Ruby Roland, the Girl Spy; or, Simon Kenton's Protege
The Table of Contents was created by the transcriber and placedin the public domain.
Additional Transcriber’s Notes are at theend.
Chapter I. The Ranger’s Ruse.
Chapter II. The Island.
Chapter III. The Meeting.
Chapter IV. Ruby Roland.
Chapter V. The Journey.
Chapter VI. Danger All Round.
Chapter VII. On the Line.
Chapter VIII. The Backwoods Leader.
Chapter IX. The Secret Expedition.
Chapter X. A Frontier Camp.
Chapter XI. The Secret Disclosed.
Chapter XII. Kaskaskia.
Chapter XIII. The Fort.
Chapter XIV. The Surprise.
Chapter XV. The Algonquin Venus.
Chapter XVI. Ruby’s Visit.
Chapter XVII. The Cure’s Embassy.
Chapter XVIII. The Last Mass.
Chapter XIX. The Lampoon.
Chapter XX. Mutiny.
Chapter XXI. Ruby’s Mission.
Chapter XXII. The Council of War.
Chapter XXIII. The Discovery.
Chapter XXIV. Conclusion.
Semi-Monthly Novels Series,
RUBY ROLAND, THE GIRL SPY.
BEADLE AND ADAMS, 98 WILLIAM STREET, NEW YORK.
New England News Co., Boston, Mass.
A TALE OF THE LONG TRAIL.
THE OLD RED RIVER TRAIL
In the next issue of the “Household and Fireside Guest”series
Beadle’s Dime Novels, No. 283
Ready Tuesday, June 3, lovers of the Romance of the Wilderness andPlains have a story that will enlist their attention to an unusualdegree, viz.:
THE LONE CHIEF;
The Trappers of the Saskatchewan.
BY JOS. E. BADGER, JR.
The Lone Chief is the noted Omaha “Blackbird,” who takes thelong trail to the far Saskatchewan in pursuit of an object which sustainshim in hours of awful trial, and awakens our warmest admiration.
His unexpected friends—a band of trappers—become involvedwith him in the meshes of a conflict with the fierce Crees of thePlains.
The old trapper, Ben Duncan, a second edition of Old NickWhiffles, is a splendid character, equally handy in scrimmage, onthe trail, in the camp, or at a yarn.
That there are women in the case does not lessen the interesttaken in the Chief’s affairs by the two younger members of OldDuncan’s party, who, even in that remote region, find that the courseof true love never runs smooth.
A strangely beautiful Cree girl is drawn into the foreground ofthe story to become its heroine and—something else!
☞ Beadle’s Dime Novels are always kept in print and forsale by all newsdealers; or are sent, post-paid, to any address on receiptof price—Ten Cents each—by
BEADLE AND ADAMS, Publishers,
98 William Street, New York.
THE GIRL SPY;
SIMON KENTON’S PROTEGE.
BY FREDERICK WHITTAKER,
Author of “Mustang-Hunters,” “White Wizard,” “Jaguar Queen,”“Boone, the Hunter,” etc.
BEADLE AND ADAMS, PUBLISHERS,
98 WILLIAM STREET.
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1873, by
BEADLE AND ADAMS,
In the office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington.
THE GIRL SPY.
A tall, muscular young fellow, dressed in hunter garb,came silently out of the woods from the north side of theKentucky river, about a hundred years ago, and pausing bythe bole of a gigantic beech tree, scanned the opposite shorewith keen, silent attention.
There was a peculiar air of resolute fearless deviltry in theface of the young hunter, coupled with the piercing, rovingglances of his intensely black eyes, that showed he was nonovice to the trade of hunter and scout. He was in themidst of the hunting-grounds of Shawnee and Delaware,miles away from the then infant settlement of Boonesborough;and he was all alone with his rifle and knife, to take care ofhimself.
The look of his face abundantly evinced that he felt quiteequal to the task, and only the acquired caution of his craftkept him from wading boldly into the river at once.
But as it was, he had learned the lesson of the successfulIndian-slayer by hard experience. Therefore, now, it waswith a long, deep scrutiny that he scanned the opposite banks,across the first open piece of landscape he had come on ina day’s travel. On the opposite bank all was still as death,save for the occasional note of a bird. It was late in Mayand the forest was all blinded with its canopy of leaves,while game was distant and hiding in the coverts.
As the young hunter looked, a black squirrel, shyest ofall its kind, ran out on a limb of a tree on the other side ofthe river, and stood, whisking its tail and chattering, beforehis eyes, above the stream.
“Wal,” muttered the young man, as he stepped boldlyout, “thar kurn’t be much to be skeered on when you’re thar,my little kuss. Go ahead, Simon.”
Without further ado he descended the bank, deep, brown,and bare, for some sixty feet, and then ran quickly across abed of sand into the shallow stream.
The Kentucky river, in winter a broad and powerfulstream, had dwindled under the summer heats to a rivuletnot more than two hundred feet across, running over a sandyrocky bed walled in by high banks.
Into this stream waded the hunter, and soon found himselfmidway between the banks and up to his armpits inwater. He was obliged to lift up rifle and powder-horn overhis head as he waded along, and every now and then hewould stop to brace himself against the current, and glanceanxiously up and down either side of the river, as if anticipatingthe presence of enemies, ready to take him at advantage.
At last the water began to sink below his arms; and slowlyhe emerged from the river, strode through the shallows,and stood on the opposite shore.
“By the holy poker!” he muttered, as he climbed thefurther bank, “that ar’s a bad scrape fur to ketch a kuss in.You’d best git to cover right smartly, Simon, ef you’re thespy you used to was. Git!”
And, as he spoke, he hurried up the bank into the woods,and threw himself down under a tree, completely hiddenfrom sight. With the hunter’s instinct, he lay still as death,listening intently for sounds. The presence of the squirrelhad assured him of the quiet of things before, or he wouldnot have ventured where he did. But, the hunter knew toowell that a very few minutes were able to change the wholecurrent of events around him, and that the chance passing ofa single Indian might render his own situation very perilous.
It was therefore with the keenest attention that he lookedand listened in the woods all round, before going further.
Presently came the sweet pipe of a red-bird from a treenot far off, and the hunter muttered:
“All right on that side.”
He knew the note, as belonging to one of the most waryof birds. Then several other birds chirped at intervals, andhe heard the tiny chatter of squirrels all round him.
“Simon, you blamed ornary kuss, I reckon you kin git,”said the hunter deliberately, and he rose to his feet.
Hardly had he done so, when he sunk down again as ifshot, for the loud snap of a dry stick sounded plainly in theair, and it came from the further bank of the river.
“Follered, by the holy poker!” he ejaculated, in a lowtone. “Now, who the Old Scratch kin that be?”
As he spoke he threw himself down behind the tree, and,bringing all his intelligence to bear on the north bank, whichhe had just left, awaited the advance of the stranger.
There was no more noise now. The other, whoever hewas, had evidently been startled by his own carelessness.Apart from the snapping of that single stick, there was nofurther sign of human presence on the north bank.
The man on the south bank lay there watching silently andeagerly, but saw nothing. The usual noises of the woodskept on around him, and he could see squirrels moving on theother side of the river.
There was a small deserted space on either side of him,and a patch of the same breadth on the opposite side thatshowed him that the wild animals were shy of human creatures,and revealed to him the locality of his enemy.
In those two places all were still, and, as unerringly as ifhe had seen the strange hunter, Simon guessed that the latterhad come to the identical tree by which himself had firstscanned the river.
“And by the holy poker, ef that’s so, the kuss kin see mytrail,” he grumbled, half aloud. “Simon, Simon, you orterbe ashamed of yourself fur leavin’ them huff-tracks in themud, when ye mout ’a’ jumped from stone to stone.”
Even while he grumbled, his eyes were fixed on the greatbeech tree, and the heavy Kentucky rifle he carried wastrained on its bole, while he watched with intense gaze for amotion of the foe he guessed to be there.
Suddenly he shifted his gaze and aim to a point on oneside of the tree, and fired at something moving there.
Leaping to one side out of the smoke, he distinctly beheldthe splinters of bark fly where his bullet struck, and the nextmoment felt the stinging whiz of a bullet, that grazed hisown side, as an answering puff of white smoke came fromthe other side of the tree, followed by the sharp crack of arifle. The bullet stung him sharply, and he dropped to theearth, catching a glimpse of the vanishing figure of a manon the other side of the river, flitting from tree to tree.
“By the holy poker, that’s a right smart kuss, whoever heis,” muttered Simon, ruefully, as he rubbed his side, “Who’d’a’ thunk he’d ’a’ fooled me as quick as that, and with sich anold trick. By the holy poker, Simon, you’d better go andsoak your head ef you ain’t smarter than that kuss. But,I’ll get even with him. Darn me ef he shall fool me ag’inlike that. No, sir. Mister stranger, be you white or red,runnygade or Shawnee, I’ll hev your skulp fur that ar’ shot,or my name ain’t Simon Kenton.”
And the renowned ranger darted from tree to tree on hispassage up the river, following the shadowy form of hisantagonist, as he caught occasional glimpses of it, and bothtending toward a spot a mile further up the stream, where awooded island reduced the danger of crossing to a lessdegree.
The two enemies raced for that island, loading as they ran.
In ten minutes more, Kenton reached a bend of the river,in the midst of which stood the little wooded island at whichhe thought his foe would be likely to try to cross. At thatturn he made a discovery which caused him to stop with agratified chuckle.
He was on the inside of the curve, and the position of theisland was such that he commanded the whole of the furtherside. No human being could cross there by daylight withoutbeing seen by an observer at the center of thecurve.
Besides this, he could see the further bank of the riverbeyond for nearly two miles, and his enemy would beobliged to make a large detour if he expected to cross at all.That he wished to cross, the hunter felt certain, but he hadtotally gone out of sight now, and the opposite shore lookedas silent and deserted as when Kenton first entered theriver.
“By the holy poker, I’ve got ye, middlin’ sure,” mutteredthe ranger, gleefully. “Ef ye try to move off, I’m arter ye,like a painter arter a young shoat. Ef ye stay thar, durnme ef I kurn’t wait as long as you kin. So now.”
He sheltered himself under a great spreading tree and laythere watching the