches, would follow the trail with the unerring keenness of blood-hounds.
Barnabas led the little party at a steady pace, taking them several miles to the rear of the fort before he turned parallel with the river. Now they headed for the lower end of the valley, and for nearly three hours, while they traversed the lonely and gloomy forest, they heard no sound but the chirp of night-birds and the distant cries of prowling wild animals.
"I can't keep this up much longer," panted Nathan. "The Indians may be close behind, but for my part I believe they've lost the trail."
"Mebbe so, lad," replied Barnabas, "though the quietness ain't an indication of it. We're all badly winded, but the river ain't far off now. Onct we git across, or find a boat—"
The rest of the sentence was drowned by one blood-curdling whoop that rang with awful shrillness through the silent wood. Another and another followed, and the glimmer of a torch was seen coming over a knoll at a furlong's space behind the fugitives.
"The Senecas are hot on the trail!" cried Barnabas, "an' their keen ears have heard us. On for the river! It's our last chance!"
Barnabas was right in guessing the river to be near, and the fugitives could not have approached it at a better time or place, though they had little idea of the good fortune in store for them. If they thought about the chances at all, as they ran desperately before the screeching Indians, it was to realize what little likelihood there was of finding a boat, or of safely gaining the farther bank by swimming.
But when they had plunged through a slope of water-birches, and straggled breathlessly down to the pebbly shore of the Susquehanna, a welcome sight at once met their eyes. Almost directly opposite, and twenty yards out in the stream, a big flat-boat was drifting leisurely with the current.
Over the high gunwales rose two or three heads, and a voice demanded sharply: "Who's yonder?"
"Friends!" cried Barnabas. "Fugitives from the enemy! The redskins are hot upon us. Cover the bank with your guns while we come aboard."
Splash! went Barnabas into the water, and his companions after him. With sturdy strokes they swam diagonally down-stream, caught the stern of the flat, and hauled themselves on board. As they dropped low on the bottom, yells and musket-shots split the air, and bullets rained like hail against the thick timbers.
From the shelter of the elevated bulwark the occupants of the flat returned a cool and effective fire, and when Nathan ventured to peep through a loop-hole he saw two Indians prostrate on the beach and a third struggling in agony in shallow water.
During the lull that followed the first volley from both sides, the boat drifted over a course of rapids, and the swifter current swung it well toward mid-stream. With a few parting shots the baffled foes disappeared, and a peaceful calm fell on river and wood.
The escaped prisoners were surprised to find Morgan Proud and Abel Cutbush on board the flat. The latter's wife and child were with him, and another member of the party was a negro named Cato. Mrs. Cutbush was a hardy type of the colonial women of the time, and her six-year-old daughter, Molly, had not even whimpered during the brief fight.
"It's a good thing we happened to be here," said Proud, when he had gleaned their thrilling story from the fugitives, "and it's all owin' to chance, too. I waited a bit after you left, and as no one came along I pushed down to Wilkesbarre. The people had all fled except Cato here, and Cutbush and his family, and they were tryin' to tinker up this old flat—the only boat left. I helped 'em to stop the leaks and rig bulwarks on both sides, and about an hour ago we got started. There's a couple of other parties ahead of us, but we aren't likely to ketch up with 'em. This old craft is heavy, and it draws a heap of water. I'm thinking we'll stick now and then."
"We'll pull through all right," cheerfully replied Barnabas. "Now that them redskins have turned back the danger is about over, for the enemy will have enough plunderin' and burnin' to do right here in the valley to keep 'em busy. How are you off for weapons? We brought just one with us."
"We have two extra muskets," said Cutbush, "and as Cato ain't much on shootin', his'll make up the number your party will want in case of a possible attack. There's food aboard, and as for ammunition—" He pointed to a keg of powder and a quantity of bullets in one corner of the flat.
By this time the boat had drifted between the abrupt mountains that closed the lower end of the Wyoming Valley, and there was a certainty of good current and depth for some miles ahead. All through the night the men of the party took turns at sleeping and at guiding the flat by means of long poles and a rudder. No hostile shot or yell broke the quiet, and at last the morning sun kissed the blue water into ripples and stained the hoary mountain peaks with gold. Danger was behind, and hope and safety in front.
While Mrs. Cutbush prepared the frugal breakfast, aided by Molly and Cato, Barnabas and Nathan found time to sit in the bow of the flat, where they were presently joined by Godfrey. The lad looked haggard and worried.
"I'm ruined," he said, as he sat down beside his companions. "I feel that I've nothing left to live for. Not that I regret what I did last night. Don't think it. But I shall be branded as a deserter—and worse. I can never go back to Major Langdon, and if I am caught I will be shot or hanged as a traitor. I wish I had never been sent on this wretched business."
"Your mission was not legitimate war," replied Nathan. "Explanations will surely right you. But why worry about the matter at all? You are safe, and can share our fortunes. And after the fiendish acts you saw done at Wyoming by a British force—"
"Stop!" Godfrey said, sadly. "I am still true to my cause, Nathan—as much as you are to yours. Let us not discuss that matter. We can at least be friends while we are together."
"How could we be otherwise, after your noble deed?" replied Nathan.
"Then you have no ill-feeling?" asked Godfrey. "I was afraid you blamed me for that night in Philadelphia. It was Major Langdon who found the note, and he made me go along. I have always wished I could explain."
"Well, it's all right now," said Nathan. "And it was all right then," he added to himself, remembering his reckless flight through the town.
"There is something else I want to speak about," continued Godfrey. "Have you got those—those papers safe?"
"Yes, I have them," Nathan exclaimed, eagerly. "Can you explain the mystery about them?"
Godfrey shook his head. "It is a mystery," he replied, "and a deep one. I only know this. The day after the battle of Monmouth, while our army was at Middletown, Major Langdon sent Simon Glass and a squad of dragoons to Wyoming to get those papers. I don't know why I was sent along, and I never knew until last night that the papers were the property of your father. And Glass—who is the worst ruffian I ever knew—has tried his best to get all of your party killed ever since he learned you were bound for the same place. That's why he was so savage with me last night, when I appealed to Colonel Butler to spare your lives."
"I've had an idea of what was going on for some time past," said Barnabas. "I seen a mighty ugly look in Major Langdon's eyes when he stood over Captain Stanbury on the battle-field. That's when he overheard about the papers, but what in the name of creation did he want with them? Could your father have known him before, lad—over in England?"
"I don't know," replied Nathan. "I never heard him speak of Major Langdon. In fact, I don't know anything about my father's past. But I believe the secret to this mystery lies over the sea, and I'll tell you why."
He went on to relate the visit of Mr. Noah Waxpenny to the Indian Queen, and how he had asked information concerning both Richard Stanbury and Major Langdon. This was new to Godfrey and Barnabas, and all three discussed the matter earnestly, but without coming any nearer a solution.
"We've got to have patience, an' wait," said Barnabas. "That's the only thing to do. The papers are safe, anyway, an' this fellow from London may clear up the mystery if we run across him. Or your father may turn up, lad—"
"Perhaps Godfrey knows something about him," exclaimed Nathan. "Did the British carry off any prisoners after the battle of Monmouth?"
"Not that I know of," replied Godfrey. "I saw or heard of none; but then I was in front during the retreat."
"My father is alive," declared Nathan. "I am sure of it."
"I hope so," said Godfrey. "Speaking about those papers," he added, "I feel a good bit worried. If Glass gets it into his head that you have them—as he probably will, when he has dug over the ruins of the cabin—he is sure to follow you up."
"It's hardly likely," replied Barnabas. "An' then he can't ketch us anyway, pervidin' the currents and depth of water hold good. No, lad, I think we're done with Simon Glass, as far as this expedition is concerned. There, Mrs. Cutbush has got breakfast ready. She's calling us."
Barnabas and the two lads found no further opportunity that day to discuss the mystery of Major Langdon and the papers. It was a day of hard and unremitting toil. There had been a long spell of dry weather, and, as the river gradually widened, its channel became more and more obstructed by grass-bars, shallows, and outcropping ledges. Doubtless the preceding boats had found a ready passage, but the abandoned flat that Proud and Cutbush had tinkered up under the spur of necessity was broad, heavy, and leaky. Cato was constantly kept busy bailing water, and rudder and poles were of little aid to navigation. Every few minutes all of the party except Mrs. Cutbush and Molly were compelled to get out, and by their united strength drag the craft over the shallows.
By ten o'clock that night less than twelve miles had been covered, and the exhausted men could proceed no further. They encamped on a patch of sand and scrub in mid-channel, and took turns at guard mounting until morning. Mrs. Cutbush and her daughter slept in the flat, on a comfortable bed of dried grass, that was protected from the damp planks by an underlayer of pine boughs.
"We're about thirty miles below Wilkesbarre, now," said Barnabas, as the journey was resumed after breakfast, "an' it's a good twenty miles yet to the main river, where we'll strike deep water an' the shelter of the lower forts. If I thought the wadin' and haulin' was to last another day I'd suggest we take to footin' it on shore."
"It would be a wise plan," agreed Godfrey. "At the speed we've been making, a force of Tories and Indians could have overhauled us twice over, and they may do it yet. You don't know Simon Glass."
"Don't I?" Barnabas interrupted grimly. "I reckon I do. But honestly, lad, I believe he's given up the chase. It's best to take precautions though, an' that's why I spoke of walkin'."
"It won't be easy for me," declared Proud, shaking his head. "I've got a sprained ankle."
"And my little gal, who ain't no light weight, would have to be carried," added Cutbush.
"I've been down the river twice before," said Nathan, "and I'm pretty sure that the lower part of the North Branch is deeper than up here."
Several others suddenly remembered the same fact, from past experience, and so it was decided to stick to the flat. Godfrey alone favored a land journey, and he could not hide his apprehension at the choice. "If they knew Simon Glass as I do," he said to himself, "they wouldn't lose any time in getting below the forts."
However, after three hours' repetition of the previous day's labors, the channel actually did become deeper and less obstructed. In consequence the current was more sluggish, but the flat drifted steadily on for mile after mile, and there was a fair prospect of reaching the main river that evening.
Early in the afternoon a magnificent buck with large antlers burst out of the woods on the south bank, about a quarter of a mile below, plunged precipitately into the water, and swam for the opposite shore.
"Something scared it," said Nathan.
"A bear or a wolf," replied Barnabas.
"Or a man," Godfrey suggested uneasily.
Barnabas did not answer. He thoughtfully watched the animal until it mounted the bank and disappeared, and after that an extra wrinkle or two remained on his furrowed brow. During the afternoon he scanned both shores intently, and furtively examined the muskets to see that all were loaded.
The sun faded in a haze of gold and purple, and the shroud of night fell on lonely mountain and river. There was no moon, and through the blackness the flat gurgled on its watery way. An hour after dark a misty object loomed out of mid-stream. It was an island, and as the upper point drew near, Cutbush gave the rudder a twist that sent the flat into the channel on the left.
"It's the proper course," he explained, "and the one that we boatmen take. T'other side is full of rocks and shallows."
"But there's a bit of rapids below," said McNicol, "if my ears don't deceive me."
"They're no account," replied Cutbush. "There's a clean passage through toward the shore side."
He swung the boat further to the left, and it glided silently along within fifty yards of the bank, and three times that distance from the island.
"I've got my bearin's exactly now," said Barnabas. "That's what they call Packer's Island acrost from us, an' a mile or so down yonder on the right is the settlement of Northumberland, where the North an' West Branches meet. We'll be on the main river in half an hour."
"I want to stop at all the forts on the way down," said Nathan, "because the soldiers may have had late reports from the army, and can tell me if my father—"
"Look out, sir," Godfrey eagerly interrupted, turning to Cutbush. "We're running straight into a little island. Don't you see it?"
The men were grouped in the stern at the time, and Godfrey's warning cry, coming so suddenly, startled and confused Cutbush. The result was that he sharply twisted the rudder the wrong way, sending the flat farther toward the shore, and in a direction where the depth of the channel was very doubtful.
Cutbush did not discover his mistake until the others called his attention to it. Then he saw what they meant. Close ahead a triangular promontory of rock and timber jutted in a gradual slope some forty yards beyond the normal line of the bank, and thirty feet straight out from its apex lay the island to which Godfrey had reference. The location was an odd one, and it was a decidedly queer-looking island—a long, narrow cluster of bushy pine trees, pointing up and down stream, and thickly fringed at its base with bushes that seemed to grow straight out of the water.
"It's risky to try that passage," said Barnabas, pointing to the thirty-foot channel between island and promontory, whither the flat was now steadily drifting. "We may find shoals there."
"I give the rudder a wrong turn without thinkin'," muttered Cutbush. "But it's not shoals I'm afraid of. If we float down yonder I won't have time to steer for the rift through the falls, and they're only fifty yards below."
As he spoke he tried to rectify his mistake, and the first two sweeps of the rudder veered the nose of the flat away from the bank. The third swung it broadside across stream, and in this position it bore down on the little island, with a slight diagonal trend toward the wider and safer channel on the outer side. But there was hardly time for this movement to take effect, and the danger of striking was so apparent that Cutbush let go of the rudder—which was as good as useless while the flat was turned broadside—and snatched up one of the poles. He drove it in off the stern, leaned after it till he almost stood on his head, and then rose up with both arms wet to the elbow.
"The pole won't touch!" he exclaimed. "There's easy twelve foot of water here."
"Twelve foot of water!" cried Barnabas; "an' that island only ten yards below! It ain't nateral, man!"
"We're going to strike the island," said Nathan. "Try again."
"No, it's all right," interposed Barnabas. "We're movin' slow, an' there ain't any gravel beach as I can see to stick on. The rear end will strike easy, an' then the flat will swing out toward the far channel."
So Cutbush dropped the pole and the boat drifted on broadside with the current, its occupants calmly waiting the moment of collision. As the distance decreased from ten yards to five, Barnabas craned his neck forward, and shaded his eyes to peer over the lower bulwark. "It's queer," he muttered. "I've been here before, an' I don't mind seein' that—"
Just then a startling thing happened. The whole island was seen to lurch visibly to one side, and at the same instant something flashed and glittered amid the fringe of bushes.
"Look!" Godfrey whispered, hoarsely.
"Down for your lives, men!" yelled Barnabas. "It's a trap! Keep low, an' don't let 'em get aboard."
The entire party dropped like a flash, and grabbed their muskets. A terrible instant of silence followed, broken by a howl from Cato and a whimper of fright from Molly, who was lying flat on the bottom in her mother's arms. Then a volley of shots rang out from the fiendishly contrived ambuscade, and more than one ball tore through the thick bulwark.
But happily no one was hurt, and Barnabas, McNicol, and Nathan at once fired through the three loopholes at which they were posted. A yell of agony blended with another fusillade from the unseen foe, and now a quicker current drove the heavy flat broadside against the mysterious little island.
There was a crash of timber meeting timber and a sound of branches smiting the water. Then, with shrill and blood-curdling yells, four painted Indians scrambled over the bulwark and dropped into the boat. At the same instant a little one-eyed man, holding a musket high overhead in one hand, pulled himself aboard at the bow.
It is more than likely that the Senecas and their white allies underestimated the strength of the party in the flat, or else the discovery and demolition of their ambuscade drove them to such desperate measures. At all events, they speedily found they had made a mistake, and in the brief and sharp struggle that followed they got scarcely a show.
Of the four Indians who scrambled over the bulwark three cleared the crouching men and landed beyond them, and the fourth fell heavily on top of Barnabas and McNicol. Before he could use his tomahawk he was pounced upon by the Scotchman, and the two began a lively scuffle.
Mrs. Cutbush carried a loaded pistol at her waist, and while she pushed Molly behind her with one hand, with the other the courageous woman drew the weapon and shot one of the three remaining Indians through the head. The second managed to inflict a severe slash with his tomahawk on Cato's arm, and then Barnabas knocked him senseless with the butt of his musket. The third did not wait to be killed, but with a screech, vaulted over the far side of the boat and disappeared, narrowly escaping a shot that Cutbush sent after him.
At that moment the Seneca who was struggling with McNicol broke away, leaving his tomahawk in the other's hand, and, as he bounded for freedom, Morgan Proud jumped in front of him. They grappled, and fell heavily against the bulwark. The wall of timbers gave way under the strain and both splashed into the river.
There was a quick rush to that side to help Proud, but he and the Indian had disappeared utterly.
As the missing man's friends anxiously scanned the water, a Tory belonging to the attacking party scrambled up in the stern of the boat. McNicol instantly saw him and fired, and the man dropped back with a cry.
Meanwhile, during the entire struggle, Simon Glass had been crouching unseen amid the deep shadows at the bow of the flat, from which place of vantage he had more than one opportunity for a certain shot at his enemies. Now, just as McNicol fired at the Tory in the stern, Nathan caught sight of the figure at the opposite end. With his empty musket in his hand the lad ran toward the spot, little dreaming of the man's identity, or that he was affording Glass just the opportunity for which he had been watching and waiting.
The ruffian rose a little higher, leveled his rifle, and fired. But for the second time he missed his victim at close range, the ball whizzing within a fraction of an inch of Nathan's ear. The report drew the attention of the others, and Godfrey discovered and shot at the Tory just as he made a bound to escape. He half jumped, half fell, into the water, and all ran eagerly to the bow of the boat, which was now drifting slowly down to the falls.
"Was that Simon Glass, lad?" exclaimed Barnabas.
"Yes," declared Nathan, "and he very nearly finished me!"
"There he is!" cried Godfrey, as a dark object rose to the surface near the verge of the falls. An instant later it slipped over and vanished, nor could it be seen again. Equally futile was the search for Morgan Proud and the Indian; beyond a doubt they had perished together.
"It's no use," muttered Barnabas. "Poor Proud is gone. But I have my doubts about that Tory ruffian. He's got as many lives as a cat, an' it's possible he's makin' for shore now, out of sight yonder below the falls."
"Where's the rest of the party?" said McNicol. "It ain't possible we cleaned them all up. We'd better be looking." With this he led his companions back to the stern, past the bodies of the two Indians. Mrs. Cutbush was engaged in binding up Cato's wounded arm, and Molly was sobbing hysterically from fright as she clung to her mother's gown.
The whole affair had transpired in such brief time that the cumbrous boat had moved only a short distance. In plain view above was the mysterious little island, now readily seen to be a long, narrow canoe trimmed with bushes and pine boughs. The collision with the flat had upset it, but it still rested stationary on the water, showing that it was anchored.
There was no sound or motion in the near vicinity, but a subdued splashing in the channel between the canoe and the promontory told clearly enough that some survivors of the enemy were swimming to the shore.
"It ain't likely they can do us any more harm," said Barnabas, "for I reckon their guns an' powder are wet. Of all the infernal tricks I've heard of, that was the neatest. They got ahead of us by land, run across that canoe somewhere, an' anchored it yonder, where they knew we'd have to pass within close range."
"And expecting to pour in a volley, while we were exposed above the bulwarks," replied Nathan.
"Exactly, lad," assented Barnabas, "only we didn't give 'em a chance." Turning to Cutbush, he added: "Better take the rudder, man; we're nearly at the falls."
Just then Mrs. Cutbush, who was in the bow, uttered a cry, and a tongue of fire was seen to leap up from the bed of dry grass in the middle of the boat. Evidently a bit of wadding had lain there smouldering, and now a breeze had fanned it into a blaze.
Godfrey was nearest, but before he could get to the spot the fire reached an open powderhorn that lay in the grass. It blew up with a dull report, and instantly the whole bed was a mass of hissing, roaring flames. And in the very midst of the blaze, where it had been thrown that morning to protect it from the damp floor, lay the cask of powder. All realized at once their terrible danger.
"It's too late to outen the fire," cried Barnabas. "The explosion may come any moment! Jump for your lives!"
Just then the flat swung over the falls, quivered and tossed amid the rocks and waves, and darted on to the deep and sluggish water below. Barnabas and Cutbush sprang past the flames to the bow, the former taking Molly in his arms, and the latter grabbing his wife. They and Cato sprang into the river at the same time that McNicol and the two lads jumped from the stern, and as hard as they could the whole party swam out toward mid-channel, scarcely heeding the two shots that were fired at them from the cover of the bank. They safely gained a cluster of rocks with a fringe of gravel at the base, and from behind this shelter they turned to watch the blazing flat as it drifted by at a distance of twenty feet.