The Frontier Angel: A Romance of Kentucky Rangers' Life

"But I will perish. Have you a man in the fort named Jim Peterson?"

"Yes; what of it?"

"Call him; he will admit me if you will not."

"I don't know about that. Who are you?"

"Tell him Madison Drake wishes to see him."

The sentinel was too wary to leave his post. He suspected that this was a stratagem of the man to attack the gates; and yet, he reflected, that if he was innocent of any evil design, it was not right that he should be denied shelter. The commander had given imperative orders that no one should unfasten the gates after nightfall. So the sentinel adopted an artifice. He answered that he would call Peterson, and, at the same moment opened and closed the door. But he shut himself upon the outside, and remained a few moments listening. Hearing nothing, he concluded it was no risk to call the ranger. Accordingly he partly opened the door, put his head in quickly, and said in a loud tone:

"Peterson, there is a man named Madison Drake out here who wants to see you."

Had a thunderbolt fallen at the feet of Peterson it could not have startled him more. He was in the midst of a story, all life and animation, when the gruff words of the sentinel broke in so abruptly upon him. And yet it was not the words alone, but the name pronounced that so affected him, for Jim Peterson would have taken his solemn oath that that man was killed months before. He was sure of it, and what could the sentinel mean by breaking in upon them with such intelligence? He looked around upon the faces all turned expectantly toward him, waiting for the remainder of his story. He believed he must have been mistaken.

"What did that feller say?" he asked, looking half ashamed at asking the question.

"He said there was a man named Drake who wanted to see you. What makes you look so scared, Jim; I hope you don't owe him anything."

"Wal, by the eternal, that gits my time. Ef that man's alive, then I'll swear that men don't die now-a-days unless they want to."

"Why, what's up now?" asked Dingle.

"Don't you remember that name?" asked Peterson, turning towards our hero.

"I was just thinking I had heard it somewhere."

"Wal, sir, he was on the flat-boat with me when all was killed 'cepting me. Yes, sir."

Peterson shook his head meaningly and slapped his hand upon his knee as he uttered these words:

"Like enough it's him," said Dingle, "Freeze me to death, if you can tell what's goin' to happen now-a-days."

"It may be a decoy of McGable," added the commander. "It is unnecessary to caution you, Peterson. Nevertheless, I will accompany you."

The two went out on the platform. The wind was so strong as to nearly lift them off their feet, and the darkness so great that they barely discerned the form of the sentinel beside them.

"Where is he?" asked the commander.

"He will speak in a minute."

They listened, and finally the suffering man called out:

"Hello there, sentinel; hain't Peterson come out yet?"

"Yes, here I am; what do you want?" replied and asked the ranger.

"Don't you know me, Peterson? Don't you remember Madison Drake who was on the flat-boat with you?"

"Yes; but the one I knowed war killed that night. Be you him?"

"I am he. I was not killed, although well-nigh so. But, if you will not admit me, I will not live long, as I am nearly perished now."

"Have patience, Drake, a few minutes and I will see about it."

"Do you believe he is not trying to deceive us?" asked the commander, in a low tone.

"That's his voice – I'd swear to it 'mong ten thousand. But I'll swear, too, that he has been killed once!"

"Fudge! Jim, you ain't such a fool as that? Go down and let him in, if you ain't afraid. Remember what I said and be careful."

The ranger, without a word, turned and made his way downward. As he passed out toward the gate, it was not without considerable misgivings and a hearty wish that matters and things in general would not take it into their head to assume such mysterious and inexplicable a form to him. He had no fear of anything mortal, but he would have rather faced a dozen yelling Shawnees than the ghostly apparition which he believed was waiting for him upon the outside.

"Where'n thunder ar' you?" he demanded spitefully as he approached the gate.

"Here, just on the outside, half chilled to death," was the reply from the rattling teeth of the sufferer.

"Sure there ain't no reds about as ar' goin' to try to dodge in atween your legs?"

"No, no; and in Heaven's name, how much longer are you going to keep me here?"

"Wal, you needn't be so cross 'bout it."

With these words, Peterson cautiously unbarred the gate, and opened a small space. Instantly, a cold, wet skeleton-apparition glided through and stood trembling beside him.

"How are you, Jim? You don't appear glad to see me," it said, pushing a cold, bony hand toward him.

"Just wait – wait till I fasten this gate and then I'll go up to the block-house with you," replied the ranger, working at the massive bolts, and at the same time, glancing furtively over his shoulder, at what he believed to be a veritable ghost beside him.

"Now, give us your hand, Jim, for, if ever a white man was glad to see another, I am glad to see you: Jeh-u-u-u! ain't it cold?" exclaimed the apparition desperately, as a regular spasmodic shock shook him, and apparently ejected the words in a most unceremonious hurry from his rattling teeth. Peterson could not refuse the proffered hand; but, as he took it, he felt a cold chill crawl, from the finger ends of the ghost, up through his arms, clean to the crown of his head where it seemed to halt, gather in a big mass, and then separating into a number of arrowy needles, shoot through every part of his system, even contracting his very toes.

"How —how'r yer – 'tis cold – let's go in," he said, turning toward the block-house, and walking hurriedly away.

We should like to know whether any of our readers have been in a situation, where their greatest desire has been to get ahead as fast as possible, and yet they felt ashamed to either look behind them, or to increase their gait. If they have, they can appreciate the peculiar sensations of the really brave-hearted Peterson. Imagine yourself, on a dark night, when within a few rods of your own door, where you know your friends are peering into the darkness in expectation of your momentary arrival – we say imagine that, just at that moment, you hear a footfall behind you! You start and your heart commences to throb, and you hastily debate whether it is best to walk unconcernedly along, as though such a thing as fear never entered your head, or to glance behind you, and break into a regular run for the door. But ridicule, more potent than fear, prevents you, and you walk, it is true, a little faster, but as you push open the door, you cannot help shoving yourself in rather hurriedly, as your friends judge.

It was with feelings somewhat similar to these, that Peterson walked toward the block-house, his unwelcome visitor stalking after him.

"H'yer we is," he exclaimed, as he ushered him into the warm glowing room of the block-house, where the hardy backwoodsmen sat conversing.

"A dismal night, gentlemen," said Drake, bowing to the men, and approaching the fire, against which he turned his back and gazed composedly at the men. "A reg'lar snorter this night is; thought I'd freeze to death. Jeh-u-u-u! that fire feels good. But I can't blame you for your tardiness and suspicion in such times as these. Though Mad Anthony has taught the Indians manners, it seems that they forget them once in a while."

The hunters were not men to sit silent and unsocial when a stranger claimed their hospitality. They saw it was no ghost, but a veritable flesh and blood human being who stood before them. He was a tall, cadaverous-looking man, his face all hair and eyes, and yet his voice showed him to be a good-natured gentleman. His garments were soaked with water, which slowly dropped from his ragged shirt, and every turn of his clothes, and steamed constantly from them on account of his proximity to the fire. He was without weapons of any kind. Without waiting as long as it has taken us to introduce this description, the commander replied:

"A cold and dismal night indeed. Let me give you something to warm you within, for it is plain you need it."

"Thank you," replied Drake, taking the proffered cup of raw whiskey and swallowing it. "No more, thank you. I feel considerably better now."

"Why, Drake, that is you," suddenly exclaimed Peterson; "give us your hand and tell us how you are getting along."