He turned on his heel with the last word, and darted away.

The soldiers regained their equilibrium as he disappeared, and a volley that hurtled harmlessly among the branches was sent after him.

“Free! free to hate the English, as I hate the Americans,” he murmured, as he bounded through the forest. “They have killed my Night-Hawks, and by heaven! from this hour I never spare an English life. Now for the lake shore, where I gathered the brave fellows who sleep beneath British guns. There I’ll find others as brave, perhaps, as they, and we’ll hunt O’Neill’s detachment down like the Indian hunts the slayers of his wigwam pets. O’Neill—I’ve settled him! Forever I’ve canceled accounts with that liveried dog. But the girl Huldah Armstrong? Shall I give her up, now that I am free?”

He paused suddenly and seemed inclined to retrace his steps.

He was running in a north-easterly direction, his objective point the lake, and he knew—he had gleaned from O’Neill’s words—that Spangano had fled with the settler’s daughter in an opposite direction.

The outlaw was tempted to go back, and hunt for the prize that had been his.

He had run a great distance, and daylight was chasing night from the forest of the Huron.

It was extremely hazardous for him to go back now. The British troops were between him and the missing girl, and no doubt they would trail him to the death for the murder of their colonel. Perhaps, while he stood undecided how to act, they were on his track.

“I can return with my new men,” he said, suddenly, “and then I can snatch Huldah from my enemies. It’s getting too light for me to go back. I’ll not risk my life for a girl, now.”

He started forward again as he spoke the last word, but his rapid gait had dwindled into the well-known dog-trot of the Indian, and his whiter associate, the renegade.

His eagle eye took in every thing as he pushed forward, and all at once it flashed with a new light, and he halted and sprung behind a tree.

Some dark figure was approaching in the gray dawn; it was coming directly toward him. That it was a man he at once conceived, and the swaying of the body proclaimed him a white. If Indians were pursuing the man, the outlaw was safe; he could meet them boldly; but if white was chasing white, he had best remain concealed. He kept his eye on the runner until he almost started from the tree with excitement, and an oath escaped his lips.

The fugitive was Captain Strong, and he bore Huldah Armstrong in his arms!

“In the name of heaven, how did he get the girl?—and how did he escape the vengeance of the settlers?” exclaimed the Night-Hawk, looking at the sight that greeted his eyes. “But fate is aiding me, and I’ll make something of this golden opportunity.”

For several moments after the discovery of his identity, Zebulon Strong, flying from Wolf-Cap and his friends, as the reader already knows, continued to run directly toward Funk, but suddenly he veered toward the right.

Had he caught a glimpse of his new foe? The outlaw was inclined to believe thus, and cocked his musket with an oath.

“I’ve shot deer with muskets,” he said, audibly, “and as a running shot, I’ve been celebrated. Can I hit a man’s head at forty yards? Well, if I can’t, then my name isn’t Royal Funk!”

Talking thus to himself, the outlaw raised the weapon, and glanced over the glittering barrel at his rival, who ran on, unconscious of the new foe.

For a moment Funk sighted the moving figure, and then a jet of flame leaped from the bore of the gun.

Captain Strong stopped suddenly in his tracks, and, with the cry of “A dead shot!” the murderer bounded from the tree and ran toward him.

But the traitor suddenly attempted to continue his flight. He ran forward a few steps, then reeled, and fell dead!

Huldah, released, started back and gazed bewildered upon the corpse. Her unexpected delivery had stunned her senses, for she did not move nor take her eyes from the dead until a hand encircled her arm.

Then she started violently, and recognized her new captor with a shriek.

“Mine again, and forever, girl!” cried the outlaw, as he jerked her from the ground, and then he asked, quickly, “Who chased you?”

“You shall see presently,” she cried, casting a quick, wishful look toward the river.

“Not Indians, as I know,” said Funk, reading the language of her eyes. “Well, we’ll outwit ’em, Huldah, whoever they be. Roy Funk is alone in the world now. His boys are all dead, and he wants somebody to cheer his heart.”

He spoke the last words while he was running, with our heroine in his arms, in a northerly direction, and at no insignificant pace.

“If I know these woods, we’re not far from a place of safety. Whoever hunts you shall never take you back to the old stamping-ground. Huldah Armstrong, you will not believe me, perhaps, when I say I love you. I do, earnestly, truly, and with a pure love. You could make a man of Royal Funk, if you would. Your obstinacy, coupled with your pretty face, has caused me to act as I have. If the stars love their Creator and the dove his burnished sweetheart, I love you. Your lovers are out of the way, now—all save Royal Funk, I mean. Will you not wean him from his wild life by loving him? Will you not be the making of a man?”

He looked down into the girl’s eyes, as he spoke, with genuine earnestness, and for a moment his footsteps were the only noise-makers in the great forest.

Then she answered him:

“Royal Funk, do not seek my love. It can never be yours.”

He sighed:

“Then I must do that which I would not. You shall be my wife. Death alone shall separate us!”

Huldah started. Captain Strong had uttered the same words!

CHAPTER XIV.
WOLF’S DEN.

The reader will recollect that Wolf-Cap dismissed his Indian allies, Silver Hand and Golden Cheek, beneath the palisades of Fort Strong, a few moments prior to his appearance among the ranks of the besieged.

The red twain sought the camp of the foe, and in time witnessed the triumph of Royal Funk, as already related. Silver Hand, the shrewder of the two, saw that Colonel O’Neill would not relinquish the contest for Huldah Armstrong’s person without another struggle, and so he watched that red-coated worthy narrowly. He therefore sent his confederate down the river to intercept the Night-Hawk, and to warn him of the ambush.

Golden Cheek undertook the mission cheerfully, while Silver Hand hastened to secure the assistance of Wolf-Cap, in order to snatch Huldah from her outlawed lover’s power, and to put an end to the marauding band.

Spagano, the Indian, who turned Roy Funk from the ambush, and afterward stole Huldah from his camp and was shot by O’Neill’s men, as the reader has already seen, was none other than Golden Cheek. He had mistaken the British footsteps for those of his friends, and he had thought to steal the girl on their approach, that they might pour a destructive volley among the sleepers.

But he failed, and fell in the wood, like many of his ancestors had fallen before him.

Silver Hand was more successful. He found Wolf-Cap and Mark Harmon after trailing them some distance, and hastened down the river. They were surprised when they beheld Zebulon Strong bearing Huldah Armstrong down the self-same stream, and the pursuit which they inaugurated in bright anticipations, ended over the captain’s corpse.

“This beats me,” said Wolf-Cap, who dropped on his knees beside the dead frontiersman. “I can’t see through it all. Here lies the man we’ve been chasing, an’ thar’s a British bullet in his brain. Now the question is: who shot ’im? It war no Indian, for the red-skins don’t take to muskets; they shoot rifles, and I’m sure that Funk isn’t in these parts. He shoots a rifle with the smallest bore you ever saw. What have you discovered, chief?”

The Indian addressed was approaching, with the glow of discovery on his face.

“White man shoot traitor and run off with girl.”

Wolf-Cap rose to his feet.

“A white man, you say, chief?”

“Yes, pale-face.”

“Show me the signs!”

Silver-Hand strode forward, and pointed to a faint trail, leading in a north-easterly direction. Wolf-Cap examined the “sign” a minute, and then looked up into his companion’s eyes.

“Well, he’s got the girl ag’in,” he said.

“He—who?” cried Harmon.

“Roy Funk!”

“He would not be alone in these parts and running toward the Huron’s mouth. Golden Cheek was to have guided him to Beaver River.”

“Don’t I know his foot-track?” queried the trapper. “Haven’t I seen it too often to be deceived? I ruther guess I have. Come, boys, while Huldah is in Royal Funk’s power it is a sin to rest. I’ve an idea where he intends stopping a while; but I hope he will go further on—I do, indeed.”

The Night-Hawk’s trail told the trio that he was hurrying through the woods at no insignificant speed, but they did not follow in a gait equal to his own.

Before leaving Zebulon Strong, Wolf-Cap had covered him with brush, and all alone the traitor slept the everlasting sleep of the dead. Huldah Armstrong seemed a fatal prize. She had brought death to the door of more than one heart. Spagano—brave Golden Cheek—Zebulon Strong, Colonel O’Neill and the Night-Hawks had already fallen for her, and perhaps others yet might die for the beautiful prize.

The trio pursued the trail an hour in silence, and Mark Harmon was the first to speak.

“Wolf-Cap,” he said, in a low tone, glancing at Silver Hand, who was walking along, with his head on his breast, his dark eyes on the faint trail, “I’ve been thinking about some words that puzzle me.”

Card Belt slowly lifted his eyes to the youth.

“War it some words that I left drop?” he inquired.

“No.”

“Did Silver Hand shoot ’em out?”

“No; they fell from Armstrong’s lips last night, in the fort.”

“Well, what did old Levi say?”

“I was standing at the third port-hole looking toward the hill, and all at once I heard a voice at my elbow. It said: ‘If she was mine I could not love her more. God pity me and let me live to make amends.’ I turned quickly, for there was a depth of agony in the speaker’s tone, and I beheld Levi Armstrong moving from the port-hole at my left.”

Wolf-Cap’s face was ghastly in its coloring, when the youth looked into it again, and a white hand griped his arm.

“Are you sure it was old Levi?” stammered the trapper.

“I am, for I spoke to him a second later,” answered the young man confidently. “I heard the words plainly, and you know all that he said.”

Wolf-Cap suddenly stopped in his tracks, and drew the whole attention of his companions upon him.

“I begin to see light now, and I curse myself for being so blind until this moment,” he said. “Let me tell you.”

“Wolf-Cap speak after while,” said Silver Hand. “We on trail now and this no time for long talks. Pale Night-Hawk fly to the big water with snow-bird, and he must be caught before he sees the green waves.”

“Heaven is helping me,” said Belt, impressively. “I feel that the end of this terrible wood drama is near at hand. I will tell my story here, and now! Silver Hand, you may lean against that tree, or trail the Night-Hawk. I care not which you do.”

The impatient Indian bit his lip, and leaned against the designated tree.

“Twenty years ago,” said Belt, looking at Harmon, “I lived beside the Mystic, in Connecticut. Not alone did I inhabit the little cabin, where now the stranger dwells. A wife kissed me then, and a babe was soon to cheer our childless home with its sunny smiles. How I waited for the new joy; but alas!” and a cloud leaped to the trapper’s brow, “alas! the devil came to our home. One night I returned from Saybrook and found an empty cabin on the Mystic. My wife—my Bessie—was gone!”

Belt paused, and, with face buried in his broad hands, he swayed to and fro like a storm-cursed tree.

“Mark Harmon,” he cried, suddenly removing his hands, “God alone knows how I loved her. She never knew herself, for humanity could not fathom my devotion and love. I sunk to my floor on the fearful discovery, and in the morning, a neighbor found me, but little less than a madman. Then my eyes were opened. I found several letters in the old house addressed to Bessie. They were signed “Ralph” and “Morton.” I put the two words together and had a name—“Ralph Morton.” For the owner of that name I hunted for eighteen years, almost; but I found no traces of him nor my wife. When I ceased to hunt, I had given her up for dead. I love Huldah, because she looks like Bessie did twenty years ago.

“Now I do see light. I feel that Levi Armstrong is Ralph Morton. God keep me alive till I can tell him so.”

“What would you do with him?” ventured the young borderman.

“What would you do, young man, with the devil who should snatch heavenly happiness from your heart?” said the trapper slowly.

“I would hunt him down and kill him!”

“That’s just what I am going to do,” returned Wolf-Cap through closed lips. “Some men might forgive such a wrong as mine, but I—never! Now for her, Mark Harmon, chief,” and the trapper started forward. “Oh Heaven! do not deceive me at this day—oh do not raise my hopes to dash them down into darkness, for Huldah must be my child, or I die!”

The Wyandot was eager to resume the trail, and led the van with a quick step. For several miles it remained plain, and then it was lost in the waters of a narrow creek.

“I am not surprised,” said Wolf-Cap. “He is breaking for the very place where I don’t want to find ’im.”

“Why does he not continue his flight?”

“Because his captive is tired. In Wolf’s Den he will rest until she recruits her strength.”

“In Wolf’s Den?” echoed Harmon. “I have heard of this place.”

“I should reckon you had, boy. Everybody in these parts has heard of it, and I’ve been thar. Why, thar are a thousand caves in one, and dark halls lead—perhaps to the iron gates of hell. Men have entered the “den” never to return. Strange winds blow torches out, and there are bats in the darkness as big as a coon. I have believed the Night-Hawks used it for their head-quarters, before they descended upon the ‘fire-lands’.”

“Then he is acquainted with its terrors.”

“Probably. But we’ll follow him to the greatest of them all—death.”

The trio waded down the creek whose banks were masses of solid rock, which ofttimes towered to a hight of a hundred feet above the water. The gray stone was covered with a loathsome species of the dark green creeper, and the repulsive head of many a glittering lizard protruded from the fissures.

“This is Satan’s land,” said Wolf-Cap, looking up at the spectacle just described, “and presently we’ll enter his cave.”

A few steps brought them to a great fissure, that extended from the top of the cliff to the water’s edge, and into which a man could edge his way.

“Well, here we are,” remarked the trapper, stooping to examine the foot of the crack. “It looks like the cave of death, but,” looking up suddenly, “it is inhabited.”

“What!” cried Harmon, springing to his side, “has he entered here?”

“Yes, the ground tells me so!”

At last the end of the Night-Hawk’s trail had been reached; but the final scene was wrapped in fearful obscurity.

“I’ve been here afore, and I’ll lead the way,” continued Wolf-Cap, stepping forward.

“No, Silver-Hand go ’head,” cried the Wyandot, suddenly, and his right hand pushed the trapper aside. “Wyandot know more ’bout cave than pale-faces think.”

The next instant the Indian sprung into the fissure, and darkness, damp and impenetrable, swooped down upon the adventurers.

It at once became evident to the whites that their guide knew much about the interior structure of the cave, for he pushed forward in the darkness, seemingly with a well-known destination in view.

But suddenly something struck the wall above the trios’ heads, and then fell heavily to the ground.

Silver Hand stooped and ran his hand over the stony floor until it grasped a warm object, with gigantic wings unspread.

“A winged rat,” he said in a low voice, touching his companions’ hands with his prize. “It fell from—”

He paused suddenly, for other huge bats were striking the walls and falling at their feet.

“By heavens! does it rain bats here?” exclaimed Wolf-Cap, as Silver Hand griped his arm.

“Somebody in the lodges of the winged rats,” he said. “He knock ’em down here.”

“They must come from the bat-chamber. I’ve heard of it,” said the trapper, quickly. “He is fighting ’em there; but how can we reach it?”

“Come,” said the Wyandot, with eagerness. “Silver Hand fight the flying rats there once himself. He find the place soon.”

Then they started forward, just as another quartette of dead bats fell from the mysterious gloom above.

Somebody was fighting the winged mammals above the three, for, as they advanced, they could hear his sturdy blows.

CHAPTER XV.
RETRIBUTION.

Let us return to the Night-Hawk and his prisoner.

To the former some of the events of Wolf Den was not unknown. Wolf-Cap had spoken truly when he told his companions that the cave had once served as the rendezvous of the outlaws, and as such a place, their leader should be acquainted with its intricacies.

He saw that his captive needed rest, and Wolf Den naturally suggested itself. Therefore, he made it his objective point after shooting Captain Strong, and intended to hide among its dark chambers until Huldah had fully recruited her strength.

“We’ll go up to the bat-chamber, girl,” he said, after entering the mouth of the den. “It is rather a gloomy place; but the only one where we can catch a breath of fresh air.”

So he lifted her from the ground and clambered up the great broken rocks that obstructed the natural stairway.

Up, up, still up he bore the girl, and at last paused with a long-fetched sigh of relief and satisfaction. He had reached the top of the stair.

Funk here lowered the girl, and constructed a torch from a sleeve of his hunting-frock.

“This cave used to swarm with bats,” he said, leading Huldah toward a dark portal of elephantine proportions. “But we drove them out, and used it for head-quarters. Yes, this is the place, here are the stones on which we sat, and the giant night-hawk, which Sam Cole drew on the wall, still remains. Now, girl— What? a bat?”

His exclamation was caused by the flapping of unseen wings, and then a black object shot through the torchlight, accompanied by a demoniacal chattering.

It was a bat, and a great one, too.

“I thought they would never return after the smoking we gave them,” he continued, as a dozen of the hideous beings darted from the wall to which they had been clinging. “But I’ll fight and drive them out now, for we must take this chamber. Here, and here only, do we breathe fresh air. It comes from the forest above us; the atmosphere in other chambers is noxious.”

He thrust the torch into Huldah’s hands, and doffed his coat. Then, catching it at the neck, he braced himself, and struck boldly at the hideous, chattering, screeching bats.

The walls of the chamber, which were black upon the couple’s entrance, were now gray, for they had been literally covered with the somber mammals, which now flew about in every direction.

More than one great horned owl added to the terror of the combat, and the monster wings brushed the cheeks of our heroine, who held the torch above her head that the Night-Hawk might see what he was doing.

The heavy coat did good service. It knocked the bats to the right and left, and dashed many to the feet of other characters of our story, as the reader has seen.

“We’re whipping the demons, Huldah!” exclaimed Roy Funk, triumphantly, glancing at the girl. “Already they are retreating to other fastnesses. Aha! they know Roy Funk! they’ve met him before!”

He stood like a giant in the center of the cave, whirling the curious weapon about his head, and dashing his enemies to the stones. His arm never grew weary, nor did his blows weaken. But all at once he started back, and, dropping the coat, picked up the musket, that lay at his feet.

His face was turned toward the entrance to the cave, upon which the firelight fell, and his eyes were riveted upon three figures standing there.

They were Wolf-Cap, Mark Harmon, and Silver Hand. The outlaw saw this in an instant.

To recover the musket was the work of a second, and quickly whirling upon Huldah, he snatched the torch from her hand, and threw it above his head for the purpose of sending it after the bats he had hurled to the dark corridors below. In darkness he might hope to escape his new enemies, who, alas for his plans, had been, for once, too quick for him.

The Indian darted forward like a rocket as the flaring stick shot aloft, and his hand closed on the outlaw’s arm. But Funk wrenched his arm from the gripe, and struck his foe across the face with the fiery weapon. He renewed his blow, under which the Wyandot staggered, but recovered in a second and hurled him back. With the desperation befitting his situation, Roy Funk struggled manfully, but Silver Hand held him down, while Wolf-Cap secured his limbs with ropes or cords.

“Well, boys, you’ve caught me at last,” he said, looking up into the faces of his white hunters. “But if it hadn’t been for these infernal bats, Roy Funk would have triumphed at last. I did my best to outwit you, and if I was free I would do it again. Now, what are you going to do with the outlaw?”

Wolf-Cap and the young borderman held a conversation in low tones.

“We are going to take you back to Fort Strong,” said Belt, at length looking at the outlaw. “The settlers shall judge you according to your deeds. I had intended killing you with my own hands, Roy Funk, but you have wronged others more than you have wronged me. Where are your men?”

In a few words the outlaw narrated the attack on his camp by Colonel O’Neill, and the destruction of the Night-Hawks.

“So you’re the last of ’em?” said Wolf-Cap.

“I am the last.”

“Do you want to go to Fort Strong?”

“I care not whither you take me. But if I have to depart, Card Belt, I would reveal a secret before we quit this place.”

“Wal, drive ahead then, for we must get out o’ this hole in a few minutes.”

“There was a time when the great pursuit of my life was the getting of gold,” said the outlaw. “I was successful and my eagerness became catching, for my men contracted it. We amassed wealth in Canada and stored it in this very cave. It is nothing to me now. I will lead you to the spot, and show you what now is yours.”

Wolf-Cap and Harmon exchanged glances, while Silver Hand looked on in stern silence.

“Well, show us your gold!” said the trapper.

“Yonder door leads to it,” replied Funk, looking over his right shoulder at a hole in the wall. “Light the way, somebody.”

Wolf-Cap started forward with the torch.

Silver Hand led the outlaw after the trapper, and Mark Harmon walked beside Huldah.

The dark portal led to another cave smaller than the bat-chamber, but as gloomy. A strange smile toyed with the outlaw’s lips, as he walked forward, and there was a lurking triumph in his tone when he commanded the party to halt.

“Now, Roy Funk, where’s your gold?”

“Beneath this bowlder,” answered the Night-Hawk, striking a huge rock with his foot.

“It can not be moved,” said Harmon.

Royal Funk laughed.

“Who said it must be moved?” he asked. “If you can trust me, undo my hands a moment, and I will show you the results of ten years’ toiling for gold.”

Wolf-Cap drew his knife, but Silver Hand shook his head.

“Outlaw lie,” he said.

“The Indian does not like me,” said Funk. “I, and I alone, can reveal the hidden gold, and when I have shown you it we may talk about a ransom if you will entertain such a subject.”

“We will not, let me tell you this now. All the gold in the world could not buy your freedom,” was Harmon’s reply. “But we will see your riches. Now, mind you, Roy Funk, not a sign of treachery here. This pistol is ready to speak, so play the man, if life is of any value to you.”

“If I betray your trust, shoot me,” the Night-Hawk said.

The next moment Wolf-Cap severed his bonds, and he stooped by the stone and ran his hand beneath.

For a minute he fumbled there, glancing up at the quartette above.

“I touch the box now,” he said, at length, “and here it is!”

As he uttered the last word his hand shot from beneath the stone, and threw a cloud of dust into the watchers’ eyes.

They started back; the outlaw sprung forward! He caught Huldah Armstrong from the ground, and darted toward a precipice, dimly revealed by the torch.

“Fiend!” rung from Mark Harmon’s lips, as he leaped after the outlaw, his eyes half-blinded by the cunning trick.

He saw the Night-Hawk on the edge of the cave-cliff, and his hand shot forward to save the woman he loved.

His fingers closed on her arm, and with all his strength he jerked her toward him. Half over the precipice, the outlaw could not struggle, and the young frontiersman tore Huldah from his grip and started back.

Then a despairing shriek welled from Roy Funk’s pale lips, and clutching wildly at air he fell headlong into the darkness below!

* * * * * * *

“We’ll look down on the old fort from yonder hill,” said Wolf-Cap, on the evening following the scenes just related. “Then, Huldah, you’ll find a father; then—” he turned suddenly from the girl, and finished the sentence under his breath—“then, I’ll take vengeance for the wrongs of the past. Levi Armstrong—no, Ralph Morton rather, you shall tell me what became of Bessie.”

A few steps brought them to the summit of the hill designated by the trapper; but alas! Fort Strong did not greet their vision. A confused heap of embers proclaimed where it had once stood!

The spectators stared blankly into each other’s faces, unable to speak.

Suddenly Wolf-Cap started forward without a word, and the others followed.

Everywhere among the ruins the victims of savage atrocity scalped and tomahawked, were to be seen.

“They’re all dead!” said Harmon. “May Heaven curse the fiends—”

A groan!

Wolf-Cap started forward, and lifted a log from the chest of a man.

It was Levi Armstrong. He opened his eyes and smiled.

“Oh, father! father!” cried Huldah, throwing herself upon him. “Tell me, father, how all this happened.”

“Splitlog came back and took me unawares,” was the reply, in a feeble voice. “But, Huldah, I—am not your father!”

She started.

“Belt, you know me,” and the glassy eyes wandered to the trapper.

“You are Ralph Morton.”

“Yes,” with a sigh. “My crime is too great to be forgiven. ’Twas all my fault. Your Bessie fled because I threatened. Forgive her!”

“I did, long ago,” said Wolf-Cap, with tearful eyes.

“She is dead, then?”

“Yes. Huldah, this man is your father. He will tell you all. Card Belt, you can not take vengeance now, for I am dying.”

But little remains to be told to complete our story now. Wolf-Cap guided Mark Harmon to a minister in the beautiful Muskingum valley, and saw his long-lost daughter take the vows of a bride. For many years the trio dwelt in the then town of Mansfield; but in the city of the same name, their descendants dwell and are honored to-day.

After all, it was well that Matt Hunter stole Huldah from Fort Strong, for in the massacre that followed she would doubtless have perished. Silver Hand lived to a good old age, a true friend to the Americans, and the grasses of but four summers have waved over his grave.

As for Johnny Appleseed, who appeared in the opening of our romance, we may say, that he, too, fell beneath death’s sickle, ripe for the harvest of the simply just.

Roy Funk sleeps in Wolf’s Den, while the bones of his followers have been covered by populous cities and flourishing towns.

THE END.

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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.