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Updated: June 16, 2025
Bess says if complications don't set in, blood-poison or something to start a fever, he'll be up shortly. Wetzel believes the two of 'em will be on the trail inside of a week." "Did they find Brandt?" asked Helen in a low voice. "Yes, they ran him to his hole, and, as might have been expected, it was Bing Legget's camp. The Indians took Jonathan there." "Then Jack was captured?"
They're scattered all over. Simon Girty, since his crowning black deed, the massacre of the Christian Indians, is in hiding. Bing Legget now has the field. He's a hard nut, a cunning woodsman, and capable leader who surrounds himself with only the most desperate Indians and renegades. Brandt is an agent of Legget's and I'll bet we'll hear from him again."
Jonathan bowed his head, ashamed to let his friend see the tears that dimmed his eyes. "Jack, we've follered the trail fer years together. Always you've been true an' staunch. This is our last, but whatever bides we'll break up Legget's band to-night, an' the border'll be cleared, mebbe, for always. At least his race is run. Let thet content you.
He could see the column of yellow and black smoke. Once fairly under way, the flames rapidly consumed the pitch-pine logs. In an hour Legget's cabins were a heap of ashes. The afternoon waned. Brandt lay watchful, slowly recovering his strength. He felt secure under this cover, and only prayed for night to come. As the shadows began to creep down the sides of the cliffs, he indulged in hope.
We'll meet under thet big dead tree. I allow we can see it from anywhere around. We'll leave the trail here, an' take it up farther on. Legget's goin' straight for his camp; he ain't losin' an inch. He wants to get in that rocky hole of his'n." Wetzel stepped off the trail, glided into the woods, and vanished.
"I just had a glimpse of the lower island, as we passed an opening in the thicket," said Jonathan. "We ain't far away," replied Wetzel. The bordermen walked less rapidly in order to proceed with more watchfulness. Every rod or two they stopped to listen. "You think Legget's across the river?" asked Jonathan. "He was two days back, an' had his gang with him.
Legget's got his hands full jest now with the redskins. He's hevin' trouble keepin' them on this slow trail. I ain't sayin' they're skeered; but they're mighty restless." "Will you take the chance now?" "I reckon you needn't hev asked thet." "Tell me the lay of the land." "Wai, if we get to this rock I spoke 'bout, we'll be right over 'em. It's ten feet high, an' we can jump straight amongst 'em.
Who's disposin' of 'em for this fellar?" "Where's Brandt from?" asked Wetzel. "Detroit; he's a French-Canadian." Wetzel swung sharply around, his eyes glowing like wakening furnaces. "Bing Legget's a French-Canadian, an' from Detroit. Metzar was once thick with him down Fort Pitt way 'afore he murdered a man an' became an outlaw. We're on the trail, Jack."
Dead gold and bright red foliage flamed everywhere. Two Indians stood near by silent, immovable. No other of Legget's band was visible. Helen watched the red men. Sinewy, muscular warriors they were, with bodies partially painted, and long, straight hair, black as burnt wood, interwoven with bits of white bone, and plaited around waving eagle plumes.
"You won't be a loser if you can get back to Detroit with your scalp. I'll pay you in horses and gold. Once we reach Legget's place we're safe." "What's yer plan about gittin' the gal?" asked Metzar. Brandt leaned forward and spoke eagerly, but in a low tone. "Git away on hoss-back?" questioned Metzar, visibly brightening. "Wal, that's some sense. Kin ye trust ther other party?"
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