CHAPTER XIII.

_The Cave and the Contest for Life._

AFTER two days spent in the cabin, Nettleton became excessively uneasy. From something which had transpired, he conceived that old Madge knew more of Walker’s whereabouts than she had yet confessed. This conviction, once formed, was but the prelude to action. Without informing any one of his purpose, he followed the old woman into the woods—whither she went in pursuit of her medicaments—having in his hands a stout rope. In a wild, retired spot, he confronted her.

“Look here, old critter, you’re close-mouthed, when it would be better for your health to talk a little. Now, you jist tell me where Captain Walker has taken Miss Mamie. Talk straight, and not a gap in the fence.”

“I don’t know where he has gone,” she answered, rather evasively.

“That is, you are a nat’ral-born know-nothing. Well, it will assist your memory, perhaps, to stretch your neck a little, jist to take the kinks out, you know; so pass your shock of tow into this ’ere noose, while I pull you up on that limb.” And suiting the action to the word he flung the noose dextrously over her head. She was taken by surprise, and trembling in every limb, asked:

“Would you hang me?”

“Sartain as there’s a tree and here’s a rope.”

“I don’t know where Walker is, but I think he has a place of refuge down the river, near the Ghost Swamp. There is a cave in the river’s bank, opposite to the swamp, where I know his confederates occasionally secrete themselves. He may have gone there; but, as he has been gone over two days, I don’t see why he should be there now. It is my opinion, however, that Miss Mamie, as you call her, is there, as it is the best place to keep her.”

“Ah, thank you, old Mrs. Crow’s-foot. There is something more on your mind, isn’t there?”

Madge looked at him inquiringly.

“I know all about your friend’s visit; so do you jist play your cards right, or I’ll catch ye niggin.”

This allusion to her “friend” startled the old woman.

“He was no friend of mine; he came along on his own account, and I only gave him bread, as I give any one who is hungry.”

“All right; only, what did he tell you?”

She hesitated. Nettleton gave the rope a twitch, and looked up at the limb. The hint was enough.

“The man said he was up from below on a scout. He was anxious to know what I knew about the voice of a woman which he said had been heard all along the river. He heard it distinctly as he passed the road along the river by the Ghost Swamp; others had heard it, and he believed that I could tell him as to its meaning. I told him it was a sign that he was singled out for death—that every person who heard it was called, and he might, therefore, make up his mind that his time was come. With that he left. I did not inform him of who was in my cabin, nor any thing about what had happened here. So I hope you will let me go, and frighten me no more.”

Nettleton slowly lifted the noose from her neck, and, without another word, walked back to the cabin. He called out Lieutenant Wells, who was then watching at the captain’s bedside, and the two friends held a long consultation together, which ended by an order for a guard of twenty to be ready for a night expedition.

By ten o’clock all were in readiness and on their way, taking the river path down stream. Wells was in command. Nettleton acted as scout and guide. All night long they pressed on, and daylight found them on the hills opposite the spot indicated by Madge as the locality of the cave in the bank. Asking Wells for his field-glass, Nettleton carefully scrutinized the river’s bank opposite. After a short survey he suddenly exclaimed:

“_The Ingen_, as sure as Sacramento!”

“What do you say?” inquired Wells.

“Fall-leaf—see him—there he lays, and there is the cave. I’m blest if I know what to make of it. I supposed, _of course_, that that red-skin was roasted alive in the mill; but there he is, and here I goes.”

So saying, down he dashed into the river, and forded its waters rapidly. Once on the opposite side, he hurried up the bank, and soon reached the ledge across which the Indian was lying. The poor fellow was but half conscious from over-fatigue and hunger, yet his eyes were fixed with cat-like vigilance upon the aperture of the cave, while his hand still firmly clasped the knife upon which he relied to do his deadly work.

Nettleton approached him silently, and touched his feet. At once the Indian looked behind him.

“Give Fall-leaf drink—quick!” was his hurried whisper, while the finger on his lip indicated silence.

Nettleton comprehended all at a glance. Passing his canteen and knapsack to Fall-leaf, he beheld the Indian drink and eat with satisfaction. Not a word passed between them.

“Good! Fall-leaf _much_ weak; now strong again,” he whispered.

“Where’s Miss Mamie?”

The Indian pointed to the cavern.

“Walker, too?”

Fall-leaf nodded, and scowled so fiercely that Nettleton perceived the savage wanted no interference in his case.

“Shan’t I do the job for ye?”

“No—Fall-leaf _mad_. Me kill ’em—you go way.”

“That’s the talk, Ingen. You shall have your man; but, Jerusalem, don’t I ache to git my paws on him!”

A noise was now heard in the cave; it was Walker’s voice. “I’ll not permit you to sing, I again tell you. If those men crossing the river are Union soldiers, you shall not betray our whereabouts, and if Fall-leaf moves I’ll shoot him!”

“Bah, you ornery cuss; _I’m_ on your track now!” shouted Nettleton.

“William—dear William!” cried the captive woman, recognizing his voice.

“_Here!_” he responded, “and so chock full of the devil that if I don’t get rid of it soon it will spile me. Walker, you dirty beast, dare you fight me?” he yelled.

“I dare fight any decent antagonist, but don’t care to dirty my hands with you,” was the reply.

“Oh, you nasty, miserable, thievin’ woman-stealer, man-assassinator. I’ll cook your breakfast for you, but Fall-leaf shall eat it; _he’ll_ dirty his hands with _you_!”

“I defy you and all your crew,” growled the rebel. “If one of you dares to show your head, you are a dead man!”

“Blast yer picter, here’s a head—shoot it!” cried Nettleton, sticking his head out in a manner to dare Walker’s fire.

The scoundrel was prepared, and discharged his gun in an instant. Its report had not ceased its echo ere Fall-leaf, with a bound like a panther, dropped before the entrance of the hole. Walker stood there with knife in hand, to foil any such attempt to storm his castle. A quick blow with his foot sent the Indian headlong over the ledge.

“Try that on me,” roared Nettleton, who, uninjured by the ball from Walker’s musket, was at the Indian’s heels.

No sooner said than done, and Nettleton received an unexpected blow in the bowels from the rebel’s heavy boot which sent him almost instantly over the ledge after Fall-leaf.

That was the propitious moment for escape. Without a word to his captive, he passed out upon the ledge, and had nearly reached its terminus when Lieutenant Wells, followed by his men, confronted the desperate man. Drawing his revolver, Wells cried:

“Surrender or you are a dead man!”

“I never will surrender to you,” was the fierce reply, as the now cornered desperado began slowly to retire, backward, to regain his stronghold.

He had retreated fully half-way to the entrance, when his heel caught in the rough floor of the ledge, and his balance was lost. For a moment he sought to regain his foothold, but, finding it gone, he gave a shout and leaped over the precipice.

The soldiers looked over the ledge and saw his form disappear in the trees beneath. Wells did not wait, but rushed to the cavern mouth.

“Miss Mamie.”

A form darkened the passage, and within stood Miss Hayward, smiling and blushing as if just caught at her toilet.

With a cry of joy Wells entered and clasped her to his bosom.

“Safe and uninjured! Thank God—thank God!” answered the maiden.

“Safe and restored; and, thank God, your brother, too, is recovered, and is now in our hands, doing well!”

“Then I am happy, indeed!” she could only reply, while tears of joy checked further utterance.

Wells had entirely forgotten Walker, in his moment of sweet communion with his restored friend. But, a shout which came up from the depths below recalled him to duty. It was a wild Indian war-whoop; then a succession of ejaculations which the men could plainly distinguish.

“Go in, Ingen!” “Walk along, Walker, you darn skunk you!” “There, that’s a good un, Ingen!” “Now another in the corn-crib!” “There he goes!” “Hooray for the Ingen!”

All well knew the meaning of this, and a number of the men hastened to the base of the cliff, by a long, roundabout path, which came up from the river at the ford below. They arrived to find Walker slain, and Fall-leaf badly cut in the face, arms and shoulders, but no serious wounds on the body. Nettleton stood over his friend, bathing his wounds in the clear waters of the river.

“Ingen’s done for the cut-throat, sure. It was mean to shut me out; but it was his game, ’cause he treed it. I’d give all I’ll ever be worth—”

“Would you give Sally?” put in one of the men.

“Dang Sally—no, dang my skin—that is, dang me if I wouldn’t give my commission, boys, that’s it! give my commission to have had the satisfaction of doin’ Fall-leaf’s work.” Nettleton looked savagely at the body of the dead man, seeming to feel that he had made a personal sacrifice in permitting the Indian to kill his enemy.

It would appear that both Fall-leaf and Nettleton, when kicked off the ledge, fell at its foot without injury, as the base was banked up to a considerable distance with the decayed and water-soaked _débris_ of the bank, down which they rolled into the water. They had recovered, and stepped out into the stream to look up to the ledge, when they beheld Wells and Walker confronted. In a moment the rebel staggered, and went bounding off the ledge, and, like his two antagonists, came tumbling and sliding down the declivity, landing at the water’s brink upon his feet. There he was received by the Indian, with the wild whoop which startled those above. Nettleton, in honor bound not to interfere, stood by while the two fierce foes closed in deadly conflict. Walker, though a resolute and strong man, was not equal in a knife fight to the supple savage. After a few passes, Fall-leaf buried his knife in the rebel’s bosom. Thus closed the career of a bad man—bad by nature, but rendered doubly bad by the cause which he espoused. To serve that cause he had to betray his country, desert his friends, stifle the voice of conscience, perjure his honor, become a hypocrite and a deceiver: after that, all other degrees of crime were easy.

Wells followed the men at length, and appeared on the spot. He was shocked at the sight before him, but conceded its justice. His own wish was to have secured Walker for trial and punishment according to military law; yet, it must be acknowledged that, many times, he felt like wreaking condign personal vengeance on the head of the man who had wrought so successfully in crime. He ordered the body to be buried in the _débris_ at the foot of the cliff; and there it reposes to-day, with no monument save the cave above, which will long remain as a witness to the traitor’s crime and traitor’s doom.