as treveling followed the stranger from the cabin he marveled, somewhat, at the odd place chosen by the man, who had called himself benton, for an interview. but urged onward by the anxious father’s heart that beat within his breast, he followed his guide without fear.

benton led the way through the station, passed the stockade and reached the forest beyond. he followed the trail leading up the kanawha.

on, through the shadows cast by the tree-tops, the two went.

a good half-mile from the stockade, in a little spot of clear ground, where the flickering light of the moonbeams danced in fantastic rays, benton halted.

“there,” he said, as he wheeled abruptly round and faced the old soldier, “this will do; just the spot for an interview.”

the general wondered at the words of the stranger; wondered still more at the peculiar expression that was on his face.

“do you remember this spot, general?” asked benton.

“no,” replied treveling, after a glance around him.

“and yet you have been here before.”

“that is very likely, but there is nothing in particular that i can remember to fix the spot in my mind,” treveling said.

“are you sure of that?” asked the other.

“quite sure.” the old general could not understand the meaning of these odd questions in relation to a simple opening in the forest.

“and yet something happened in this very spot that should have fixed it forever in your memory.”

“i can not remember,” said treveling, puzzled.

“you were an officer under lewis when he fought the battle of point pleasant and whipped corn-planter in dunmore’s time?”

“yes, but you spoke of this before; you said that you served under me in that fight.”

“no, not in the fight, but before it,” said the stranger. “when i call back the memory of that campaign, do you not remember some event that happened in this very glade?”

“no,” treveling answered, after a moment’s pause.

“you do not?” benton said, with astonishment.

“no,” treveling again replied.

“let me call back to your mind a scene or two that happened long years ago.”

there was an icy tone in the voice of the stranger that struck a sudden chill to the heart of the old man. for the first time he felt a feeling of apprehension regarding the man who was acting so strangely.

“dunmore is governor of virginia,” commenced the stranger, “and general lewis is marching with all the force that can be raised along the border, against corn-planter at the head of the shawnees, the mingoes and the wyandots. he has halted here, information having reached the ears of the general that the indians, in great numbers, are at the[23] junction of the kanawha and the ohio, ready to give him battle.”

as the stranger spoke, treveling, with a bewildered air, was gazing around him. slowly, little by little, the memory of the past came back to him.

the little glade now seemed familiar to his eyes. it had been the camping-ground of his own regiment.

“i do remember now!” he exclaimed. “here i encamped the day before the fight. the glade has changed somewhat, though, since that time. then, instead of this broad trail, there was naught but an indian foot-path here.”

“yes, it is some years since lewis’ army eat their hog and hominy under the forest boughs that shadow in this little glade.”

“why do you recall lewis’ campaign?” asked treveling.

“wait a little and you shall learn,” said benton, and an ominous light shone in his eyes as he spoke. “here lewis’ army halted to prepare for the deadly fight that they expected would come on the morrow. in this little opening your division was encamped. your men had hardly laid aside their arms and begun to prepare their supper, when a blow was given and received. you, the colonel in command, were struck in the face and felled to the earth by a private soldier to whom you had given the lie.”

“yes, i remember the circumstance now that you call it to my memory, although i had forgotten it long since,” said treveling, calmly.

“the man who struck you was a volunteer; a man known far and wide as one of the best scouts in all the ohio valley. he did not think for a moment that you wore the golden marks of a colonel on your shoulders while his were covered only by the buck-skin hunting-shirt of the borderer. you insulted him, and he struck you to his feet as any man would have done.”

“but, on the following morning, he paid dearly for that blow,” said treveling, quickly.

“you never spoke a truer word,” returned benton, bitterly. “when the morning came, the same waving boughs that witnessed you give the lie to the scout, and then saw you kiss the dust, stricken there by his arm, looked down upon the drum-head court-martial. and then beheld the lash cut long welts of blood on the naked shoulders of the borderer, who had dared to forget that he was a soldier and remember that he was a man. and then, degraded, a whipped slave, he was driven forth a dishonored wretch.”

“all this happened years ago; why do you recall it?” asked treveling, impatiently.

“i recall the past that i may speak of the present,” replied benton, a sullen frown upon his face and anger flaming in his eyes. “did you ever learn the fate of the man whose life you ruined?”

“no,” replied treveling.

“do you remember what he said to you, after the lash had done its work and they raised the almost helpless man, crimsoned with his own blood?”

“no, except that it was a threat of some sort.”

“he said ‘your quarters shall swim in blood for this,’ and he kept his word. the man whose back was torn by your lash, joined the red-men, became a white indian, a renegade to his country and his kin. he swore bitter and eternal vengeance against you, and he kept his oath. when your cabin by the ohio was attacked, he headed the shawnees. you escaped only by a miracle. then, when you had taken refuge in the station of point pleasant, he thought of another plan to be revenged upon you. you had two daughters once.” the stranger paused. there was a fearful meaning in his simple words.

“can it be possible that this human fiend can have had aught to do with the unaccountable disappearance of my eldest child, augusta?” cried treveling, in breathless anxiety.

“she wandered forth one summer’s day within the woods and never came back?”

“yes, yes!” exclaimed the anxious father; “can you tell me aught of her fate?”

“i can,” replied benton, with a look of fearful meaning. “in the wood, like a hawk on the watch, was the man who had sworn such deadly vengeance upon your head. his heart leaped for joy when he beheld the prattling child enter the shadows of the forest. he seized the little girl, your eldest joy, and carried her from the station. in the gloomy recesses of the forest he left her to die.”

“oh! the heartless fiend!” cried the father, in agony.

“and think you that even this glorious vengeance satisfied him? no! he panted for more. thirsted for it as the hungry wolf thirsts for blood to satisfy the cravings of its savage nature. you still had another daughter left. for years this human bloodhound hung about the station eager to rob you of the sole remaining joy that made your life happy. time passed on; your daughter grew to womanhood, as fair a flower as ever bloomed on the banks of the ohio. patiently your foe waited. chance at last gave the golden opportunity, and your daughter fell into his hands.”

“what?” cried the old man, horror-stricken and hardly able to believe the evidence of his senses.

“your daughter is now a prisoner in his hands. a captive, helpless, in the shawnee nation.”

“but is there no way to release her?” cried treveling, in anguish. “i will pay any sum possible for me to procure.”

“if you could turn every drop of your blood into a golden guinea and spill them one by one from your veins your foe would laugh at you and bid you remember the hour when in this very glade you scarred his back with a lash,” replied benton, fiercely.

“this man is a demon to seek such a vengeance!” cried treveling, in despair.

“you are right, he is a demon,” replied benton, bitterly. “can you wonder at it? is he not an outcast from all that makes life dear, a savage amid savages?”

“is there no way to touch this man’s heart?”

“he has no heart; in its place is a lump of red clay; is he not a white indian? what has such as he to do with hearts?”

“why did not this man strike at my life, if he bears me the hatred that you say he does?”

“death is not the most cruel vengeance,” returned benton, scornfully. “can bodily pain cause you greater anguish than that you now suffer?”

“no, no,” replied treveling, slowly.

“he would have you live. would have you know of the terrible vengeance that he has pulled down upon your head. can you guess what the fate of your daughter will be?”

a shudder shook the frame of the old man as the question fell upon his ears.

“oh, the thought is terrible!” he moaned.

“a young and pretty white girl in the shawnee village will not lack for admirers. your foe will give her to some brawny red chief to be his slave. a helpless prisoner, the victim of the savages, she will pine away and die. her death will be a terrible one, for she will die by inches. you now know the fate of both your children. one has already suffered for your acts long years ago, and the other is now paying the penalty.”

the stranger turned upon his heel as if to depart.

“stay!” cried treveling; “who are you that know all these horrible things?”

“have you not already guessed?” asked benton, with a smile of terrible meaning. “if my shoulders were bare, you could tell who i am, for the marks of the lash are still there. if you would know my name, a week hence ask the blazing dwellings along the ohio that mark the track of the shawnees; the glowing embers and hissing flames will answer, simon girty, the renegade.”

then, with a bound, girty disappeared in the forest.

sick at heart, treveling returned to the station.