CHAPTER XI.

TREASON IN THE CAMP.

Colonel O’Neill’s face grew red and white by turns with rage.

He looked at the writing until the letters swam before his eyes.

His prey had escaped, and he swore roundly for several minutes before a gentlemanly word passed his lips.

“Murphy,” he said, his anger slumbering but not appeased. “Murphy, you, with two men, will await the arrival of the command at this point, and will proceed with it to the destination communicated by me to Gosnoke.”

“Pray, where does our colonel go?” asked Murphy, who ventured because he was on familiar terms with O’Neill.

“I’m going after Funk. By heavens! that scoundrel shall not escape me. He’s abandoned the boats somewhere up the river, and taken to the forest trails. But how did he know that we were waiting here?”

“Ah! that puzzles the b’hoys, kurnel,” said an Irish soldier. “Faith an’ they must hev smelt us, fur devil a noise did we make among the trees.”

“Some dastardly red-skin has betrayed us, Teddy,” said O’Neill, coloring again. “Now, Murphy, mind what I have told you. The trail they would take, I think, leads in a north-westerly direction to the lake shore. It can be reached by marching due west from this point; but I am not acquainted with the forest hereabout.”

“Methinks, I can lead you to the trail,” said a man who, though clad in English uniform, was no soldier. “I’ve tramped these parts several times. By good marching, we can reach the falls of Beaver river by eleven. There we will strike the Detroit trail and discover something of Roy Funk.”

The Briton was pleased, and a few minutes later disappeared with his men in the funereal recesses of the wood.

“I agree with the Indian. There’s no use in running our legs off after we have eluded the foe. It’s a long way to Detroit, and we might as well rest here as on the lake shore. Boys, I apprehend no pursuit. Splitlog, of course, will not follow, and O’Neill will lead his regiment to the lakes when it joins him on the river. The Indian counsels a rest till morning. He has walked us fast, and Miss Armstrong is greatly fatigued.”

The words just written fell from Royal Funk’s lips, several hours after O’Neill’s disappointment in the ambush.

He stood on the bank of a narrow stream which, in those days, bore the rather pretentious cognomen of Beaver _river_. At this point a beautiful cascade added to the wild scenery, and he faced his Night-Hawks, who had just halted from a fatiguing march.

“Of course we are willin’ to rest, cap’n,” said one of the men. “That is, if you really think it best to do so, and of course you would not talk as you hev if you did not. A rest till daylight will do us no harm; but,” and the speaker approached Funk and glanced at a half-naked Indian leaning against a tree, as he lowered his voice, “but, cap’n, do you fully trust the Wyandot?”

“Why should I call him a traitor? Because he has just saved our lives, Whalley? He’s a genuine Wyandot; I’ve seen him a hundred times with Splitlog. But what have you against ’im?”

“Nothin’, cap’n, nothin’,” answered Whalley; “only I wanted to know if you thought him sound.”

“Don’t fear for Spagano,” said Funk. “He’s a faithful fellow. Remember, we would have rowed into O’Neill’s muskets if it hadn’t been for him.”

The Indian upon hearing his name pronounced left the tree and came forward.

He was a tall, muscular fellow, naked to the waist, and wore a crest of painted dove feathers.

“What Night-Hawks want with Spagano?” he asked, in broken English.

“Nothing. But hold, chief. Where had we best camp to-night—here or across the river?”

“Here,” and, with a curious smile, the Indian described a circle with his hand. “We safe this side Beaver—not so safe, p’r’aps, on other side.”

Preparations for a sojourn till day, on the bank of Beaver river, were at once inaugurated by the party, and several of the outlaws employed themselves in catching fish below the falls.

Spagano, the Wyandot guide, lingered about the little camp.

To him the outlaws owed their lives. It was in this manner:

Immediately after rounding the bend that shut the exiles from Splitlog’s sight, an Indian made his appearance on the river-bank, and Funk was induced to take him in. He proved to be the bearer of startling news, and declared that he was acting in accordance with the wishes of the Wyandot sachem—Splitlog.

Colonel O’Neill and two hundred soldiers (the Indian’s exaggerated statement) were waiting for the outlaws at Dead Tree Bend. They were well armed, and the colonel was determined to rid the “fire-lands” of the Night-Hawks at one blow.

Royal Funk believed the Indian and ran his boats ashore. Then debarking, he wrote the message that so irritated the Briton, and sent the canoes adrift.

The journey to the lake-shore had now to be performed overland, and as the Wyandot was desirous of visiting Detroit, he was made the head guide of the party. Before the brave’s appearance, Funk felt that his red-coated rival lay somewhere in ambush; but now he believed that he had successfully eluded him, and that they would not meet in the forest again.

Spagano was impatient, and ill at ease as he helped prepare the camp.

More than once he glanced furtively at Huldah Armstrong, reclining on a robe at the foot of a sturdy oak, and often paused in his labors as if to catch certain sounds for which he seemed to be waiting. While gathering brushwood, for the fire, he made several lengthy journeys into the forest, and in the dim light, he practiced the old savage habit of listening with the ear applied to the ground.

Once Roy Funk came suddenly upon Spagano in this attitude of detecting sounds, and inquired into his action.

“Indian listening for British footsteps; but none come to his ears.”

Funk was satisfied with the reply, and commended the Wyandot’s watchfulness.

It was ten or perhaps quite eleven o’clock before the rude camp was finished, and after midnight but three persons therein appeared awake. The trio consisted of Spagano and two Night-Hawks. The recumbent forms of the remaining outlaws, including their leader, lay in the light of the dying fire, and resembled wooden statues more than breathing clay.

The white guards sat at the foot of a large tree; Spagano stood erect and wide-awake, a few feet to their right.

“Whalley, I’m as sleepy as a winter-treed b’ar,” said one of the men, in his uncouth tongue. “Say, haven’t I nodded a little within this past hour or such matter? I don’t see what’s come over me to-night. I know my chin has pounded my knees while we’ve been sittin’ here. But I can’t help it, Whalley; and if I do drop asleep, you’ll let me go, and keep mum to the captain, won’t you?”

“Yes, but keep awake if you can, Zigler,” returned Whalley, and a yawn stretched his mouth to its greatest dimensions. “Mind ye, if we go to sleep, that Indian kin do as he pleases, and we might wake up and find ourselves as dead as a herrin’.”

“Dead or no dead, Whalley, I’ve got to sleep,” drawled Zigler. “Wonder where that Injun got his whisky? Never had any to affect my _eyes_ afore.”

Whalley here glanced at the Wyandot, who stood immobile against the tree, looking into the darkness of the wood.

“If I thought he had drugged the whisky, curse me if I wouldn’t—”

He paused suddenly, for Zigler was asleep!

“Zig, this won’t do!” he said, with a smile, shaking his companion’s shoulder lightly. “We’re in the frying-pan yet. Wake up!”

Zigler responded with a swinish grunt.

“Well, sleep then,” said Whalley, supplementing his words with an oath. “I’ll watch the Indian _my_self!”

He fastened his eyes upon the Wyandot; but soon the Indian faded into a bluish mist, as it were, and the watcher was asleep, like his comrade!

Spagano looked at the sleepers, and glanced from them to the flask hanging at his waist. The glance was fraught with triumph, and breathed of the red-man’s proverbial treachery to the white.

He watched the guards for several minutes and then approached. The scrutiny pleased him, and he crawled from the camp and disappeared in the forest. He moved down the trail which the Night-Hawks had lately traversed, and thirty yards from the camp paused and put his ear to the ground.

All at once he started to his feet, and sprung toward the camp.

Excitement burned in his swarthy face; but he was calm withal, and when on the edge of the light of the dying fire, he dropped to the ground, and after listening a moment with head turned toward the wood, crawled forward to Huldah Armstrong’s cot.

Spagano was proving himself a traitor, and his bearing told that this was not his first Judas act.

He reached the robe-couch, and bent over the sleeping girl.

She lay near Roy Funk, who tossed uneasily about, the victim of some terrible dream.

It seemed impossible for Spagano to steal the girl, if theft was his intention, without rousing her, but he proved himself equal to the emergency.

Suddenly stooping, he clapped one brawny hand over the bright-red lips, while the other snatched their owner from the ground, in the twinkling of an eye!

Then he sprung backward over the sleeping Night-Hawks; but was brought to an abrupt stand by the sound of rushing feet.

He leaned forward and looked with an expression of satisfaction, which was soon transformed into one of horror.

For Colonel O’Neill appeared, like a giant, in the flickering light, and the savage caught a glimpse of a phalanx of red-coats in his rear.

What would be done?

It was evident that Spagano was aiding parties other than O’Neill and Royal Funk, and that he had mistaken a deadly footstep for a friendly one.

He looked into the Briton’s eyes a moment, and then glanced at the sleeping outlaws.

The next instant he threw Huldah before his heart, and sprung toward the forest, a wild yell pealing from his throat as he executed the latter action.

The effect of spring and yell was electrical!

Royal Funk and all his comrades, save Whalley and Zigler, leaped to their feet, to be greeted with a volley from the British muskets.

It was a telling volley. Every Night-Hawk sunk back, either killed or wounded, and Spagano, the girl-stealer, reeled like a youthful drunkard.

Huldah Armstrong fell from his grasp, and the next moment Colonel O’Neill was at her side. As he stooped to lift her up, the Wyandot darted to his feet and hurled him back with the strength of a tiger.

Soldiers sprung to their leader’s aid; but ere they reached the spot Spagano and the girl were gone!

The red-coats caught a glimpse of the Indian’s dusky figure as he disappeared, and started to pursue. For several minutes his footsteps guided them, and then those sounds ceased. Colonel O’Neill was resolved that Huldah Armstrong should not escape him.

He had the fire fanned into a new existence, and soon a dozen torches flashed their lurid flames throughout the forest.

The soldiers knew that it was poor policy to hunt a hidden Indian with torches, but it was evident that Spagano was desperately, ay, mortally, wounded, and had fallen somewhere in the neighborhood. This conjecture, advanced by the colonel, was soon confirmed.

The Wyandot was found dead at the bottom of a forest knoll; but Huldah Armstrong was still missing!

“Blast the Indian!” hissed O’Neill, spurning the corpse with his foot. “He’s past torture, curse ’im! But the girl—we’ll find her yet. We must find her! A hundred guineas to the soldier who first discovers her.”