The Riflemen of the Miami by Edward Sylvester Ellis (phonics reader .txt) 📕

it, was like the poles of a battery. It sent a shock through every part of his system, and gave his arm precisely the same tremor that takes place when a person is charged through this limb with electricity. If Edith had only returned the pressure, Lewis Dernor most assuredly would never have been able to stand it, and, therefore, it was fortunate that she did not.

It was this pressure, and the looks accompanying it, that made Edith Sudbury conscious that the hunter loved her. She would have been an exception to her sex had she not suspected this before. The thousand and one acts, and little, airy nothings, had given her a suspicion of the truth long since, but she had never felt certain of it.

This knowledge, which must ever be pleasant and flattering to the maiden, caused no unpleasant feelings on her part. If she did not love him, she certainly respected and admired his noble qualities, and the difference between the emotions named and love itself is certainly too faint for recognition. Under almost any circumstances they will grow into the passion, and all be lost in blending. Respect is the scout and guide that leads love to the soul.

The tell-tale blush stole on Edith's face, as a realizing sense of her situation came upon her, and, for a long time, she dared not look up, much less speak. Suddenly the Rifleman made a spring in the air, and drew a deep breath, as though seized with a mortal pain.

"What's the matter?" asked Edith, in a tremor of apprehension.

"Oh! it nearly killed me!" replied the hunter, in a faint voice.

"What? Do tell me. Are you hurt? What caused it?"

"Why, Edith, _didn't you squeeze my hand_?"

"If I did, it was _certainly unintentional_."

"Never mind. I thought it was on purpose."

The merry, musical laugh of the maiden rung out through the forest-arches, and the Rifleman, for the time, lost all thoughts of Indians and danger; but this delightful forgetfulness could not last long. As the faint rumble of thunder was heard in the distance, he started, as though awakened from a dream, and looked furtively around him, half expecting to see his dread foes start from behind the trees, and rush upon him.

"Are you frightened?" asked Edith.

"Only for you," he replied, with a natural gallantry.

"And why are you alarmed on my account? What has occurred that makes you walk faster, and look so constantly about you?"

"Edith," said the hunter, in a low voice of passionate tenderness, "you have lived on the frontier long enough to be familiar with its dangers. When I first saw you, it was in an awful situation for a gal like yourself, but you bore it like a man. I 'spose, therefore, that there's no use in keeping any thing back from you."

"Of course not. What good could that possibly do?"

"Well, then, it's my opinion that _some one is following us_."

"What makes you think so?" asked Edith, in genuine alarm; for there is something startling in the sudden knowledge that a foe is pursuing us, when there is no shelter at hand which can secure us against him.

"I can not give you the reason that makes me positive a foe is behind us; but I am so certain of it, that we must hurry forward and take measures to hide our trail."

"Why not rejoin our friends?"

"I do not think it can be done, as there are plenty Injin between us, and we could not avoid them."

"Do what you think best, for surely none can know better than you."

"Come on, then."

They ascended the creek until the darkening sky, booming thunder, and constant flashing of lightning warned them that the storm was at hand. The hunter then stooped, and, lifting his companion in his arms with the same ease that he would have picked up an infant, stepped into the stream, and waded nearly across, going several hundred yards further up before stepping upon the land. By this time, the swaying of the trees, and the pattering of several large drops of water, told them that they had but a few minutes to spare. The hunter was perfectly acquainted with this section, and made all haste toward a spot which, more than once, had served him as a shelter in such storms as this. It consisted of a number of fallen trees, evidently torn up by some tornado, whose branches were so interlocked and matted that a slight effort of the hand of man had turned into a comfortable security as one need wish who was storm-stayed in the forest.

As this was reached, the storm burst upon them in all its grand fury, but their refuge answered every purpose, and not a thread of Edith's clothes was wetted. Darkness came on prematurely, and, as the reader already knows, the storm continued nearly through the entire night. Fully, and almost morbidly alive to the danger that ever menaced them, Lewis kept his station at the mouth or entrance of their shelter until daylight, not willing that for a moment a free entrance to any foe should be offered.

When morning dawned, it was clear and beautiful, and the two set out immediately upon their journey. As they had partaken of no food for a considerable time, the Rifleman was on the alert to procure some. The forests of Kentucky and Ohio, at that day, literally swarmed with game, and, in less than a half-hour from starting, he had brought down a wild turkey, which was dressed and cooked with admirable skill, and which afforded them a nourishing and substantial meal.

Lewis was fearful that the late storm would cause such a rise in the creek that he would be unable to cross if he waited any longer, and he, therefore, attempted it at once. He found it muddy and rapidly rising, but he carried Edith over without difficulty, and then resumed his journey, taking such a direction that he could only reach the settlement by a wide _detour_ from directness.

"At any rate," said Dernor, "if any one attempted to follow us yesterday, he is thrown off the track, and has got to commence again."

"Should they accidentally come across our trail, it would be easy enough for them to follow it, would it not?"

"Yes, any one could do that, but you see we're so far up the stream that there is little likelihood of that."

"I _do_ hope the Indians will not trouble us more," said Edith, in a low, earnest voice.

"And so do I," said the Rifleman, in a lower and more earnest voice, and venturing at the same time to press the hand that he held within his own.

There certainly was something in the situation of these two calculated to inspire mutual trust. Edith felt that, under the merciful Being who was ever watching her, there was no stronger or more faithful arm upon which she could rely than the one beside her--that there was no heart truer, and no devotion more trustworthy. Under these circumstances, her words were quite unembarrassed and familiar.

"Suppose we _are_ overtaken?" she asked, looking up in his face.

"_You_ will never be captured while _I_ have strength to defend you," was the fervent reply.

"You are too kind and noble."

This time Edith impulsively pressed his hand, and, to his dying day, Lewis Dernor affirmed that this was one of the happiest moments of his life. Deeply learned as he was in wood-lore, he was a perfect novice in the subtle mysteries of the tender passion, and the cause of his ecstasy on this occasion was the sudden certainty that his love was returned. Had he been less a novice in such matters, he would have reflected that this slight evidence of regard most probably was but a mere momentary emotion which any man in his situation might have inspired. But, "where ignorance is bliss, 'tis folly to be wise;" and the happy hunter was all unconscious of this disagreeable possibility.

He felt an unutterable desire to say something--something grand and terrible--which would give Edith a faint idea of the strength of the passion burning in his breast. Inability to say this something kept him silent for a long period. Several times, indeed, he was on the point of speaking, but the words that came to him were too commonplace and weak to express his tumultuous thoughts. Just as he was on the point of deciding upon something, it came to him with startling suddenness that he was too careless with his charge. For the last hour he had hardly been conscious that he was traveling in the woods, much less that in these same woods lurked the deadly Indian, whose thoughts were constantly bent upon murder and outrage.

"Edith," said he, "I would do any thing if it would only place us where we could talk without fear of being disturbed. But it can't be done here. There's Injins in these woods, and I'd never forgive myself if I should forget it agin, and I've already done so several times. Just stop a minute."

He took her hand, and the two bent forward in the attitude of intense listening; and listening thus, they heard faintly in the distance the report of a rifle. It was several miles away, and evidently fired by some wandering Indian or hunter. Its only effect upon our friends was that peculiar one of making them more fully sensible that there were other beings in the woods besides themselves.

"It means nothing," said Dernor. "Let's go on, but more careful than before."

"Do you think there is any one following us?" asked Edith, for this constant renewal of her apprehension made her nervous and unnaturally suspicious.

"I have no reason to think so, and I haven't any suspicion that there is. So I guess there's no need of being scared."

"I can not help feeling frightened," said Edith, clinging closer to him. "I do wish we were at the settlement. How much longer will it take us to reach it?"

"To-morrow, at the very furthest, I hope we shall be there, and perhaps to-night, if we keep up a brisk walk."

"I see no reason why we should not hurry."

"Nor I, either," laughed Dernor. "So come on."

He struck up a brisk walk as he spoke, and continued it for some twenty minutes, when a small creek was reached, the one where O'Hara and Allmat lost the trail. Before wading it, the Rifleman paused on its banks as if in deep thought. This was so marked that Edith questioned him.

"I'm thinking whether it wouldn't be best to put this brook to the same use that I did last summer. A half-dozen Miamis got rather closer to me than was pleasant, when I jumped in here and threw them off the scent."

"How?"

"I will show you."

He picked her up as he spoke, and stepped carefully into the water. The center of the stream was sufficiently deep to hide his trail, even had the bottom been less favorable than it was. But this was hard, gravelly and pebbly, and he walked close to the edge without fear of betraying himself.

Having gone a considerable distance, he approached the bank, and made a leap which carried him several feet upon it. He alighted upon the face of a large, firmly-fixed stone, where, poising himself for a moment, he sprung to another; and then, making a fourth leap, came down upon the ground. By this artifice