“’Bout thirty-odd miles, I reckon. Not much on a trip, thet’s sartin, but we’ll pick up termorrer. We’ve some quicker water, an’ the rafts hev to go separate.”
“How quiet!” exclaimed Kate, suddenly breaking the silence that followed the frontiersman’s answer.
“Beautiful!” impetuously said Nell, looking up at Joe. A quick flash from his gray eyes answered her; he did not speak; indeed he had said little to her since the start, but his glance showed her how glad he was that she felt the sweetness and content of this wild land.
“I was never in a wilderness before,” broke in the earnest voice of the young minister. “I feel an almost overpowering sense of loneliness. I want to get near you all, I feel lost. Yet it is grand, sublime!”
“Here is the promised land—the fruitful life—Nature as it was created by God,” replied the old minister, impressively.
“Tell us a story,” said Nell to the old frontiersman, as he once more joined the circle round the fire.
“So, little ’un, ye want a story?” queried Jeff, taking up a live coal and placing it in the bowl of his pipe. He took off his coonskin cap and carefully laid it aside. His weatherbeaten face beamed in answer to the girl’s request. He drew a long and audible pull at his black pipe, and sent forth slowly a cloud of white smoke. Deliberately poking the fire with a stick, as if stirring into life dead embers of the past, he sucked again at his pipe and emitted a great puff of smoke that completely enveloped the grizzled head. From out that white cloud came his drawling voice.
“Ye’ve seen thet big curly birch over thar—thet ’un as bends kind of sorrowful like. Wal, it used to stand straight an’ proud. I’ve knowed thet tree all the years I’ve navigated this river, an’ it seems natural like to me thet it now droops dyin’, fer it shades the grave of as young, an’ sweet, an’ purty a lass as yerself, Miss Nell. Rivermen called this island George’s Island, ’cause Washington onct camped here; but of late years the name’s got changed, an’ the men say suthin’ like this: ‘We’ll try an’ make Milly’s birch afore sundown,’ jest as Bill and me hev done today. Some years agone I was comin’ up from Fort Henry an’ had on board my slow old scow a lass named Milly—we never learned her other name. She come to me at the fort, an’ tells as how her folks had been killed by Injuns, an’ she wanted to git back to Pitt to meet her sweetheart. I was ag’in her comin’ all along, an’ fust off I said ‘No.’ But when I seen tears in her blue eyes, an’ she puts her little hand on mine, I jest wilted, an’ says to Jim Blair, ‘She goes.’ Wal, jest as might hev been expected—an’ fact is I looked fer it—we wus tackled by redskins. Somehow, Jim Girty got wind of us hevin’ a lass aboard, an’ he ketched up with us jest below here. It’s a bad place, called Shawnee Rock, an’ I’ll show it to ye termorrer. The renegade, with his red devils, attacked us thar, an’ we had a fierce fight. Jim Blair, he was killed, an’ we had a time gittin’ away. Milly wus shot. She lived fer awhile, a couple of days, an’ all the time was so patient, an’ sweet, an’ brave with thet renegade’s bullet in her—fer he shot her, when he seen he couldn’t capture her—thet thar wusn’t a blame man of us who wouldn’t hev died to grant her prayer, which wus that she could live to onct more see her lover.”
There was a long silence, during which the old frontiersman sat gazing into the fire with sad eyes.
“We couldn’t do nuthin’, an’ we buried her thar under thet birch, where she smiled her last sad, sweet smile an’ died. Ever since then the river has been eatin’ away at this island. It’s only half as big as it was onct, an’ another flood will take away this sandbar, these few birches—an’ Milly’s grave.”
The old frontiersman’s story affected all his listeners. The elder minister bowed his head and prayed that no such fate might overtake his nieces. The young minister looked again, as he had many times that day, at Nell’s winsome face. The girls cast grave glances at the drooping birch, and their bright tears glistened in the fire glow. Once more Joe’s eyes glinted with that steely flash, and as he gazed out over the wide, darkening expanse of water his face grew cold and rigid.
“I’ll allow I might hev told a more cheerful story, an’ I’ll do so next time; but I wanted ye all, particular the lasses, to know somethin’ of the kind of country ye’re goin’ into. The frontier needs women; but jist yit it deals hard with them. An’ Jim Girty, with more of his kind, ain’t dead yit.”
“Why don’t someone kill him?” was Joe’s sharp question.
“Easier said than done, lad. Jim Girty is a white traitor, but he’s a cunnin’ an’ fierce redskin in his ways an’ life. He knows the woods as a crow does, an’ keeps outer sight ’cept when he’s least expected. Then ag’in, he’s got Simon Girty, his brother, an’ almost the whole redskin tribe behind him. Injuns stick close to a white man that has turned ag’inst his own people, an’ Jim Girty hadn’t ever been ketched. Howsumever, I heard last trip thet he’d been tryin’ some of his tricks round Fort Henry, an’ thet Wetzel is on his trail. Wal, if it’s so thet Lew Wetzel is arter him, I wouldn’t give a pinch o’ powder fer the white-redskin’s chances of a long life.”
No one spoke, and Jeff, after knocking the ashes from his pipe, went down to the raft, returning shortly afterward with his blanket. This he laid down and rolled himself in. Presently from under his coonskin cap came the words:
“Wal, I’ve turned in, an’ I advise ye all to do the same.”
All save Joe and Nell acted on Jeff’s suggestion. For a long time the young couple sat close together on the bank, gazing at the moonlight on the river.
The night was perfect. A cool wind fanned the dying embers of the fire and softly stirred the leaves. Earlier in the evening a single frog had voiced his protest against the loneliness; but now his dismal croak was no longer heard. A snipe, belated in his feeding, ran along the sandy shore uttering his tweet-tweet, and his little cry, breaking in so softly on the silence, seemed only to make more deeply felt the great, vast stillness of the night.
Joe’s arm was around Nell. She had demurred at first, but he gave no heed to her slight resistance, and finally her head rested against his shoulder. There was no need of words.
Joe had a pleasurable sense of her nearness, and there was a delignt in the fragrance of her hair as it waved against his cheek; but just then love was not uppermost in his mind. All day he had been silent under the force of an emotion which he could not analyze. Some power, some feeling in which the thought of Nell had no share, was drawing him with irresistible strength. Nell had just begun to surrender to him in the sweetness of her passion; and yet even with that knowledge knocking reproachfully at his heart, he could not help being absorbed in the shimmering water, in the dark reflection of the trees, the gloom and shadow of the forest.
Presently he felt her form relax in his arms; then her soft, regular breathing told him she had fallen asleep, and he laughed low to himself. How she would pout on the morrow when he teased her about it! Then, realizing that she was tired with her long day’s journey, he reproached himself for keeping her from the needed rest, and instantly decided to carry her to the raft. Yet such was the novelty of the situation that he yielded to its charm and did not go at once. The moonlight found bright threads in her wavy hair; it shone caressingly on her quiet face, and tried to steal under the downcast lashes.
Joe made a movement to rise with her, when she muttered indistinctly as if speaking to someone. He remembered then she had once told him that she talked in her sleep, and how greatly it annoyed her. He might hear something more with which to tease her; so he listened.
“Yes—Uncle—I
