h’yar in partickelar, and kills ’em wheresomever he catches ’em,—­especially the Shawnees, as I said afore, against which the creatur’ has a most butchering spite; and there’s them among the other tribes that call him Shawneewannaween, or the Howl of the Shawnees, because of his keeping them ever a-howling.  And thar’s his marks, captain,—­what do you make of that?  When you find an Injun lying scalped and tomahawked, it stands to reason thar war something to kill him?”

“Ay, truly,” said Forrester; “but I think you have human beings enough to give the credit to, without referring it to a supernatural one.”

“Strannger,” said Big Tom Bruce the younger, with a sagacious nod, “when you kill an Injun yourself, I reckon,—­meaning no offence—­you will be willing to take all the honour that can come of it, without leaving it to be scrambled after by others.  Thar’s no man ’arns a scalp in Kentucky, without taking great pains to show it to his neighbours.”

“And besides, captain,” said the father, very gravely, “thar are men among us who have seen the creatur’!”

“That,” said Roland, who perceived his new friends were not well pleased with his incredulity, “is an argument I can resist no longer.”

“Thar war Ben Jones, and Samuel Sharp, and Peter Small-eye, and a dozen more, who all had a glimpse of him stalking through the woods, at different times; and, they agree, he looks more like a devil nor a mortal man,—­a great tall fellow, with horns and a hairy head like a buffalo-bull, and a little devil that looks like a black b’ar, that walks before him to point out the way.  He war always found in the deepest forests, and that’s the reason we call him Nick of the Woods; wharby we mean Old Nick of the Woods; for we hold him to be the devil, though a friendly one to all but Injuns.  Now, captain, I war never superstitious in my life,—­but I go my death on the Jibbenainosay!  I never seed the creatur’ himself, but I have seen, in my time, two different savages of his killing.  It’s a sure sign, if you see him in the woods, that thar’s Injuns at hand:  and it’s a good sign when you find his mark without seeing himself, for then you may be sure the brutes are off,—­for they can’t stand old Nick of the Woods no how!  At first, he war never h’ard of afar from our station; but he has begun to widen his range.  Last year he left his marks down Salt River in Jefferson; and now, you see, he is striking game north of the Kentucky; and I’ve h’ard of them that say he kills Shawnees even in their own country; though consarning that I’ll not be so partickelar.  No, no, Captain, thar’s no mistake in Nick of the Woods; and if you are so minded, we will go and h’ar the whole news of him.  But, I say, Tom,” continued the Kentuckian, as the three left the porch together, “who brought the news?”

“Captain Ralph,—­Roaring Ralph Stackpole,” replied Tom Bruce, with a knowing and humorous look.