James Bowen - Scouting Dave

“Oh, spare me, spare me this, and my eternal gratitude shall be yours.”

“Sorry I couldn’t do it, my rosy. But these ’ere sufferin’ Injins would tommyhawk ye in less’n no time. Seems to me ye’re mighty ungrateful, seein’ as I saved yer from ’em jest a bit agone.”

“Let me go now, and if I must fall a prey to their ferocity, so be it. Anything is preferable – even death itself.”

“Couldn’t possibly listen to any such thing, not even to ’commodate my sweetheart. My heart’s tender, an’ I couldn’t bear to see your purty head chopped in two pieces by the red-men. All I cum over for was to find ye, an’ take ye home with me. Maybe I’ll make it in my way to wipe out that baby-face what’s been enjoyin’ the smiles I coveted all this time. I’d be really happy to oblige ye, but the fact is, ye’re a little down in the mouth to-day, and will fell better when ye come to think it all over; when ye find Charley don’t mourn for the absence of his mistress.”

“Oh, you cannot – you will not harm Charles Markley,” the suffering girl pleaded. “He has never done anything to harm you.”

“I tell you, gal,” broke in the renegade, fiercely, “he has done enough. If nothin’ more, he’s stood in my way – he’s enjoyed the smiles I was a-dyin’ for – he couldn’t walk on the ground where my shadder had passed, because I’s a little wild; but he’s played with a whirlwind, an’ he must take the shock of it.”

The dark man turned partly away as he ceased speaking, and stood for some moments regarding the fiery scene before him. Dreadful had been the first misery of the maiden, now it seemed a thousand times enhanced. Father, brother, self – all were swallowed up in anxiety for the fate of another – one even dearer than life itself. Oh, that she could fly to him, and warn him of the danger that would soon burst upon his devoted head. Reason seemed giving away beneath the dread accumulation of misery. Soon she was aroused by the rough voice of her persecutor.

“I don’t suppose ye’ll feel like trampin’ far to-night, if ye have yer own hoss to ride on. I may as well tell ye, ye’re goin’ back to my snug little home across the great river; when ye get there ye’ll have all that heart can crave, an’ a good, lovin’ husband besides. You’re not goin’ to be forced along as fast as the red legs o’ these braves can carry ’em. Ye’ll be took along easy, an’ used like a queen, if ye mind how to talk. To-night ye’ll go out a mile or two, an’ camp. In the mornin’ ye can move ahead slowly. You see I hev’ arranged everything for yer comfort. Probably they’re anxious to be off; so, if ye’ll mount, I’ll help ye!”

He stooped and unbound the thong, and, raising her in his arms as if a mere child, placed her upon the saddle. Emily did not resist. She knew it would be in vain, and only subject her to fresh indignities.

“Now, my fine Emily,” he said, as the dusky guard gathered about her, “I must bid you good-bye for a few days. I’m goin’ with old Black Hawk to settle up a few scores what have stood out too long already, an’ then I’m back to yer side again.”

Addressing a few words in their own tongue to the Winnebagoes, which she did not understand, Wild Bill moved away, and was soon mixed with the savages, who were now gathering for fresh scenes of violence.

No eye, save that above – saw the dark, tall figure which glided within a yard of some of the savages, and plunged rapidly into the forest. Could Wild Bill have seen that figure he might have felt less at ease. As the renegade disappeared, the party acting under his command moved cautiously from the spot, carrying the suffering Emily to a fate ten thousand times worse than death.

Another scene opens, upon the same afternoon, in the wide-spread forest, some miles from the cabin of the Hinton family. Around the rude but strong cabin of a settler, several acres of the primitive forest had been felled, allowing the full sunlight to kiss the dark-brown cheek of the sleeping earth. Wild fields were there, into which the seed already had been placed, to germinate and fructify during the coming season.

Upon the borders of this clearing stood a young man, busily engaged in felling one of the forest monarchs. Although not above the medium height, his broad chest and muscular development proclaimed him a true son of the border. The heavy axe he wielded rose and fell with regular strokes, sending showers of chips flying merrily through the air. Already the work was half done, and, resting his axe upon the ground, Charles Markley threw his bearskin cap beside it; then, drawing a worn handkerchief from his pocket, he wiped the beaded sweat which stood in great drops upon his brow. Throwing the handkerchief upon the cap, the youth changed his position, and opened another shower of blows, which rung merrily through the old wood.

At length the giant trembled beneath the steady strokes; then wavered and toppled for a moment, as if in uncertainty. Once, twice, thrice the axe was planted heavily, and, with a steady sweep, like that of a rushing cloud, the old oak thundered to the ground.

The young man regarded his work for a moment in a satisfied manner, then glanced at the sinking sun – picked up the neglected cap, and seated himself upon the large trunk. For some moments he remained in a reverie.

“I’d like to see Emily,” he mused, “but I think I’d better not go over to-night. ’Tis just a year to-day since her poor mother died, and it must be a sad recurrence to them. Poor Emily; it was a terribly hard blow to her, and the sorrow it caused is not all effaced yet. But she will soon be my wife; then, I feel sure she will forget those old sorrows in her new joys.”

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