A short time longer was spent in consultation, when the following course was decided upon: Peterson was to go up the Ohio, and state the case at the different settlements, all the time seeking an interview with her, while Dingle and Mansfield were to range the vicinity of the Indian towns in the hope of meeting her.

This plan, with characteristic vigor, was acted upon at once, and in the afternoon of the day succeeding the escape of McGable, the three men were in the forest, seeking out the Frontier Angel. Dingle and Mansfield as said, took a northwest direction, toward the Shawnee towns, which they reached in due time. They remained in their neighborhood several days, and during that time gained one or two glimpses of McGable, but could see nothing of the being for whose benefit they came. At last they were satisfied she was not in them, and must either be in the Sciota valley, or engaged upon some errand of mercy or--had she already fallen a victim to revenge?

Some time after, Dingle and our hero were in the Sciota valley, carefully reconnoitering the Indian villages, but they obtained no further information, and were reluctantly compelled to the belief that she was either at the eastern settlements, or she had already been murdered by McGable. The latter, as Mansfield remarked, took such care of his person, that there was little hope of again obtaining possession of it. Several days were spent in the neighborhood, without further success, when they turned their faces homeward, convinced that they had done all that it was possible for them to do in this direction, although that all was nothing.

They reached the settlement and reported themselves, and then all waited anxiously for the return of Peterson. Before going out all knew the wishes of Abbot, and it was expected that something definite would be gained of the fate of poor Marian.

It was a week before Peterson came in; but, when he did come, he had a report to give that thrilled every heart in the settlement. At the first village he reached, he was told the Frontier Angel had left there that morning, and that her manner was so wild and strange as to induce the settlers to use everything except force, to retain her. From her rambling, incoherent manner, and several remarks she made, they gathered that her life had already been attempted by McGable, and that the memory and thoughts of it made her act so singularly.

From this settlement, he went on to the next, but she had not been seen here for several weeks. Having been instructed to visit all of the frontier villages, Peterson did so, but learnt nothing more of her. From this he supposed that, if not in the Shawnee towns, she could be at no great distance from the settlement first mentioned. Accordingly, he spent several days searching the woods and streams in the hope of obtaining some trace of her. He failed to find her, but was discovered himself by her.

He had lain down one afternoon to rest himself, and was just falling into a doze, when he was startled to his feet by her suddenly appearing before him.

"Are you looking for me?" she asked.

"Yes; but, confound it, how did you know it?"

"Do you, too, seek my life?" she asked, gazing at him with the most painful anguish and terror depicted in her face.

"No; I wouldn't hurt you for ten hundred thousand million pounds in British money. I'm looking for you to tell you, you must keep your eyes peeled, 'cause there's sunkthin' in the wind."

There was a wildness in her look which, despite himself, made Peterson restless and ill at ease, although he took occasion to show by his words and manner that he had no such thoughts. The girl stared at him a moment, and then asked:

"You do not want to kill me, then, do you?"

"No; I wouldn't do no such thing, and I would raise the ha'r of the man that tried it, if he was my own brother."

"He tried to; he shot at me, and chased me with his knife."

"Who did so?"

"That bad man; he is hunting now for me, and wants to kill me."

"Who do you mean? McGable?"

"Yes, it was he--he nearly killed me."

"He may kill you yet. Won't you go with me where he can't hurt you?"

"Oh, no--no--I live alone, and G.o.d will take care of me."

She turned to depart, and Peterson, who all the time had felt fidgety and nervous, was glad to be alone, when it suddenly occurred to him there were several questions which he must yet ask, to gain the desired information for Abbot and Mansfield. So he called her back.

"Say, will you let me ax you a thing or two?"

She answered by turning around and silently facing him.

"You know McGable in course, and must know he's the all-firedest varmint that tramps. Wal, last spring he and a lot of Shawnees attacked a flat-boat, and sliced 'em all up 'cepting the best-looking one of the lot--him as is squatted afore you. Wal, that ain't much to do with the matter, 'cept to illusrate the point. There was a gal on board--that I tried to jump overboard with, but she got shot just as I was ready, and I left her behind. She wan't dead _then_, but about so. Howsumever, her folks never'll be satisfied till they know all about it. Might be you've heard of the gal?"

"No," replied the Frontier Angel, shaking her head with a pensive, saddened look.

"S'pect you did. Sorry, 'cause I'd like to find out. Never heard McGable say nothin' 'bout her?"

"No."

"Qu'ar. Oh! is that renegade your husband?"

The maiden simply gave him a wondering stare without making a further reply. Now that Peterson was fairly started, he determined to learn all he could of her.

"The name of the gal was Marian Abbot," observed the ranger, suddenly recollecting that he had not mentioned her name. As he uttered it, his heart fairly stopped beating, at the manner of the mysterious being before him. She started, her dark eyes opening so strangely, and her breath coming so short and gaspingly, that Peterson averred he felt his hair lift his c.o.o.n-skin cap clean from his head.

"Marian Abbot--Marian Abbot--Marian," she repeated, as if communing with herself, and gazing, not at Peterson, but over his head, far away into the horizon where the purple and golden clouds were then blazing with the fire of heaven.

"Yes, that was her name," said Peterson anxious to help her. "Splendid looking gal--looked some like me--little shorter than you--purty near as good looking."

"Marian Abbot--Marian Abbot," she still repeated, drawing her hand over her forehead as if engaged in intense thought.

"Yes--I've told you that was her name."

"Have I heard of her, you ask? Have I heard of Marian Abbot?--no--yes--let me see--I remember. I saw her--no I know nothing of her!" she replied, dropping her hands from her forehead, and looking up at him with the same wild, fiery look.

"Think agin," urged Peterson, much disappointed at her manner. "You jest now said you remembered her. Put your thinkin' cap on and p'r'aps you'll find out arter all."

"No; I can't remember anything. Don't ask me to, for it hurts my head so much. Wait a moment--" she said, pressing her hand quickly to her temple again. "Marian Abbot--yes--there was such a girl--I remember her--_I saw her among the Indians!_--"

At this point, she turned deadly pale, and sank to the earth. That singularly foolish notion, that it was fatal to touch the Frontier Angel, prevented Peterson from springing forward to her a.s.sistance. She did not faint, however, but instantly recovered herself and bounded away in the wood without uttering another syllable.

This information, conveyed in substance, to the breathless listeners, by the ranger, thrilled every one, as we said, to the heart. It awakened, both in the father and Mansfield, a strange hope, that, from its every intensity, produced a deadly heart-sickness. Abbot reeled to his home, where, for a long time, he strove to control his agitation. He said nothing to his wife, for he was nearly unmanned, and feared he should turn crazy himself.

"O merciful Father! can _my daughter be alive_? Did she escape that awful ma.s.sacre? Is this a dream? Am I going mad? Oh, grant that no hope may be awakened to be dashed from me again!"

Mansfield was equally excited. The cold sweat came upon his face, and it seemed as if his heart stood still, and could never recover its power.

It is difficult to conceive of a keener torment--a more excruciating agony than that which is produced by the awakening--the sudden bringing to life of a long-buried hope. The extremes of joy and pain are the same, but the culminating point of the latter is reached, when doubt--almost and yet not quite _uncertainty_--is a part of the former.

It is impossible for a human being to quietly bear it. Relief must be found in some direction, or the sufferer's reason will flee.

The painful affliction of Abbot and his wife was known to the entire settlement, and they had the heartfelt sympathy of every one. It was believed by all that the wife was dying of a broken heart. She was silent and remained at home, seeking the society of no one. She had become pale and fearfully emaciated, seeming resigned and anxious for the death that was so fast approaching. Her only desire was to rejoin her sainted child, where no murderer's hand could ever separate them.

After the father had, in some degree, regained command of himself, he pa.s.sed out of the house again, without speaking to his wife, and made his way back to where a knot of the settlers were discussing the all-absorbing question. Here he found with _painful joy_--for those two words express exactly his emotion--that the belief was quite general that Marian might possibly be alive and a prisoner among the Indians.

"I tell you it won't be the fust time such a thing has happened,"

remarked Dingle impressively, "there's no tellin' what capers them Shawnees are up to. In course, there's a powerful heap of chances that the gal has gone under, but h'yer's as thinks it ain't noways onpossible that the gal is kickin' yet. Now, Jim Peterson, tell the truth for once; is you sartin that gal died when you dropped her on the boat? Mind you're on your oath."

"No, by the eternal, I don't _know_ she is dead, though I'd swear to it, on the Bible this minute."

"Wall, sir, h'yer's is goin' to the Shawnee towns and findin' out whether that gal is livin'."

"But," persisted Abbot, who seemed determined to receive no false basis for his hope, "how can she be there? Have you not been to all the towns, and had an opportunity of judging. You certainly would have heard of her before this time."

"No; I don't know as I would. Them Shawnees ar' all the time up to such tricks that no one can begin to keep track of 'em. Freeze me, and Lord bless you, man, I don't want to make you think I am going to find your gal for you and then have her dead all the time. You must be ready for disappointment."