The Frontier Angel: A Romance of Kentucky Rangers' Life

The speed with which the Frontier Angel moved through the wood was wonderful. She neither seemed to run nor walk, but to glide as silently and swiftly as a specter over the ground. Her companions did not run, but they executed an amount of what might properly be termed "tall walking."

On – on she led them like the ignis fatuus, brushing through the dripping branches, tumbling over the gnarled and twisted roots, splashing through the watery hollows, tearing their way through the tangled undergrowth, until after many a mile had been passed and hours had elapsed, she halted and said:

"Here is the spot."

At first, our friends were unable to pierce the darkness; but, after gazing steadily for a few moments, they discerned the faint outlines of a hill or swell in the ground in front. Still at a loss to understand how this could be their destination, Mansfield inquired:

"What is there here that can assist us in our search?"

" – Sh! some one approaches!" admonished the guide.

The snapping of a twig was heard, and presently the footsteps of persons. Our friends sank to the earth and silently waited their approach. Scarcely more than ten feet away they halted, and presently the guttural voice of a savage was heard. What he said was of course unintelligible to Mansfield, although Frontier Angel and Peterson understood every word. Despite the rain which was still falling, a huge torch instantly flashed out and displayed the gleaming visages of two Shawnees, stealing forward like the panther. At the very base of the hill or knoll alluded to, they halted. Here by the aid of the flickering torches, our friends were enabled to gain a view of its peculiarities. It merely resembled a mass of solid green earth, with a number of stones piled at the base. A moment later, the dusky warriors entered the cave, and swinging their torch overhead called out: "Pauquachoke! Pauquachoke!"

A shuffling, sliding over the ground was heard, and a bent, withered, old squaw appeared. For the benefit of our readers we will translate the Indian tongue into the English.

"What seeks the Shawnee chiefs?" asked the old squaw.

"The captive pale-face, bring her at once."

Thus commanded, the squaw clapped her hands three times, and with feelings which we leave to the imagination of the reader, our friends beheld Marian Abbot approach! She said nothing, but stood with her head meekly bent as if awaiting her doom. She appeared the same as when Mansfield had last seen her, except she was paler and more dejected.

The Frontier Angel had entered the cave behind the savages, so that all save Peterson were now within it. He had purposely remained outside to conceal his identity. The savages standing with their backs toward the entrance failed to see the shadows behind them, which might be said to be in fact a part of the gloom itself, so faint was the light of the torch.

There was no mistaking the meaning of the savages. Their glowing visages, doubly hideous in their horrid war paint, their weapons, their attitude,

One of the savages, placed his hand upon the knife in his belt and addressed Marian in broken English.

"White man, McGable dead – white gal die too."

"I am ready if you wish to kill me," she replied meekly.

"Pale-face wan't die. McGable say kill white gal ef he no come back. He no come back – white gal must die."

"I have told you I am ready – why do you wait. Strike, now, and may God forgive you both."

Still the savage hesitated. A baleful light glittered in his black eye as he surveyed the vision of loveliness before him. His hand toyed with the buckhorn handle of his knife, and his chest sank and rose like the billows of the sea. Several times the knife was partly withdrawn, until Marian wondering at the stillness and inaction, looked up and encountered the fiery gaze of the Indian. The latter forced his knife to its place, and sucking his breath between his teeth, demanded,

"White gal no want to die?"

"I have not deserved death, and I do not wish to die, but I am prepared for death and expect nothing else at your hands."

"Be Indian chief's squaw?" asked the Indian with the rapidity of lightning.

Marian started, as if stung by an adder, and gazed into the eyes which fairly scintillated their electric light into her own. She comprehended the meaning of the words in an instant.

"No, Indian, I cannot be your squaw."

"Then die – think two, tree time, afore speak agin."

"No, never, Indian, kill me if you will."

"Then die – !"

Marian darted backward with a piercing shriek, as the torch was dashed to the ground, and the savage sprang toward her. She had caught sight of a pale, horror-struck face that shot in from the mouth of the cave, and heard the words:

"We are here, Marian! Don't be frightened. We'll clear the cave of these monsters in a second!"

With ready wit, Marian had sprung one side, when the torch fell to the ground, and thus escaped the well-nigh fatal blow. All being blank darkness her assassin was at fault, even had he repeated the attempt. But the Indians scented danger that second, and dashing the torch to the earth, whisked out of the cave and were gone in a twinkling, escaping the murderous onslaught Peterson had prepared himself to give them as they emerged.

A few moments of necessary confusion followed the announcement of Mansfield's presence. Guided by the unerring instinct of love, he soon had Marian clasped in his arms. A fervent embrace and he led her forth. As they passed out of the entrance, the dark body of the old squaw brushed by them and scurried off in the darkness.

"Thank God, the dead is alive!" exclaimed Mansfield impulsively, pressing a kiss upon the cold cheek of Marian. "Can you bear the walk, dearest? it is a long way to your home; let me wrap this blanket around you."

"I can bear anything now!" she replied in a low tone. "Are the Indians gone?"

"None but friends are around you."

"I saw some one just now move by me."

"It is Pe – a friend."

"Let us go on then. Is this dear, good Frontier Angel here."

"It is to her your life is owing. She is no longer crazy."

"Oh, this must be a dream!" cried Marian, as she was locked in the arms of her devoted friend. "It cannot – cannot be real."

For a few moments nothing but the sobbing of the two was heard. Peterson seemed restless, and moved uneasily but said nothing.

"Let us go," said the Frontier Angel, "for there is a long distance to travel."

The storm had partly ceased, though the wind was stronger than ever. Through the woods again – through swamps and thickets – over brooks and the matted undergrowth – brushing through the dripping bushes – until as the misty light of morning was breaking over the scene, they once more appeared upon the banks of the Ohio, opposite the block-house.

It was a happy reunion – one whose perfect joy our feeble pen can never give. There were two persons who, it seemed, had risen from the dead. The Frontier Angel and Marian Abbot. When the identity and remarkable history of the former became known through the settlement, there were many, even of the most intelligent, who believed it nothing less than a miracle.

If the reader, who has followed us through these pages, will examine the history of the West, he will find that in the summer of 1788, three flat-boats were attacked by the Shawnees, a short distance below the mouth of the great Sciota, and nearly all of the inmates massacred. Two of the boats were sunk, and history states that every one on board were slain. On the remaining boat was a Methodist missionary by the name of Tucker, who fought as only those valiant old Methodist pioneers can fight. There were several women, who loaded their dead husband's rifles and handed them to him, while he fired with such deadly effect, that his boat finally escaped, and he reached Maysville, where, a few days after, he died of his wounds.

In one of the boats which were sunk by the savages, was a man named William Orr, with his family. Every one of these, it is stated by historians, fell a victim to the fury of the Shawnees. And here we take the liberty of saying that, not for the first time, the historical accounts are in error. The writer traveled over that section, where most of our scenes have been laid, some years since, and obtained from an aged man (who had known the rangers, Jim Peterson and Dick Dingle, years before) the following account of the affair:

The boat which contained Orr and his family was the hindmost, and upon the second volley of the Shawnees, every one was killed, except Myra Orr, the youngest daughter. Even she was wounded. A bullet grazed her forehead, pressing a piece of bone inward upon the brain, in such a manner as to render her crazy!

In a few moments, the savages came up and proceeded to scalp their victims, when noticing that she was still alive, she was taken as a prisoner to the shore. It was subsequently ascertained that she was demented and no harm was offered her.[1 - A crazy or idiotic person is always regarded with superstitious reverence by the North American Indian.] In time, she dressed and painted like the Indians, but she was never one of their number. She mingled with them, but her singular manner impressed them with the belief that she was something more than mortal. After a year or so, she took to the woods, and somewhere in its recesses she built herself a home. In the year 1790, she appeared before a settlement, and warned them of an intended attack, and from this time up to the closing scenes of our story, she devoted her life to the one object of befriending the whites. In time she became known all along the frontier, and the unaccountable mystery which hung down over her, gave rise to the superstitious belief that she was in reality an angel. Many attempts were made to discover her history, but none succeeded, until her reason was restored and she gave it herself.

But what is perhaps nearly as singular, is that Myra Orr, the "Frontier Angel," and Jim Peterson, the ranger, were lovers in their younger days. They had separated much in the same manner that Mansfield and Marian had. When the tragic fate of his love reached the ears of Peterson, he turned ranger and acted with the celebrated Dingle in that capacity. He rarely referred to his great bereavement, but there were several who knew it. Among these, was Franklin Holmes, commander of the block-house, who was acquainted with the Orr family, before they removed from the East.

It will be remembered that Peterson left Marian Abbot, as he believed, in a dying condition, when the flat-boat was attacked. She was desperately wounded, and without the utmost care would have died. McGable recognized her as he boarded the flat-boat, and carried her to the shore, where he gave her in charge of an Indian runner, with instructions to carry her at once to Pauquachoke, one of their old "medicine women." McGable instantly returned and joined in the massacre. A few days after, he visited the medicine woman, and learned that Marian would recover, although it would necessarily require a long time. In fact, she had not been able to walk until a month previous to her rescue. Escape was impossible, as Pauquachoke had been instructed never to permit her to pass out of the cave. By an accident, the Frontier Angel became aware of the state of things and visited the captive on several different occasions. This reached the ears of McGable, and fearful of losing his prey through her means, he determined to kill her. His attempts and failures to do this, have been referred to. The fearful exertion through which Myra Orr went, on the night of Marian's rescue, well-nigh proved fatal to her. Reason flickered and fled for a time, but it finally returned in its full strength.

Marian for a long while was nearly delirious with joy – and so were the father and mother, and Mansfield, too. And Jim Peterson, the genial, good-hearted ranger, was heard to exclaim scores of times, "It beats all! it's powerful queer that I've met my gal here for nearly ten years, and was afraid she'd kill me ef she touched me. It's queer! Powerful queer!"