AS the death-rattle was heard in McGable’s throat, Mansfield felt his head fall back upon his arm.  He looked down and saw that all was over.  Laying his head gently back upon the leaves, he straightened his limbs, and arose and looked around for his companions.  Peterson and Jenkins approached.

“It is all over,” said our hero, sadly.  “Poor man! he has paid dearly for his sins.  I pray Heaven, I may never witness another such a death!  Have you found any other bodies?”

“We have not looked; Dingle is searching.”

“Let us look further.  We will return this afternoon and bury McGable.  Ah! here comes Dingle!  What can be the matter with him, he looks so flustered?”

The ranger approached them, pale and agitated.

“Boys, the FRONTIER ANGEL SITS OUT YONDER ON A LOG, AND SHE IS DYIN’!”

Without a word, Mansfield dashed toward the point indicated.  The others followed less rapidly, for that singular fear of the mysterious being forsook them not, even at the last moment.  A few rods brought them to the spot.

That personage, known as the Frontier Angel in these pages, was sitting upon one of the trees, felled by the choppers, her hand pressed to her forehead, and her elbows resting upon her knees.  She sat perfectly motionless, and a sickening fear that she was already dead took possession of Mansfield.  The blood could be seen dropping from her face down upon one of her moccasins, which was clotted and stained with it.  She did not look up as our friends approached, and Mansfield paused before her and asked: 

“Are you hurt much?”

“Oh!  I feel wretched ­”

Mansfield sprang forward and caught her head as she fainted.  The sight made even the hardy rangers shudder.  A rough wound was seen at the temple, from which a great amount of blood had issued.  Her dark, waving hair hung loose around her shoulders, while her half-closed eyes gave an unearthly terror to her countenance.

“Quick! water! she has fainted!” exclaimed Mansfield.

Peterson sprang away, and in an instant returned with a jug of water which had been brought by the woodmen in the morning for their use.  Mansfield sprinkled some in her face, and in a moment she revived.  Dingle, with ready wit, had prepared a bandage by tearing his hunting-shirt to shreds, and this was carefully bound over her forehead.

“She must be taken to the block-house at once.  Bear a hand, friends,” said Mansfield to the two rangers who were looking on.  That absurd fear made them hesitate for a moment; but, as if ashamed of their weakness at such a time, they sprang forward and made amends by sustaining her entire weight themselves.

“Run ahead, Jenkins, and notify the commander of this,” said Mansfield, “and see that no crowd is in our way.”

Jenkins darted away, and the three moved carefully through the wood toward the clearing.  An occasional moan from their burden was the only sign of life she gave.  Not a word was spoken by the three, as they made their way forward.  The rangers hardly dared to look down upon the form their arms sustained, but gazed anxiously toward the block-house, evidently in fear of a curious multitude of people.  The commander, with praiseworthy foresight, had unbarred the gates, and prepared the block-house for her reception.  Though nearly struck dumb with Jenkins’s intelligence, he did not allow it to interfere with his duty.  He briefly informed those gathered around what had happened, and besought them to retire and leave the way clear for him.  So, when Mansfield and the rangers brought their charge, there were only one or two to receive them.

“Is it a bad wound?” he asked, as he closed the doors of the block-house behind him.

“I fear so; you will have to take charge of her.”

“Place her on the litter, and remain with me a moment.”

The commander of the fort was the physician of the settlement.  It may seem strange that a man holding his position, could find time to attend to the duties thus devolving upon him.  But he did find abundant time; for it must be remembered, that such a thing as sickness is rarely known in a frontier settlement.  The time when his services were in requisition, was upon an occasion like the present, directly after an engagement with an enemy.

After the sufferer had been placed in the lower room of the block-house, the commander desired all to depart, so that he might be left alone with her.  His determination was to make an examination of her wound at once.  He saw that she was hurt only in the corner of the forehead, where it seemed was a slight fracture of the bone.

As he approached the bed, the Frontier Angel sprang to her feet and screamed for him to keep away.  He did his best to pacify her, but she became more frantic each moment, until he desisted out of fear of the consequences.  After a time she seated herself upon the bed, and speaking in a soothing manner, he gently approached her again.  But she was wilder than before, and he retreated at once.  From her actions, she seemed to imagine him to be the renegade McGable, and no words upon his part could change the impression.

The good physician sat a while in a dilemma.  He saw it was imperatively necessary that her wound should be attended to, and it was impossible for him to do this alone.  After debating a moment, he called in Mansfield and Peterson.

The latter entered, and the sufferer meekly submitted at once.  Mansfield took her gently but firmly by one arm, and the ranger held the other.  The physician then stepped forward, and, with a simple instrument, examined the wound.  A moment showed him the entire truth.  A bullet, years before, had glanced over the forehead in such a manner as to press inward a thin strip of bone directly upon the brain.  This simple fact had caused that singular hallucination which she had so long evinced.  The wound had become cicatrized, leaving the bone in this position.  Another shot, precisely similar, had glanced in the same manner, reopening the wound and increasing her aberration.  A simple action of the physician removed this cause of her insanity.

“Just wash the wound, Mansfield,” said the commander, “and we will then let her rest until morning.”

Our hero proceeded to do as requested.  A moment later he exclaimed in a suppressed voice: 

“My heavens! see here ­SHE IS WHITE!”

Such was indeed the case, and the astonishment of all was unbounded.  The water had washed off that species of paint so commonly used among the American Indians, and left the skin perfectly clear and transparent.

“Wonderful!” exclaimed the commander, “what can it mean?  As it is nearly all removed from her face, it shows what a beautiful woman she is.  Hello! what’s the matter with Peterson?”

The ranger had turned as pale as death and fainted ­a weakness of which he had never been guilty before.  Mansfield instantly dashed some water in his face and he came to.  He stared about him totally bewildered.

“Why, what’s the matter, Jim?” laughed the commander.  “Are you so tender-hearted that you must faint when a female is hurt?”

“Get me out of here, quick, if you value her life!” he said, staggering to his feet.

He was assisted to the door, where the physician asked: 

“What does this mean, Jim?”

“I’ll tell you in the morning; don’t say anything to me about it now.  Just bring her to her senses as soon as you can.”

Wondering and perplexed, the commander passed into the room again.  As he entered, he naturally turned his eyes toward his patient, and it was now his turn to evince the agitation that had seized the ranger.

“What’s the matter with you, doctor?” asked Mansfield.

“My heavens!  I know that girl!”

“Who is she?”

“Never mind now.  I understand the meaning of Peterson’s conduct.  Leave me alone, Russel, and it shall all be made plain to you in the morning.”

Our hero withdrew, and the commander was left alone with that being who has figured as the Frontier Angel in these pages.  She sat bolt upright in the bed, staring at him with a look as fixed and intense as that of a wild animal.

“Lie down, Myra!” he spoke gently.

“Lie down!” she repeated half to herself.  “What does all this mean? ­Why am I here? ­Have I been wounded? ­Why is my head bandaged? ­Am I dreaming?”

The commander approached and laid her head back upon the pillow.  In this position she pressed her hand to her forehead and commenced muttering to herself.  The commander listened, and now and then caught her words.

“Reason has returned, or is now striving to regain its place,” he thought.  “She is, in fact, in her right mind already, but it is no wonder that her recollections still confuse her.  Strange! strange! who would have thought the Frontier Angel could have been her?”

Soon the patient slept ­a troubled, dreamy sleep.  She talked incessantly ­now in soft, beseeching tones to Peterson and Holmes (the commander), then fairly shrieking the name of McGable, and once or twice she spoke the name of Marian Abbott!

The wind howled around the old block-house, moaning through the forest and ridging the Ohio till the dismal beat of its waves could be heard, when an occasional lull occurred.  The rain rattled through the village like the incessant volleys of shot, and the pale flickering light shining through the loop-holes of the fort was the only visible sign of life.

The commander paced the floor a while and then sat down and gazed into the face of the sufferer.  Her eyes were closed and her face was of unearthly whiteness.  Now and then the thin lips moved and the broken words came forth.  Once the brow compressed as if a twinge of pain ran through her, and then she started and gasped: 

“Oh, don’t! don’t!  McGable, you will kill her!  Let her alone!”

“What can she mean?” wondered Holmes.  “Yes ­it is Marian ­there! she spoke her name then.”

All at once, the patient come to the sitting position, and opening her eyes to their fullest extent, stared apparently through the very walls of the block-house out into the wilderness.  Then, raising her hand, she repeated these words: 

“I see them! ­they are hastening to the cave! ­they will kill her! ­she cannot get away! ­she will die.”

“You are excited ­lie down again!” pleaded the commander.  But she heeded him not.  Her dark eyes glowed with tenfold light, and she added: 

“I see them! they are Indians going to kill Marian Abbot!  There are two Shawnee warriors, and they are now picking their way through the forest.  She will die! she will die, if she is not saved at once!”

The patient seemed as if speaking in a trance.  She was in that state which baffles all human knowledge to understand, and, without attempting to explain what never can be understood, we give the facts alone.  What the Frontier Angel saw on that stormy night, when neither the impenetrable walls of the block-house, nor the miles of wilderness could bound her vision, was really occurring.  And the commander, rapt, wondering, and believing, listened.  When she had finished, she turned toward him.

“Franklin Holmes, I understand all, not all either; but I feel I have passed through some dreadful darkness, and light is again dawning upon me.  There is a white captive in danger this moment.  She must be rescued!  I can lead the way!”

“But ­but, Myra, you cannot.  Hear how the storm rages,” pleaded the commander.

“Have I not passed through more fearful storms than this?” she asked, stepping upon the floor and confronting him.  “Yes,” she added in a low, meaning tone, “if you value the life of Marian Abbot, who is now living, it must be done.  Get me one or two companions and I will lead the way.”

Holmes believed that it was his duty to do so, and answering her that her wish should be gratified at once, he passed out.  He aroused Dingle and Mansfield, but Peterson was nowhere to be found.  He imparted to the ranger the identity of their guide, and the absence of Peterson was then understood.  Preparations were made at once to start, and the impatience and excitement of Mansfield was painful to witness.

The Frontier Angel ­as we shall call her for a time ­arrayed herself in her usual garments, wrapping a large shawl around her form, and covering her head securely, and was ready when Holmes reentered the room.

“How many are going?” she asked.

“Two well-tried and reliable men.”

“That is plenty.  Let us wait no longer.”

She passed out without a word, and the two men joined her.  The commander unbarred the gate and saw them move off in the darkness, adding no unnecessary caution or question.

“Keep close to me and move as fast as possible,” she said as soon as they were alone.

The rain was still falling, and the wind howled dismally overhead.  The Frontier Angel led the way to the river, where they entered one of the canoes that were always there, and were propelled across by Dingle.  As they reached the Ohio side the ranger saw a dark form suddenly appear beside him and glide along as silently as a shadow.

“Hello! who are you?” he demanded.

“You know well enough ­don’t speak my name.  I knowed you’d be on some such a tramp as this.”

Mansfield recognized the voice of Peterson, and to set their fair guide at ease, he informed her that it was merely a friend who had joined them.

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, all showed they were upon the work of death.  Mansfield felt ready to spring forward and rend the demons limb from limb; but an emotion, that was ever after unaccountable to him, held him in his place.

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. 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.

   A crazy or idiotic person is always regarded with
      superstitious reverence by the North American Indian.

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!”

We wish our readers could have been down at the settlement, on the night of October 20, 1798.  It would have required immense room, to have accommodated them we suppose, but the woods were large enough.  This double wedding was a greater one than Seth Jones’ and George Graham’s.  Yet it was much the same, and we will not describe it, but close our story with a paragraph.

Jim Peterson gave up the ranger’s life and settled down as a farmer.  He had several children, and two of his grandsons are now prominent merchants in the city of Cincinnati.  In the war of 1812, Russel Mansfield acted as Colonel, and at its close retired to his farm near Maysville, covered with honor and glory.  Here he lived with his children and grandchildren, and it is only a few years since that he followed his wife to her last resting-place.  Dick Dingle and Peter Jenkins became bosom friends, and spent many years of adventure and peril together.  We will dismiss them, with the promise that their experiences shall not be withheld from the reader, and that they both shall be heard of again.