CHAPTER VII.

OVERBOARD.

The surprise of the occupants of the log-cabin by the river was sudden and complete, when at a late hour the house was surrounded by a motley group headed by a man who, in spite of his paint and feathers, could not hide from so acute a scout as Samuel Wescott that he was a white man in disguise. The rush was so sudden that they had been overthrown before they had fairly time to reach their weapons, and the captured men were at once hurried to their horses, and the band made off at a rapid rate up the stream. Mr. Wescott was wounded, but in spite of that the savage white leader urged him on, threatening him with the point of his knife if he faltered or turned aside. They reached the river, when, to the surprise of all, a flat-boat shot out from the western bank and made toward the eastern shore. The men who held the poles were either white men or showed a marvelous aptitude for flat-boating, an accomplishment rarely to be looked for in an Indian who is not in love with manual labor. The bow of the flat grated on the low beach, when the party went on board, horses and all, and they pushed out into the stream.

“This boat belonged to Captain Hughes’ father,” whispered Sadie. “Is it possible that these wretches have murdered him and his crew?”

“He ought to have come down some days ago,” said Mr. Wescott, in an uneasy tone. “I am afraid that the good old man has indeed fallen. Be careful what you say, for these scoundrels understand every word you speak.”

At this moment the chief approached and caught Mr. Wescott by his wounded arm, causing him to utter a low cry of pain, while the blood gushed from under his hand.

“No whispering,” he hissed, dropping all at once his assumed Indian habits. “I’m no baby, Sam Wescott, but a bird of the woods, a Mississippi roarer, and I can lick the universal earth a-flying.”

“Dick Garrett!” cried Wescott, in a tone of surprise. “I thought so.”

“You know me, do ye?” said Dick, with an air of bravado. “All right, ’square, it’s all the wuss for you, for Dick Garrett don’t let no man live that knows he wears an Injin rig. Git ropes hyar and take a couple of hitches on this chap, some of you fellers.”

“What do you intend to do?” cried Wescott, struggling. “Hands off, you scoundrels!”

“Tie him tight, boys,” replied Dick Garrett, in fiendish glee. “Teach the cuss to be so sharp, I will, before I git done with him. Now, then, Sam Wescott, if you’ve got any prayers to say, say ’em quick, for overboard you go when we get to that snag in the river.”

“You cannot mean it,” said Wescott. “Such a cold blooded and unprovoked murder—”

“Oh, give us a rest or I’ll gag you,” replied Dick Garrett. “The matter of a man more or less in the world ain’t going to shake it to its center, you bet, and when I say you’ve got to go under, then you go.”

“Have your way, then, murderous wretch,” cried the brave man, drawing himself up proudly. “I will not beg for my life from such as you, and am ready to die, if my time has come, as bravely as another. Do your worst.”

Sadie by this time began to comprehend the danger in which her father stood, and would have come to him, but she was forced back by one of the rough men who wore the Indian garb, but who could not conceal a certain flat-boat swagger which betrayed him.

“He crows loud, boys, don’t he?” said Garrett; “mighty loud for a bird of his feather that’s only got three minnits to live. Keep the gal away; she ain’t got leave to die yet.”

“Let me go to my father,” pleaded Sadie. “Oh, sir, you will not kill him for a single hasty word?”

“I rather think I shall,” replied Garrett, as cool and composed as if talking of any ordinary event. “The man’s got to go. I don’t advertise to be a saint, and when a man runs ag’inst me and calls me a murderer, I reckon it’s about time for him to pass in his chips. I’m a peaceable man—I will _have_ peace, or a fight.”

This strange man was dreadfully in earnest. Human life was to him a thing of no price—we might lose it to-day or to-morrow, of we might live a hundred years—a small matter, not to be taken into account. He had no objections to killing a man, and if he had stood in his way, in any manner, it became a _duty_ to put him aside.

They were approaching the snag, and the desperado was about to order the prisoner to be thrown into the water, when the boatmen were suddenly thrust aside, and Minneoba, holding her bow in her hand, darted forward and leveled an arrow at his breast.

“Look, white man,” she cried, “Minneoba is the daughter of Black-Hawk, and she can not lie; if you do harm to the good white man, I will send an arrow through your heart.”

“Why, you cat!” hissed Dick Garrett, turning upon her with a devilish look. “Stand out of the way.”

But Minneoba would not obey him. It was the second time she had found her arrow effective, and it had some influence upon the man who “would have peace or a fight.” Although full of mad hate, he knew that she could aim an arrow well, for he had seen her skill tested in the Indian towns.

“What in the devil’s name made me bring this cat on board?” he uttered. “Better far have left her behind to find her way to the village as best she could. Look you, Minneoba,” he added aloud. “You know that I would not willingly do you a wrong, but you must get out of the way.”

“No,” replied Minneoba, stamping her foot. “Minneoba will not move, and if Garrett does wrong to the good white man, he shall die.”

“Now, my girl, be careful, please; I’ll have to take measures you won’t like if you don’t get out of the way.”

“Minneoba will shoot,” replied the girl, with flashing eyes, still pointing the arrow at his breast. Garrett nodded to one of his men, and while the leader expostulated with her he stole behind and suddenly caught her by the arm in a firm clasp. With a cry of anger the girl caught the arrow in her disengaged hand and drove it through the arm of her captor, who released her with an oath, but before she could strike again, Garrett had her in his arms.

“Now then, lads!” he cried. “I’ll hold this beauty fast, and if she struggles I’ll take toll from her lips.”

“Cease to struggle, Minneoba,” said Mr. Wescott. “You only expose yourself to new indignity without the chance of aiding me. I am ready to meet my fate, although it is a hard one, but it grieves me to think that I die by the hands of white men. Sadie, farewell—farewell, my dear child. All that I have is yours and your dear mother’s. Thank God that she at least was absent when this blow fell.”

“I can not see you die,” she sobbed. “Oh, Richard Garrett, will nothing move you to do right?”

“That depends on what you call _right_. Now you don’t think it right to beat a man at the picturs or billiards or to pick his pocket, or crack a bank. Now I do, so we won’t seem to agree, no matter how you fix it, so I guess we may as well end this now. Toss him over, boys.”

“It don’t seem scarcely right,” said the rough young fellow who was helping Sadie back. “Why not duck him, and then let him out, boss?”

“Because he knows I wear an Injin disguise. It’s all very well for you that he don’t know, but I ain’t so easy suited. Toss him over, I say, and make no words.”

They lifted the bound man and flung him over the rail, while with a thrilling shriek Sadie fell senseless into the arms of the man who held her. He laid her gently down, and made a spring at the taffrail, and his body struck the water almost as soon as that of Mr. Wescott, who was unable to help himself.

“Come back here, you born fool,” screamed Dick Garrett. “What do you think the Cap will say when he hears how you act?”

“You go to ——,” said the rough but good-hearted fellow, naming a locality not sought after by humanity generally. “I’m going to save this man.”

“Then by ——” hissed Dick Garrett, “you stay with him; set in your poles, boys. Tom don’t want to come on board.”

By this time the man had seized the helpless form of Wescott, and with his clasp-knife managed to cut the bonds upon his hands and feet, and Wescott at once began to swim, but feebly at first, and the fiendish order of the desperate leader rung in his ears, and they saw the boat moving slowly away, leaving them alone on the wide river.

“We’re done, stranger,” said the man called Tom. “I done my best, but he’s run from us.”

“You can swim to the bank,” said Mr. Wescott, noting with what ease the man sustained himself.

“I reckon.”

“Then do so and leave me to my fate,” replied Wescott. “You have already risked too much for me.”

“When I quit a man in that way I reckon you’d better call round with a rope and string me up. It’ll suit me fust rate. Let the current take ye square; we’ll fetch up somewhere I reckon, and when we do, and I onc’t git on the trail of that Dick Garrett, won’t I make him howl!”

Even as he spoke the two men were moving on a course diagonal with the current, the stronger man giving all the support he could to his wounded companion. But the shore seemed far away and Wescott felt that he could not go much further.

“Save yourself,” he gasped. “My wound has opened again and I am losing strength.”

“I won’t do it,” replied Tom, through his set teeth. “Hold up a little; I’ll save you yet.”

“There is no hope,” replied Wescott. “Avenge me if you can and save my daughter from that villain. You can do me better service in that way than by staying with me now.”

At this moment the surge came down heavily and buried the speaker beneath the water. Tom paddled to and fro, looking for him in vain, for the water had claimed its prey, and nerving himself to the task the young man struck out resolutely for the shore, which he reached nearly exhausted. Then he ran along the bank and looked for some sign of Wescott, but he looked in vain. The surface of the river was blank.