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THE FRONTIER ANGEL:
A ROMANCE OF
KENTUCKY RANGERS' LIFE.

CHAPTER I.

THE NIGHT BEFORE THE DEPARTURE.

In the western part of Pennsylvania, near the commencement of the Ohio river, stands a small town, which, at the close of the last century, numbered about thirty dwellings. Although properly a border settlement at the time mentioned, there were so many others beyond, that it was hardly regarded as being in the "Mighty West." The inhabitants were mostly farmers, possessed of large and beautiful farms, who commenced their labors in the morning, and retired to rest in the evening, without much fear of the molestation of their savage brethren. True, a few years previous, the latter had committed murders and depredations even farther east than this, and the settlers never allowed themselves fully to give way to an undue sense of security. But, unless a most unexpected triumph should crown the struggles of the Indians, there was little occasion for apprehension upon the part of the whites.

The time on which we visit this village, is an evening in the spring, toward the close of the last century. The night is dark and cloudy, and the houses are invisible in the deep gloom; but there are numerous twinkling lights in the different dwellings, which give it the appearance of a constellation set in the vast sky of darkness around. Broad fields of cleared land stretch for a long distance into the background, while there are numerous other dwellings further eastward, toward Pittsburg, and many cabins further westward in Ohio and Virginia; so that they are not without neighbors, and may properly be said still to be in the land of civilization.

Near the western end of the village, stood a large frame house, in the lower story of which a bright light was burning. Within, and seated around a large, crackling fire, were four individuals engaged in conversation. The first was a pleasant, middle-aged man, rather portly and good-natured; the second was his wife, a few years younger, with an equally pleasant face, and a cheerful, musical voice. Upon the opposite side of the fire sat a young man, of a hardy, muscular frame, and a rather handsome appearance. Beside him was a maiden of eighteen or twenty years, who, without the least exaggeration on our part, might be pronounced beautiful.

The first couple, as said, were man and wife. The second two intended to be at some future time—that is, they were lovers.

The name of the parents was Abbot, and the maiden was Marian Abbot, their daughter. They were farmers, who, not having succeeded as well as they anticipated, had come to the determination to emigrate further west—in fact, into the very heart of Kentucky. A flat-boat was to start the next morning down the river, in which a number of their neighbors were going, and in which they intended to send Marian; but, the parents themselves were compelled to wait several months in order to bring their affairs to a settlement. Their resolution had been taken rather suddenly, but, as said, they were compelled to wait before fulfilling it.

The flat-boat which was to start on the morrow, carried with it more men than Abbot expected would accompany him, and hence he deemed it much safer for Marian that she should go with it, and, in their western home, wait for his coming.

The young man to whom we have referred, was Russel Mansfield, the only son of his parents, as was Marian the only daughter of hers. An attachment had existed between them for a year or two, and it was generally expected by the parents of both, that, as soon as they were in a proper condition, they would be united for life. The parents of Mansfield united with Abbot in their resolution, and it was their intention to depart at the same time with him. The same causes that led to his detention, produced theirs; and, as it was their wish that Russel should remain with and accompany them, he had consented. The young man disliked very much the idea of a separation, even for so short a period as a few months, from his beloved; but reflection and sober sense told him it was best that it should be so. Nearly a dozen well-armed and courageous men would protect her, while should her going be deferred until his, there would hardly be half that number. Thus it was that the present turn of affairs came about.

"If we have a storm at the commencement of our journey, it will be a bad omen, will it not, father?" asked Marian with a smile.

"Tut, tut, dear, don't speak of such foolish things. I would that your mother had such a body-guard when she follows you."

"Oh, well, I meant nothing. I am sure I have no apprehension."

"There is danger it is true," remarked Mansfield, "but it only threatens weakness and inexperience. Your party are strong, and they surely have had enough experience, to avoid all stratagems and decoys of their enemy."

"Yes, darling, don't let such thoughts trouble you. There is One who is able to protect the weakest in the hour of the greatest peril. Dangers will beset you on every hand, but there will be strong and friendly hearts around you, and a strong and friendly Heart overhead," added the mother.

"There is but one thing that seriously troubles me," remarked Abbot, gravely, "and that is the thought of that McGable. He has now been absent a year, and you remember, Marian, that he threatened vengeance against you when he left."

"Why, father, how can he injure me?" asked Marian in surprise; "who knows where he has gone?"

"I have been told that he was in the West," answered Abbot, quietly.

"Well, and what of that? I am sure there is nothing in that, that need frighten us."

"I have heard a darker story of him," added the father in a lower tone, and glancing around as if he feared other ears might hear him.

"What was it?" asked Marian breathlessly.

"I have been told by those whose word could not be doubted, that he has turned renegade, and that his atrocities are equal to those of Girty, McGee, Proctor, and the other similar fiends."

"Where does he generally commit his outrages?" asked Mansfield.

"I do not wish to alarm you, Marian, and I think there is no reason for your being alarmed; but, as all the others who will accompany you, know the same thing, there can be no harm in warning you. At first, when he joined the British and Indians, he united with the parties who attacked the defenseless settlements and travelers; but he is cowardly, and there was too much danger in that. He is now a decoy along the Ohio river, and uses all the means in his power to entice the passing flat-boats to shore. The devil himself seems to aid his invention, for he has contrived such ingenious schemes that it is said he has outwitted some of the old backwoodsmen and hunters themselves."

"What does he do with his prisoners?"

"He has never been known to give quarter to any one. All