The Thorn in the Nest

"One lovely summer day Mr. Clark was helping his neighbors in the field, his wife visiting theirs. She had taken her children with her and they were at play in the door-yard.

"In the course of the day both mother and daughter were taken sick, and two babes were born within half an hour of each other.

"Mrs. Clark had her hands more than full in attending upon the women, and the children, both boys, hastily wrapped in a blanket and laid in the same cradle, had received no further attention, when a scream from her own little ones, 'Mother, mother! the Injuns! the Injuns!' sent her flying to their rescue."

"Yes, yes," sobbed his listener. "Oh, my darlings, tomahawked and scalped before my very eyes! I see their bleeding corpses now! Their father's too, shot down as he came running from the field to try to save us. And then I was dragged away never to see home or relations again!"

"Then you are indeed Reumah Clark?"

Kenneth's voice trembled with agitation as he asked the question.

She bowed assent, her face still hidden in her hands. But suddenly dropping them she gazed eagerly, searchingly, into his face.

"And you, you who look so like the dead, who are you?"

"One of those babes born on that terrible day," he answered with emotion; "which, I do not know; and that is what I have hoped even against hope, that you could tell me. You laid us down together, you remember, and to this day the question remains unsolved which was the uncle and which the nephew. Did you observe any mark upon either, anything at all to distinguish him from the other?"

Clendenin was greatly agitated as he put this question, and his breathing was almost suspended as he waited for the reply.

"Yes," she said; "one had a very peculiar mark on his breast. I was sort o' expecting it, and looked for it right away."

"What was it, and on which child?" he asked with the tone and manner of one to whom the answer must bring life or death.

"Wait," she said, "let me tell it in my own way. Clark he'd been a cabin boy aboard a ship, and an old sailor had tattooed an anchor on his arm. 'Twas fur up above his elbow, and didn't show except he took pains to roll his sleeve up a-purpose."

She spoke hesitatingly, as one who had half forgotten the use of her mother tongue, and to Clendenin the suspense was agony well nigh unendurable; but by a strong effort he kept himself quiet.

"Well," she continued, "the oldest Mrs. Clendenin was over to our house not a week afore that awful day, and Clark he showed her that mark on to his arm, and I saw that she turned kind o' sick and faint at the sight, and then quick as thought she slipped her hand into the bosom of her dress.

"Clark, he'd turned away with a laugh, and gone out o' the door; and I asked her what she did that for, and she said she was afraid her child would be marked, and if 'twas to be she wanted it where it wouldn't show.

"Then she got up to go home, and says she, 'We'll not speak of this, Reumah, and I'll try not to think of it, so there'll be less likelihood of mischief coming of it.'"

"And it was her child, the older woman's?" cried Kenneth, breathlessly; "and is this what you speak of?" tearing open his shirt bosom as he spoke.

"Yes, that's it, as sure as I'm a living woman!" she answered, gazing curiously at the deep red mark in the form of an anchor on the left breast. "And now you know which o' the two you are."

He drew a long, sighing breath of relief, as one who feels a heavy weight fall from his shoulders, clasped his hands, and lifted his eyes to heaven, his face radiant with unutterable joy and thankfulness, his lips moving, though no sound came from them.

She watched him in wonder and amazement.

"What's the difference," she asked, as he resumed his former attitude, "and how comes it that your mother didn't know by that very mark that you were hers?"

"She died within the hour," he said with emotion; "raising herself in the bed, and looking through the open door, she saw her husband slain, his reeking scalp held aloft by a savage, and with a wild scream she fell back and expired."

"And the rest?"

"The younger Clendenin gained the house barely in time to secure the door before the Indians reached it, and keeping up a vigorous fire through a chink in the wall, his wife, ill as she was, loading for him, there happening to be two guns in the house, he at length succeeded in driving off the enemy.

"A few weeks later they left forever the scene of the terrible tragedy, taking the two babes with them."

The interview lasted some time longer, Kenneth expressing his gratitude to the woman with much warmth and earnestness, and urging her to return to civilized life.

This she steadily declined to do, saying that she did not know of a living relative among the whites, had an Indian husband, children and grandchildren, and had learned to like her wild life.

Hearing that, he ceased his importunity, gave her all the money he had with him and a written promise of more, tearing a leaf from his note book for the purpose; then with a cordial shake of the hand, and an invitation to visit him the next day in Chillicothe, that he might redeem his promise, bade her good-bye.

As he turned to go Little Horn rose from the grass and came toward him, asking of his success.

In reply Kenneth told him he had learned all he wished to know from the white squaw, and was greatly indebted to him for his timely assistance.

He would have added a reward, but the lad utterly refused to accept it, saying it was very little he had done in return for what he owed to the saviour of his life. And then he added that his influence with the white squaw was due to the fact that he was her son, and that he had informed her of the great service Kenneth had done him years ago.

CHAPTER XXV

Never since early boyhood had Clendenin borne in his bosom so light and glad a heart as that with which he left Old Town upon the close of his interview with Reumah Clark.

One thought – that there was now no barrier between him and his sweet and beautiful Nell, unless indeed, she herself had created one, filled him with a joy and thankfulness beyond the power of words to express.

But an enemy lay in wait to rob him of it.

Lyttleton, closely watching Clendenin, had noticed that he tarried behind in the Indian camp while others were leaving it; but carefully abstaining from any allusion to the fact, he conducted the young lady whose escort he was to her home, then leaving the town by the opposite side, made a circuit through the woods that brought him back to a hill overlooking the trail to Old Town, ascending which he waited and watched for Kenneth's return.

Very impatient he grew toward the last, but not to be baulked of his prey by hunger or weariness, he remained at his post of observation until his eyes were gladdened by the sight of the manly form of Clendenin mounted on his gallant steed and following the trail at a brisk canter that was bringing him rapidly nearer.

Lyttleton now hastily descended the hill, galloped across a bit of prairie and struck into the trail just in time to meet the man whom he cordially hated in his heart while in outward seeming he was the warmest friend.

"So here you are at last, doctor," he said with a genial smile, "I declare I was actually growing uneasy about you."

"How so?" returned Kenneth in surprise, "it is nothing unusual for me to be out scouring the country at any or all hours of the day and night."

"Yes, but among the savages you know. I saw that you lingered behind as the rest of us set out on our return to the town, and I thought it not at all impossible that the wild creatures might be moved to do you a mischief."

He looked keenly at Kenneth as he spoke, thinking to read in his countenance how his errand had sped. He had never seen it half so bright and joyous.

"Ah, he has won," he said to himself with a pang of mingled disappointment and envy. "He has learned all, and it is in his favor. Curse him, he shan't have her too if I can prevent it!

"You seem to have had a pleasant time," he said aloud, "I think I never saw you look quite so cheery."

Kenneth only smiled, he felt so free and happy, as light and joyous as a bird on the wing.

"I congratulate you on your good luck, whatever it may have been," continued Lyttleton, still eyeing him curiously; "and I must ask a return in kind from you, for I too have been made a happy, yes, the very happiest of men to-day."

Clendenin turned upon him a startled, questioning look, his very lips growing white; he tried to speak, but could not find his voice.

"Yes," Lyttleton went on with a cruel delight in the pain he saw he was giving; "I am sure you will think so when I tell you that Miss Lamar is my promised wife and I shall soon be the husband of the finest woman in America."

Kenneth answered not a word, the blow was so sudden, so terrible, so stunning; for it never occurred to him that those words which sounded the death knell of his fondest hopes were a falsehood, and, ah! he had thought it impossible that Nell could ever give herself to one so utterly devoid of noble qualities as this stranger who was now boasting of having won her.