The Forest Runners: A Story of the Great War Trail in Early Kentucky
by Joseph A. Altsheler · English · Gutenberg #14876 · 450,041 chars · public domain (US)
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Title: The Forest Runners: A Story of the Great War Trail in Early Kentucky
Author: Joseph A. Altsheler
Release date: February 2, 2005 [eBook #14876]
Most recently updated: December 19, 2020
Language: English
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Credits: Produced by Kentuckiana Digital Library, David Garcia, Emmy and the
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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE FOREST RUNNERS: A STORY OF THE GREAT WAR TRAIL IN EARLY KENTUCKY ***
Produced by Kentuckiana Digital Library, David Garcia, Emmy and the
PG Online Distributed Proofreading Team.
_The_ FOREST RUNNERS
[Illustration: "A massive black form shot down into the center of the
room." [Page 277.]]
_The_ FOREST RUNNERS
A STORY OF THE GREAT WAR
TRAIL IN EARLY KENTUCKY
BY
JOSEPH A. ALTSHELER
AUTHOR OF "THE YOUNG TRAILERS"
D. APPLETON-CENTURY COMPANY
INCORPORATED
NEW YORK LONDON
1936
1908, BY
D. APPLETON AND COMPANY
1935, BY EQUITABLE TRUST CO
Printed in the United States of America
BOOKS BY JOSEPH A. ALTSHELER
THE FRENCH AND INDIAN WAR SERIES
The Hunters of the Hills
The Rulers of the Lakes
The Lords of the Wild
The Shadow of the North
The Masters of the Peaks
The Sun of Quebec
THE YOUNG TRAILERS SERIES
The Young Trailers
The Forest Runners
The Keepers of the Trail
The Eyes of the Woods
The Free Rangers
The Riflemen of the Ohio
The Scouts of the Valley
The Border Watch
THE TEXAN SERIES
The Texan Star
The Texan Scouts
The Texan Triumph
THE CIVIL WAR SERIES
The Guns of Bull Run
The Guns of Shiloh
The Scouts of Stonewall
The Sword of Antietam
The Star of Gettysburg
The Rock of Chickamauga
The Shades of the Wilderness
The Tree of Appomattox
THE GREAT WEST SERIES
The Lost Hunters
The Great Sioux Trail
THE WORLD WAR SERIES
The Guns of Europe
The Forest of Swords
The Hosts of the Air
BOOKS NOT IN SERIES
Apache Gold
The Quest of the Four
The Last of the Chiefs
In Circling Camps
The Last Rebel
A Soldier of Manhattan
The Sun of Saratoga
A Herald of the West
The Wilderness Road
My Captive
The Candidate
D. APPLETON AND COMPANY New York London
This story, while independent in itself, continues the
fortunes of the two boys who were the central characters
of "The Young Trailers."
CONTENTS
I. PAUL 1
II. IN THE RIVER 17
III. THE LONE CABIN 36
IV. THE SIEGE 59
V. THE FLIGHT 72
VI. THE BATTLE ON THE HILL 91
VII. WHAT HAPPENED IN THE DARK 108
VIII. AT THE RIVER BANK 125
IX. A CHANGE OF PLACES 142
X. THE ISLAND IN THE LAKE 157
XI. A SUDDEN MEETING 176
XII. THE BELT BEARERS 192
XIII. BRAXTON WYATT'S ORDEAL 217
XIV. IN WINTER QUARTERS 239
XV. WORK AND PLAY 254
XVI. NOEL 273
XVII. FOOTPRINTS IN THE SNOW 283
XVIII. WHAT THE WARRIOR SAW 295
XIX. THE WARNING 310
XX. THE TERRIBLE FORD 328
XXI. THE FLIGHT OF LONG JIM 340
XXII. THE LAST STAND 355
THE FOREST RUNNERS
CHAPTER I
PAUL
Paul stopped in a little open space, and looked around all the circle of
the forest. Everywhere it was the same--just the curving wall of red and
brown, and beyond, the blue sky, flecked with tiny clouds of white. The
wilderness was full of beauty, charged with the glory of peace and
silence, and there was naught to indicate that man had ever come. The
leaves rippled a little in the gentle west wind, and the crisping grass
bowed before it; but Paul saw no living being, save himself, in the vast,
empty world.
The boy was troubled and, despite his life in the woods, he had full right
to be. This was the great haunted forest of _Kain-tuck-ee_, where the red
man made his most desperate stand, and none ever knew when or whence
danger would come. Moreover, he was lost, and the forest told him nothing;
he was not like his friend, Henry Ware, born to the forest, the heir to
all the primeval instincts, alive to every sight and sound, and able to
read the slightest warning the wilderness might give. Paul Cotter was a
student, a lover of books, and a coming statesman. Fate, it seemed, had
chosen that he and Henry Ware should go hand in hand, but for different
tasks.
Paul gazed once more around the circle of the glowing forest, and the
shadow in his eyes deepened. Henry and the horses, loaded with powder for
the needy settlement, must be somewhere near, but whether to right or left
he could not tell. He had gone to look for water, and when he undertook to
return he merely went deeper and deeper into the forest. Now the boughs,
as they nodded before the gentle breeze, seemed to nod to him in derision.
He felt shame as well as alarm. Henry would not laugh at him, but the born
scholar would be worth, for the time, at least, far less than the born
trailer.
Yet no observer, had there been any, would have condemned Paul as he
condemned himself. He stood there, a tall, slender boy, with a broad, high
brow, white like a girl's above the line of his cap, blue eyes, dark and
full, with the width between that indicates the mind behind, and the firm,
pointed chin that belongs so often to people of intellect.
Paul and Henry were on their way from Wareville, their home, with horses
hearing powder for Marlowe, the nearest settlement, nearly a hundred miles
away. The secret of making powder from the nitre dust on the floors of the
great caves of Kentucky had been discovered by the people of Wareville,
and now they wished to share their unfailing supply with others, in order
that the infant colony might be able to withstand Indian attacks. Henry
Ware, once a captive in a far Northwestern tribe, and noted for his great
strength and skill, had been chosen, with Paul Cotter, his comrade, to
carry it. Both rejoiced in the great task, which to them meant the saving
of Kentucky.
Paul's eyes were apt at times to have a dreamy look, as if he were
thinking of things far away, whether of time or place; but now they were
alive to the present, and to the forest about him. He listened intently.
At last he lay down and put his ear to the earth, as he had seen Henry do;
but he heard nothing save a soft, sighing sound, which he knew to be only
the note of the wilderness. He might have fired his rifle. The sharp,
lashing report would go far, carried farther by its own echoes; but it was
more likely to bring foe than friend, and he refrained.
But he must try, if not one thing, then another. He looked up at the
heavens and studied the great, red globe of the sun, now going slowly
down the western arch in circles of crimson and orange light, and then he
looked hack at the earth. If he had not judged the position of the sun
wrong, their little camp lay to the right, and he would choose that
course. He turned at once and walked swiftly among the trees.
Paul stopped now and then to listen. He would have uttered the long forest
shout, as a signal to his comrade, but even that was forbidden. Henry had
seen signs in the forest that indicated more than once to his infallible
eye the presence of roving warriors from the north, and no risk must be
taken. But, as usual, it was only the note of the wilderness that came to
his ears. He stopped also once or twice, not to listen, but to look at the
splendid country, and to think what a great land it would surely be.
He walked steadily on for miles, but the region about him remained
unfamiliar. No smoke from the little camp-fire rose among the trees, and
no welcome sight of Henry or the horses came to his eyes. For all he knew,
he might be going farther from the camp at every step. Putting aside
caution, he made a trumpet of his two hands, and uttered the long,
quavering cry that serves as a signal in the forest. It came back in a
somber echo from the darkening wilderness, and Paul saw, with a little
shiver, that the sun was now going down behind the trees. The breeze rose,
and the leaves rustled together with a soft hiss, like a warning. Chill
came into the air. The sensitive mind of the boy, so much alive to
abstract impressions, felt the omens of coming danger, and he stopped
again, not knowing what to do. He called himself afraid, but he was not.
It was the greater tribute to his courage that he remained resolute where
another might well have been in despair.
The sun went down behind the black forest like a cannon shot into the sea,
and darkness swept over the wilderness. Paul uttered the long cry again
and again, but, as before, no answer came back; once he fired his rifle,
and the sharp note seemed to run for miles, but still no answer.
Then he decided to take counsel of prudence, and sleep where he was. If he
walked on, he might go farther and farther away from the camp, but if he
stopped now, while he might not find Henry, Henry would certainly find
him. Any wilderness trail was an open road to his comrade.
He hunted a soft place under one of the trees, and, despising the dew,
stretched himself between two giant roots, his rifle by his side. He was
tired and hungry, and he lay for a while staring at the blank
undergrowth, but by and by all his troubles and doubts floated away. The
note of the wind was soothing, and the huge roots sheltered him. His
eyelids drooped, a singular feeling of peace and ease crept over him, and
he was asleep.
It was yet the intense darkness of early night, and the outline of his
figure was lost between the giant roots, but after a while a silver moon
brought a gray tint to the skies, and the black bank over the forest began
to thin and lighten. Then two figures, hideous in paint, crept from the
undergrowth, and stared at the sleeping boy with pitiless eyes.
Paul slept on, and mercifully knew nothing of his danger; yet it would
have been hard to find in the world two pairs of eyes that contained more
savagery than those now gazing upon him. Their owners crept nearer,
looking with fierce joy through the darkness at the sleeping boy who was
so certainly their prey. Their code contained nothing that taught them to
spare a foe, and this youth. In the van of the white invasion, was the
worst of foes.
The boy still slept, and his slumber was deep, sweet, and dreamless. No
warning came to him while the savage eyes, bright with cruel fire, crept
closer and closer, and the merciful darkness, coming again, tried to close
down and hide the approaching tragedy of the forest.
Paul returned with a jerk from his peaceful heaven. Hands and feet were
seized suddenly and pinned to the earth so tightly that he could not move,
and he gazed up at two hideous, painted faces, very near to his own, and
full of menace. The boy's heart turned for a moment to water. He saw at
once, through his vivid and powerful imagination, all the terrors of his
position, and in the same instant he leaped forward also to the future,
and to the agony it had in store for him. But in a moment his courage came
back, the strong will once more took command of the body and the spirit,
and he looked up with stoical eyes at his captors. He knew that resistance
now would be in vain, and, relaxing his muscles, he saved his strength.
The warriors laughed a little, a soundless laugh that was full of menace,
and bound him securely with strips of buckskin cut from his own garments.
Then they stood up, and Paul, too, rose to a sitting position, gazing
intently at his captors. They were powerful men, apparently warriors of
middle age, and Paul knew enough of costume and paint to tell that they
were of the Shawnee nation, bitterly hostile to him and his kind.
His terrors came back upon him in full sweep. He loved life, and, scholar
though he was, he loved his life in the young wilderness of Kentucky,
where he was at the beginnings of things. Every detail of what they would
do to him, every incident of the torture was already photographed upon his
sensitive mind, but again the brave lad called up all his courage, and
again he triumphed, keeping his body still and his face without
expression. He merely looked up at them, as if placidly waiting their
will.
The two warriors talked together a little, and then, seeming to change
their minds, they unbound the boy's feet. One touched him on the shoulder,
and, pointing to the north, started in that direction. Paul understood,
and, rising to his feet, followed. The second warrior came close behind,
and Paul was as securely a prisoner as if he were in the midst of a band
of a hundred. Once or twice he looked around at the silent woods and
thought of running, but it would have been the wildest folly. His hands
tied, he could have been quickly overtaken, or, if not that, a bullet. He
sternly put down the temptation, and plodded steadily on between the
warriors, the broad, brown back of the one in front of him always leading
the way.
It seemed to him that they sought the densest part of the undergrowth,
where the night shadows lay thickest, and he was wise enough to know that
they did it to hide their trail from possible pursuit. Then he thought of
Henry, his comrade, the prince of trailers! He might come! He would come!
Paul's blood leaped at the thought, and his head lifted with hope.
Clouds swept up, the moon died, and in the darkness Paul had little idea
of direction. He only knew that they were still traveling fast amid the
thick bushes, and that when he made too much noise in passing one or other
of the brown savages would prod him with the muzzle of a gun as a hint to
be more careful. His face became bruised and his feet weary, but at last
they stopped in an opening among the trees, by the side of a little brook
that trickled over shining pebbles.
The warriors wasted little time. They rebound Paul's feet in such tight
fashion that he could scarcely move, and then, lying down near him, went
to sleep so quickly that it seemed to Paul they accomplished the feat by
some sort of a mechanical arrangement. Tired as he was, he could not close
his own eyes yet, and he longed for his comrade. Would he come?
Paul's sensitive nerves were again keenly alive to every phase of his
cruel situation. The warriors, lying almost at his feet, were monsters,
not men, and this wilderness, which in its finer aspects he loved, was
bristling in the darkness with terrors known and unknown. Yet his clogged
and weary brain slept at last, and when he awoke again it was day--a
beautiful day of white and gold light, with the autumnal tints of the
forest all about him, and the leaves rustling in a gentle wind.
But his heart sank to the uttermost depths when he looked at the warriors.
By day they seemed more brutal and pitiless than at night. From their
long, narrow eyes shone no ray of mercy, and the ghastly paint on their
high cheek bones deepened their look of ferocity. It was not the
appearance of the warriors alone, it was more the deed for which they were
preparing that appalled Paul. They were raking dead leaves and fallen
brushwood of last year around a small but stout sapling, and they went on
with their task in a methodical way.
Paul knew well, too well. Hideous tales of such doings had come now and
then to his ears, but he had never dreamed that he, Paul Cotter, in his
own person would be such a victim. Even now it seemed incredible in the
face of this beautiful young world that stretched away from him, so quiet
and so peaceful. He, who already in his boyhood was planning great things
for this splendid land, to die such a death!
The warriors did not cease until their task was finished. It was but a
brief one after all, for Paul had made no mistake in his guess. There was
not time, perhaps, to take a prisoner beyond the Ohio, and they could not
forego a savage pleasure. They dragged the hoy to the sapling, stood him
erect against the slim trunk, and hound him fast with green withes. Then
they piled the dead leaves and brushwood high about him above his knees,
and, this done, stood a little way off and looked at their work.
The warriors spoke together for the first time since Paul had awakened,
and their black eyes lighted up with a hideous glow of anticipation. Paul
saw it, and an icy chill ran through all his veins. Had not the green
withes held him, he would have fallen to the ground. Once more his active
mind, foreseeing all that would come, had dissolved his strength for the
moment; but, as always, his will brought his courage back, and he shut his
eyes to put away the hateful sight of the gloating savages.
He had never asked in any way for mercy, he had never uttered a word of
protest, and he resolved that he would not cry out if he could help it.
They should not rejoice too much at his sufferings; he would die as they
were taught to die, and he would show to them that the mind of a white boy
could supply the place of a red man's physical fortitude. But Henry might
come! Would he come? Oh, would he come? Resigned to death, Paul yet hoped
for life.
He opened his eyes, and the warriors were still standing there, looking at
him; but in a moment one approached, and, bending down, began to strike
flint and steel amid the dry leaves at the boy's feet. Again, despite
himself, the shivering chill ran through Paul's veins. Would Henry come?
If he came at all, he must now come quickly, as only a few minutes were
left.
The leaves were obstinate; sparks flew from the flint and steel, but there
was no blaze. Paul looked down at the head of the warrior who worked
patiently at his task. The second warrior stood on one side, watching, and
when Paul glanced at him he saw the savage move ever so little, but as if
driven by a sudden impulse, and then raise his head in the attitude of one
who listened intently. Heat replaced the ice in Paul's veins. Had
something moved in the forest? Was it Henry? Would he come?
The standing warrior uttered a low sound, and he who knelt with the flint
and steel raised his head. Something had moved in the forest! It might be
Henry. For Paul, the emotions of a life were concentrated in a single
moment. Fear and hope tripped over each other, and the wilderness grew
dim to his sight. A myriad of little black specks danced before his eyes,
and the blood was beating a quick march in his ears.
The two savages were motionless, as if carved of brown marble, and over
all the wilderness hung silence. Then out of the silence came a sharp
report, and the warrior who stood erect, rifle in hand, fell to the earth,
stricken by instant death. Henry had come! His faithful comrade had not
failed him! Paul shouted aloud in his tremendous relief and joy, forgetful
of the second warrior.
The kneeling savage sprang to his feet, but he had made a fatal mistake.
To light the fire for the torture, he had left his rifle leaning against
the trunk of a tree twenty feet away, and before he could regain it a
terrible figure bounded from the bushes, the figure of a great youth, clad
in buckskin, his face transformed with anger and his eyes alight. Before
the savage could reach his weapon he went down, slain by a single blow of
a clubbed rifle, and the next moment Henry was cutting Paul loose with a
few swift slashes of his keen hunting knife.
"I knew you would come! I knew it!" exclaimed Paul joyously and wildly, as
he stood forth free. "Nobody in the world but you could have done it,
Henry!"
"I don't know about that, Paul," said Henry, "but I'd have had you back
sooner if it hadn't been for the dark. I followed you all night the best
way I could, but I couldn't come up to you until day, and they began work
then."
He glanced significantly at the leaves and brushwood, and then, handing
Paul's rifle to him, looked at those belonging to the savages.
"We'll take 'em," he said. "It's likely we'll need 'em, and their powder
and bullets will be more than welcome, too."
Paul was rubbing his wrists and ankles, where the blood flowed painfully
as the circulation was restored, but to him the whole affair was ended.
His life had been saved at the last moment, and the world was more
brilliant and beautiful than ever. His imagination went quickly to the
other extreme. There was no more danger.
But Henry Ware did not lose his eager, wary look. It did not take him more
than a minute to transfer the ammunition of the warriors to the pouches
and powder-horns of Paul and himself. Then he searched the forest with
keen, suspicious glances.
"Come, Paul," he said, "we must run. The woods are full of the savages.
I've found out that there's a great war party between us and Marlowe, and
I've hid the powder in a cave. I turned the horses loose, hoping that
we'll get 'em some time later; but just now you and I have to save
ourselves."
Paul came back to earth. Danger still threatened! But he was free for the
time, and he was with his comrade!
"You lead the way, Henry," he said. "I'll follow, and do whatever you
say."
Henry Ware made no reply, but bent his ear again, in the attitude of one
who listens. Paul watched his face attentively, seeking to read his
knowledge there.
"The big war band is not far away," said Henry, "and it's likely that
they've heard my shot. It would carry far on such a still, clear morning
as this. I didn't want them to hear it."
"But I'm glad you did shoot," said Paul. "It was a mighty welcome sound to
me."
"Yes," said Henry, with grim humor, "it was the right thing at the right
time. Hark to that!" A single note, very faint and very far, rose and was
quickly gone, like the dying echo of music. Only the trained ranger of the
wilderness would have noticed it at all, but Henry Ware knew.
"Yes, they've heard," he said, "and they're telling it to each other. They
are also telling it to us. They're between us and Marlowe, and they are
between us and Wareville, so we must run to the north, and run as fast as
we can."
He led the way with swift, light footsteps through the forest, and Paul
followed close behind, each boy carrying on his shoulder two rifles and at
his waist a double stock of bullets and powder.
Paul scarcely felt any fear now for the future. The revulsion from the
stake and torture was so great that it did not seem to him that he could
be taken again. Moreover, they had seized him the first time when he was
asleep. They had taken an unfair advantage.
The sun rose higher, gilding the brown forest with fine filmy gold, like a
veil, and the boys ran silently on among the trees and the undergrowth.
Behind them, and spread out like a fan, came many warriors, fierce for
their lives. Amid such scenes was the Great West won.
CHAPTER II
IN THE RIVER
Paul, while not the equal of Henry in the woods, was a strong and enduring
youth. His muscles were like wire, and there were few better runners west
of the mountains. Although the weight of the second rifle might tell after
a while, he did not yet feel it, and with springy step he sped after
Henry, leaving the choice of course and all that pertained to it to his
comrade. After a while they heard a second cry--a wailing note--and Henry
raised his head a little.
"They've come to the two who fell," he said.
But after the single lament, the warriors were silent, and Paul heard
nothing more in the woods but their own light footsteps and his own long
breathing. Little birds flitted through the boughs of the trees, and now
and then a hare hopped up and ran from their path. The silence became
terrible, full of omens and presages, like the stillness before coming
thunder.
"It means something," said Henry; "I think we've stumbled into a regular
nest of those Shawnees, and they're likely to be all about us."
As if confirming his words, the far, faint note came from their right, and
then, in reply, from their left. Henry stopped so quickly that Paul almost
ran into him.
"I was afraid it would be that way," he said. "They're certainly all
around us except in front, and maybe there, too."
Visions of the torture rose before Paul again.
"What are we to do?" he said.
"We must hide."
"Hide I Why, they could find us in the forest, as I would find a man in an
open field."
"I don't mean hide here," said Henry; "the river is just ahead, and I
think that if we reach it in time we can find a place. Come, Paul, we must
run as we never ran before."
The two boys sped with long, swift bounds through the forest as only those
who run for their lives can run. Now the voices of the pursuit became
frequent, and began to multiply. Henry, with his instinctive skill in the
forest, read their meaning. The pursuers were sure of triumph. But Henry
shut his lips tightly, and resolved that he and Paul should yet elude
them.
"The river is not more than a half mile ahead," he said. "Come, Paul,
faster! A little faster, if you can!"
Paul obeyed, and the two, bending their heads lower, sped on with
astonishing speed. Trees and bushes slid behind them. Before them appeared
a blue streak, that broadened swiftly and became a river.
"We must not let them see us," said Henry. "Bend as low as you can, and be
as quiet as you can!"
Paul obeyed, and in a few more minutes they were at the river's edge.
"Fasten your bullets and powder around your neck," said Henry, "and keep
the rifle on your shoulder."
Paul did so, following Henry's quick example, and the two stepped into the
water, which soon reached to their waists. Henry had been along this river
before, and at this crisis in the lives of his comrade and himself he
remembered. Dense woods lined both banks of the stream, which was narrow
here for miles, and a year or two before a hurricane had cut down the
trees as a reaper mows the wheat. The surface of the water was covered
with fallen trunks and boughs, and for a half mile at least they had
become matted together like a great raft, out of which grass and weeds
already were growing. But Paul did not know it, and suddenly he stopped.
"Why, what has become of the river?" he exclaimed, pointing ahead.
The stream seemed to stop against a bank of logs and foliage.
Henry laughed softly.
"It is the great natural raft," he said. "There is where we are to hide."
He hastened his steps, wading as rapidly as he could, and Paul kept by his
side. He comprehended Henry's plan, their last and desperate chance. In a
few moments more they were at the great raft, and in the bank, amid a
dense, almost impenetrable mass of foliage, they hid their rifles and
ammunition. Henry uttered a deep sigh as he did it.
"I hate like everything to leave them," he said, "but if we come to close
quarters with any of those fellows, we must trust to our knives and
hatchets."
Then he turned reluctantly away. It was not a deep river, nowhere above
their necks, and he pushed a way amid the trees and foliage that were
packed upon the surface, Paul, as usual, following closely. Now and then
he dived under a big log, and came up on the other side, his head well
hidden among upthrust boughs and among the weeds and grass that had grown
in the soil formed by the silt of the river. And Paul always carefully
imitated him.
When they were about thirty yards into the mass Paul felt Henry's hand on
his shoulder. "Look back, Paul," was whispered in his ear, "but be sure
not to move a single bough." Paul slowly and cautiously turned his head,
and saw a sight that made him quiver.
Running swiftly, savage warriors were coming into view on either bank of
the river--tall men, dark with paint, and, as he well knew, hot with the
desire to take life.
"I thank God that this place is here!" breathed Paul.
"Yes, it was just made for us," said Henry, and he laughed ever so little.
"Come, Paul, we must get farther into it. But be sure you don't shake any
boughs."
They waded on, only their heads above the current, and these always hidden
by the interlacing trunks and branches. A great shout, fierce with
triumph, rose behind them.
"They've found where our trail entered the water, and they think they've
got us," whispered Henry. "Now, be still, Paul; we'll hide here."
They pushed themselves into a mass of debris, where logs and boughs, swept
by the current, formed a little arch over the stream. There they stood up
to their chins in water, with their heads covered by the arch. Through
the slits between the trunks and boughs they could see their pursuers.
It was a numerous band--thirty or forty men--and they divided now into
several parties. Some ran along the banks of the stream and others sprang
from log to log over the raft, searching everywhere, with keen, black eyes
trained to note every movement of the wilderness.
Paul felt Henry's hand again on his shoulder, but neither boy spoke. Both
felt as if they were in a little cage, with the fiercest of all wild
animals around it and reaching long paws through the bars at them. Each
sank a little deeper into the water, barely leaving room to breathe, and
watched their enemies still searching, searching everywhere. They heard
the patter of moccasins on the logs, and now and then they saw brown,
muscular legs passing by. Two warriors stopped within ten feet of them and
exchanged comment. Henry, who understood their language, knew that they
were puzzled and angry. But Paul, without knowing a word that they said,
understood, too. His imagination supplied the place of knowledge. They
were full of wrath because they had lost the trail of the two whom they
had regarded as certainly theirs, and to seek them in the vast maze of
logs and brush was like looking for one dead leaf among the millions.
The two warriors stood still for a full minute, and then moved on out of
sight. Paul drew a deep breath of relief, like a sigh, and Henry's hand
was pressed once more upon his shoulder.
"Not a sound yet, not a sound, Paul!" he whispered ever so softly. "They
will hunt here a long time."
More warriors, treading on the logs, showed that his caution was not
misplaced. They poked now and then in the water, amid the great mass of
debris, and one stood on a log so near to the two lads that they could
have reached out and touched his moccasined feet. But their covert was too
close to be suspected, and soon the man passed on.
Presently all of them were out of sight; but Henry, a true son of caution
and the wilderness, would not yet let Paul stir.
"They will come back this way," he said. "We risk nothing by waiting, and
we may save much."
Paul made no protest, but he was growing cold. The chill from the water of
the river was creeping into his veins, and he longed for the dry land and
a chance to stir about. Yet he clenched his teeth and resolved to endure.
He would not move until Henry gave the word.
He saw what a wise precaution it was, when, a half hour later, seven or
eight warriors came walking back on the logs, and thrust with sticks into
the little patches of open water between them. Henry and Paul crouched
closer in their covert, and the warriors stalked back and forth, still
searching.
Henry knew that the Shawnees, failing to find a place beyond the debris
where the fugitives had emerged upon the bank, would believe that they
might be hidden under the logs, and would not give up the hunt there. If
they should happen to find the rifles and ammunition, they would certainly
be confirmed in the conclusion, but so far they had not found them. Henry,
looking between the logs, saw them pass near the place of concealment, but
they did not stop, and were soon near the other bank. It would have
bitterly hurt his pride if they had found the rifles, even had he and Paul
escaped.
An hour more they waited, and then the last warrior was out of sight, gone
up the river.
"I think we may crawl out now," whispered Henry; "but we've still got to
be mighty careful about it."
Pad took a step and fell over in the water. His legs were stiff with the
wet and cold; but Henry dragged him up, and before trying it again he
stretched first one leg and then the other, many times.
"We must make our way back through the logs and brush to the rifles,"
whispered Henry, "and then take to the woods once more."
"I think I've lived in a river long enough to last me the rest of my
life," Paul said.
Henry laughed. He, too, was stiff and cold; but, a born woodsman, he now
dismissed their long hiding in the water as only an incident. The two
reached the precious rifles and ammunition, drew them forth from
concealment, and stepped upon the bank, rivulets pouring from their
clothing, and even their hair.
"I think we'd better go back on our own trail now," said Henry. "The war
party has passed on, and is still looking for us far ahead."
"We've got to dry ourselves, and somehow or other get that powder to
Marlowe," said Paul.
"That's so," said Henry. "We came to do it, and we will do it."
He spoke with quiet emphasis, but Paul knew that he meant to perform what
he had set out to do, come what might, and Paul was willing to go with him
through anything. Neither would abandon the great task of helping to save
Kentucky. But they were still in a most serious position. They had been
many hours in water which was not now warmed by summer heat, and they were
bound to feel the effect of it soon in every bone. Henry glanced up at
the heavens. It was far past noon, and the golden sun was gliding down the
western arch.
"I think," said Henry, "that it would be best for us to walk, as fast as
we can on the back track, and then try to dry out our clothing a little."
He started at once, and Paul walked swiftly by his side. The rivulets that
ran from their clothing decreased to tiny streams, and then only drops
fell. The sinking sun shot sheaves of brilliant beams upon them, and soon
Paul felt a grateful warmth, driving for the time the chill from his
bones. He swung his arms as he walked, as much as the rifles would allow,
and nearly every muscle in his frame felt the touch of vigorous exercise.
His clothing dried rapidly.
Two hours and three hours passed, and they heard no more the cries of the
warriors calling to each other. Silence again hung over the wilderness.
Rabbits sprang up from the thickets. A deer, frightened by the sound of
the boys' footsteps, held up his head, listened a moment, and then fled
away among the trees. Henry took his presence as a sign that no other
human being had passed that way in the last hour.
The sun sank, the twilight came and died, and darkness clothed the
wilderness. Then Henry stopped.
"Paul," he said, "I've got some venison in my knapsack, but you and I
ought to have a fire. While our clothes are drying outside they are still
wet inside and we can't afford to have a chill, or be so stiff that we
can't run. You know we may have another run or two yet."
"But do we dare make a fire?" asked Paul.
"I think so. I can hide the blaze, and the night is so dark that the smoke
won't show."
He plunged deeper into the thickets, and came to a rocky place, full of
gullies and cavelike hollows. It was so dark that Paul could see only his
dim form ahead. Presently their course led downward, and Henry stopped in
one of the sheltered depressions.
"Now we'll make our fire," he said.
It was pitchy black where they stood. The walls of the hollow rose far
above their heads, and its crest was lined on every side with giant trees
and dense undergrowth.
The two boys dragged up dead leaves and brushwood, and Henry patiently
ignited the heap with his flint and steel. A tiny blaze arose, but he did
not permit it to grow into a flame. Heavier logs were placed upon the top,
and the fire only burned beneath, amid the small boughs. Smoke arose, but
it was lost in the black heavens. The fire, thus confined, burned
fiercely and rapidly within its narrow limits, and a fine bed of coals
soon formed. It was time! The night had come on cold, and the chill
returned to Paul's veins. Before the fire was lighted he had begun to
shiver, but when the deep bed of coals was formed, he sat before it and
basked in the grateful and glowing heat.
"I think we'd better take off our clothing and dry it," said Henry, and
both promptly did so. They hung part of their garments before the fire, on
a stick thrust in the ground, until they were dry, and then, putting them
on again, replaced them with the remainder, to dry in their turn.
Meanwhile they ate of the venison that Henry carried in his knapsack, and
felt very happy. It was a wonderful experience for Paul. This was comfort
and safety. They were only a pin point in the wilderness, but for the
present the stony hollow fenced them about, and the hidden fire gave forth
warmth and pleasure.
"Do you think you could sleep, Paul?" asked Henry, when they had put on
again the last of the dried clothing.
Paul laughed.
"Could I sleep?" he said. "Would a hungry wolf eat? Will water run down
hill? I don't think I could do anything else just now."
"Then try it," said Henry. "After a while I'll wake you up for your
watch, and take a turn at it myself."
Paul said not another word, but sank back on the grass and leaves, with
his feet to the great bed of coals. He saw their glow for a moment or two,
then his eyelids shut down, and he was wafted away on a magic carpet to a
dreamless region of happy peace. Henry's eyes, grown used to the dark,
looked at him for a moment or two, and then the larger boy smiled. Paul,
his faithful comrade, filled a great place in his heart--they liked each
other all the better because they were so unlike--and he was silently, but
none the less devoutly thankful that he had come.
Henry was warm and dry, and as he tested his muscles he found them supple
and strong. Now he took precautions, thinking he had let the fire burn as
long as was safe. He scattered the coals with a stick, and then softly
crushed out each under the stout heel of his moccasin. With the minute
patience that he had learned from his forest life, he persisted in his
task until not a single spark was left anywhere. Then he sat down in
Turkish fashion, with his rifle lying across his lap and the other rifles
near, listening, always listening, with the wonderful ear that noted every
sound of the forest, and piercing the thickets with eyes whose keenness
those of no savage could surpass. He knew that they were in the danger
zone, that the Shawnees were on a great man-hunt, and regarded the two
boys as stilt within their net, although they could not yet put their
hands upon them. That was why he listened and watched so closely, and that
was why he would break his word to Paul and not waken him, keeping the
nightlong vigil himself.
The night advanced, the darkness shredded away a little before a half
moon, and Henry was very glad that he had put out the last remnant of the
fire. Yet the trees still enclosed the hollow like a black wall, and he
did not think a foe had one chance in a thousand of finding them there
while the night lasted. But he never ceased to watch--a silent, powerful
figure, with the rifle lying across his lap, ready to be used at a
moment's notice. His stillness was something marvelous. Even had it been
light, an ordinary observer would not have seen him move a hair's breadth.
He was a part of the silent wilderness.
Midnight, and then the long hours. Faint noises arose in the thickets, bet
the ear of the gray statue was alive, and he knew. The rabbits were
hopping about, at play, perhaps, in the moonlight; a deer was passing;
perhaps a panther stirred somewhere; but these were things that neither he
nor Paul feared; it was only man that they dreaded. After a while a
faint, clear note rose, far to the east, and to it came three replies like
it, and also far away. Henry laughed low. They were the familiar signals,
but he and Paul were well hidden, and they would escape through the lines
before morning. They might easily go back to Wareville, too, but he was
resolved not to abandon either the horses or the powder. The powder was
needed at Marlowe, and it would be a bitter humiliation not to take it
there.
Two hours more passed, and then Henry heard the signals again, but now
closer. By chance, perhaps, the Shawnees had formed their ring about the
right place, and it was time to act. Paul had slept well and was rested,
so Henry leaned over and shook him. Paul opened his eyes, and any question
that he might have wished to ask was cut short at his lips by Henry's low,
but commanding,
"Caution! Caution!"
"It is far after midnight, and we must move, Paul," said Henry. "They may
have blundered on our trail before it was dark, and they are still looking
for us. I think they are coming this way."
Paul understood in a moment, but he asked no question; if Henry said so,
it was true, it did not matter how he knew. He rose, imitating Henry,
taking his two rifles, and they stole silently away from the little cove
that had been so full of comfort for both.
"We'll go toward the south now," said Henry, "and on your life, Paul,
don't stumble!"
Paul knew the worth of this advice, and he was woodsman enough to avoid
tripping on the vines and bushes, despite the darkness. One mile dropped
behind them, then two, then three, and Henry suddenly put his hand upon
the shoulder of Paul, who, understanding the signal, sank down at once
beside his comrade.
The bushes were thick there, but Paul soon saw the danger, of which
Henry's ear had already warned him. A dozen warriors marched in a silent
file through the undergrowth. Well for the two that they were some
distance away, and that the bushes grew thick and long! And well for them,
too, that it was night! The warriors looked keenly on every side as they
passed, apparently seeking out the last little leaf and twig; but, acute
as were their eyes, they did not see the boys in the bushes. And perhaps
it was well for some of them that they did not find what they sought, as
the wilderness furnished no more formidable antagonist than Henry Ware,
and Paul Cotter, too, was both brave and skillful.
But the warriors passed, and the black wilderness hid them. Henry watched
a little bush that one had brushed against, swinging in the moonlight
with short jerks that became shorter until it grew quite still again. But
he did not yet go. He and Paul knew that they must not move for many
minutes. A warrior might turn on his track, see their risen forms, and
with his cry bring the whole band back again. They yet lay motionless and
still, while the moonlight filtered through the leaves and the silence of
the forest endured. Henry rose at last, and led the way again.
"They are certainly beating up the woods for us," said he, "and I think
that party will stumble right upon the little hollow where we rested. It
was well we moved."
They increased their southward pace, and when it was scarcely two hours to
the dawn Henry said:
"I know of a good place in which to rest, and a still better place in
which to fight if they should find us."
"Where?"
"Holt's lone cabin. It's less than half a mile from here. I've had it in
mind."
Paul did not know what he meant by Holt's lone cabin, but he was always
willing to trust Henry without questions. His imagination, flowering at
once into splendor, depicted it as some kind of an impregnable fortress.
"Come, we mustn't lose time!" said Henry, and he suddenly increased his
speed, running so fast that Paul had much to do to keep pace with him.
Paul looked up, and he saw why Henry hastened. The black curtain was
rolled back a little in the east, and a splendid bar of gray appeared just
at the horizon's edge. As Paul looked, it broadened and turned to silver,
and then gold. Paul thought it a very phantasy of fate that the coming of
day, which is like life, should bring such terrors.
They reached a clearing--a high, stony piece of ground--and in its center
Paul saw a little old log cabin, with a heavy open door that sagged on
rude wooden hinges.
"Come," said Henry, and they crossed the clearing to the cabin, pushing
open the door. Paul looked around at the narrow place, and the protecting
walls gave him much comfort. Evidently it had been abandoned in great
haste. In one corner lay a tiny moccasin that had been a baby's shoe, and
no one had disturbed it. On a hook on the wall hung a woman's apron, and
two or three rude domestic utensils lay on the floor. The sight had Its
pathos for Paul, but he was glad that the Holts had gone in time. He was
glad, too, that they had left their house behind that he and Henry might
use it when they needed it most, because he began to be conscious now of
a great weakness, both of body and spirit.
Hooks and a stout wooden bar still remained, and as Henry closed the door
and dropped the bar into place, he exclaimed exultantly:
"They may get us, Paul, but they'll pay a full price before they do it."
"I'd rather they wouldn't get us at all," said Paul.
Nevertheless his imagination, leaping back to the other extreme, made the
lone cabin the great fortress that he wished. And a fortress it was in
more senses than one. Built of heavy logs, securely chinked, the single
window and the single door closed with heavy oaken shutters, no bullet
could reach them there. Paul sat down on a puncheon bench, and breathed
laboriously, but joyously. Then he looked with inquiry at Henry.
"It was built by a man named Holt," said Henry. "He was either a great
fool or a very brave man to come out here and settle alone. But a month
ago, after the Indian wars began, he either became wiser or less brave,
and he went into Marlowe with his family, leaving the place just as it
is."
"He left in time," said Paul.
CHAPTER III
THE LONE CABIN
Henry was deeply thankful for this shelter because he knew how badly it
was needed. He went to the single little window, which sagged half open on
hinges made of the skin of the buffalo. He pushed it back in place, and
fastened it, too, with a smaller bar, which he was lucky enough to find
lying on the floor.
"Well, Paul, we are here," he said.
As he spoke he looked keenly and anxiously at his comrade.
"Yes, Henry," Paul replied. "Here we are, and mighty glad am I. It's good
to be in a house again after that river."
Henry noticed at once that his voice was thinner and weaker than usual,
and he saw also that the color on Paul's face was high--the rest and the
little fire in the forest had not been enough. Again he was deeply
grateful for the presence of the cabin. He looked around, with inquiring
eyes that could see everything. It was dusky in the cabin with both door
and window closed, but he observed with especial pleasure, among the
abandoned articles, a small iron pot, suitable for cooking purposes, and a
large water bowl. When he summed up all, it seemed to this resourceful son
of the wilderness that Fortune had been very kind to them. Then he looked
at Paul and distinctly saw a tremor pass over his frame.
"Paul," he said, "are you cold?"
"A little," replied Paul reluctantly. It hurt his pride to confess that he
felt on the verge of physical collapse.
"Then we must have a fire, and I'm going to build it now."
"Won't it be dangerous?" asked Paul. "Won't it be seen?"
"Oh, no," replied Henry lightly. "We are alone in the forest now."
His tone was convincing to Paul, but Henry himself was aware that they
were taking great risks. Yet they must be taken.
"Now, Paul," he said cheerfully, "you keep a good watch while I bring in
deadwood. But first we will rake clean the welcoming hearth of our good
friends who departed so quickly."
Ashes and dead coals were lying in the fireplace, and he raked them
carefully to one side. Then he unbarred the door. The crisp October air
rushed into the close, confined space, and it felt very welcome to Henry,
but Paul shivered again.
"Sit down in one of those chairs and rest, Paul," he said, as he pointed
to two homemade chairs that stood by the wall. "I'll be back in a minute
or two."
Then he shut the door behind him.
"I must take the risk," he murmured. It was characteristic of Henry Ware,
that in this emergency not even a vague thought of deserting his comrade
entered his mind. And faithful as he was to Paul, Paul would have been as
faithful to him. Both meant to finish together their great errand.
Henry looked around. The settler had made but little impression upon the
surrounding forest. The trees had been cut away for a distance of fifteen
or twenty paces on every side, but the wilderness still curved in solid
array about the lone cabin, as if it would soon reclaim its own and blot
out the sole sign of man's intrusion. Everywhere the foliage glowed with
the deep reds and yellows and browns of October, and afar hung a faint
bluish haze, like an early sign of Indian summer. The slight wind among
the leaves had a soothing note, and breathed of nothing but peace. Peace
Henry Ware devoutly hoped that it would be.
His task was easy. The forest all about was littered with the fallen and
dead wood of preceding years, and in a few moments he gathered up an
armful, with which he returned to the house. Then he brought in dry
leaves, and heaped leaves and wood together in the chimney-place. He
glanced at Paul and saw him trembling. As if by chance he touched his
comrade's hand, and it felt ice-cold. But he did not depart one jot from
his cheerful manner, all his words showing confidence.
"Now, Paul," he said, "In less than a minute you'll see burning before you
the finest, warmest, glowingest and most comfortable fire in all the
West."
Paul's eyes glistened.
Henry drew forth flint and steel, and with a few strokes sent out the
vivifying spark. The dry leaves caught, a light flame formed, the wood
caught in its turn, and then the blaze, leaping high, roared up the
chimney. In a moment the hearth was glowing, and presently a bed of deep
red coals began to grow.
Paul uttered a low laugh of joy, and spread out his hands to the flames.
The red light glowed across the delicately cut but strong face of the boy,
and Henry noticed now that all his color was gone, leaving his features
white and drawn.
"Sit a little closer, Paul, a little closer," he said, still in tones of
high, good cheer. "Isn't it the most beautiful fire you ever saw?"
"Yes," said Paul, "it is. It looks mighty good, but it's curious that it
doesn't warm me more."
Henry had closed the door, and it was already very hot in the cabin; but
he decided now on another step--one that would take more time, but it must
be taken.
"Paul," he said, "I'm going out in the woods to look for something, and I
may be gone at least half an hour. Take good care of our house while I'm
away."
"All right," said Paul. But as he spoke his teeth struck together.
Henry closed the door once more, with himself on the outside. Then he
walked to the edge of the clearing, and looked back at the cabin. He had
been careful to choose the kind of wood that would give out the least
smoke, and only a thin column rose from the chimney. The wind caught it
before it rose far, and it was lost among the great trees of the
wilderness. It seemed again to Henry Ware that Fortune was kind to them.
The single look sufficed, and then, drawing his long-bladed hunting knife
from its sheath, he began to search the forest. Henry Ware had been long a
captive among the Northwestern Indians, and he had learned their lore. He
had gained from the medicine men and old squaws a knowledge of herbs, and
now he was to put it to use. He sought first for the bitter root called
Indian turnip, and after looking more than twenty minutes found it. He dug
it up with his sharp knife, and then, with another search of a quarter of
an hour, he found the leaves of wild sage, already dried in the autumn
air. A third quarter of an hour and he added to his collection two more
herbs, only the Indian names of which were known to him. Then he returned
to the house, to find that the icy torrent in Paul's blood had now become
hot.
"I can't stand this, Henry," he said. "We've got the door and window
closed and a big fire burning, and I'm just roasting hot."
"Only a little while longer," said Henry. "The truth is, Paul, you've had
a big chill, and now the fever's come on you. But I'm Dr. Ware, and I'm
going to cure you. When I was up there among the Indians, I learned their
herb remedies, and mighty good some of 'em are, too. They're particularly
strong with chills and fever, and I'm going to make you a tea that'll just
lay hold of you and drive all the fever out of your veins. What you want
to do, Paul, is to sweat, and to sweat gallons."
He spoke in rapid, cheerful tones, wishing to keep up Paul's spirits, in
which effort he succeeded, as Paul's eyes sparkled, and a gleam of humor
lighted up his face.
"Well, Dr. Ware," he said, "I'm mighty glad to know what's the matter with
me. Somehow you always feel better when you know, and I'll trust to your
tea."
He meant what he said. He knew Henry too well to doubt him. Any assertion
of his inspired him with supreme confidence.
"Now, Paul," Henry resumed, "you keep house again, and I'll find where our
unknown friend got his drinking water."
He took the iron pot that he had noticed and went forth into the forest.
It was an instinctive matter with one bred in the wilderness like Henry
Ware to go straight to the spring. The slope of the land led him, and he
found it under the lee of a little hill, near the base of a great oak.
Here a stream, six inches broad, an inch deep, but as clear as burnished
silver, flowed from beneath a stony outcrop in the soil, and then trickled
away, in a baby stream, down a little ravine. There was a strain of
primitive poetry, the love of the wild, in Henry's nature, and he paused
to admire.
He saw that human hands had scraped out at the source a little fountain,
where one might dip up pails of water, and looking down into the clear
depths he beheld his own face reflected back in every detail. It seemed to
Henry Ware, who knew and loved only the wilderness, that the cabin, with
its spring and game at its very doors, would have made a wonderfully snug
home in the forest. Had it been his own, he certainly would have
undertaken to defend it against any foe who might come.
But all these thoughts passed in a second, treading upon one another's
heels. Henry was at the fountain scarcely a moment before he had filled
the pot and was on the way back to the cabin. Then he cast in the herbs,
put it upon a bed of red coals, and soon a steam arose. He found an old,
broken-sided gourd among the abandoned utensils, and was able to dip up
with it a half dozen drinks of the powerful decoction. He induced his
comrade to swallow these one after another, although they were very
bitter, and Paul made a wry face. Then he drew from the corner the rude
bedstead of the departed settler, and made Paul lie upon it beside the
fire.
"Now go to sleep," he said, "while I watch here."
Paul was a boy of great sense, and he obeyed without question, although it
was very hot before the fire. But it was not a dry, burning heat that
seemed to be in the blood; it was a moist, heavy heat that filled the
pores. He began to feel languid and drowsy, and a singular peace stole
over him. It did not matter to him what happened. He was at rest, and
there was his faithful comrade on guard, the comrade who never failed. The
coals glowed deep red, and the sportive flames danced before him. Happy
visions passed through his brain, and then his eyes closed. The red coals
passed away and the sportive flames ceased to dance. Paul was asleep.
Henry Ware sat in silence on one of the chairs at the corner of the
hearth, and when Paul's breathing became long, deep, and regular, he saw
that he had achieved the happy result. He rose soundlessly, and put his
hand upon Paul's forehead. It came back damp. Paul was in a profuse
perspiration, and his fever was sinking rapidly. Henry knew now that it
was only a matter of time, but he knew equally well that in the
Indian-haunted wilderness time was perhaps the most difficult of all
things to obtain.
No uneasiness showed in his manner. Now the lad, born to be a king of the
wilderness, endowed with all the physical qualities, all the acute senses
of a great, primitive age, was seen at his best. He was of one type and
his comrade of another, but they were knitted together with threads of
steel. It had fallen to his lot to do a duty in which he could excel, and
he would shirk no detail of it.
He brought in fresh wood and piled it on the hearth. At a corner of the
cabin stood an old rain barrel half full of water. He emptied the barrel
and brought it inside. Then, by means of many trips to the little spring
with the iron pot, he filled it with fresh water. All the while he moved
soundlessly, and Paul's deep, peaceful slumber was not disturbed. He took
on for the time many of the qualities that he had learned from his Indian
captors. Every sense was alert, attuned to hear the slightest sound that
might come from the forest, to feel, in fact, any alien presence as it
drew near.
When the store of water was secure he looked at their provisions. They had
enough venison in their knapsacks to last a day or two, but he believed
that Paul would need better and tenderer food. The question, however, must
wait a while.
The day was now almost gone. Great shadows hovered over the eastern
forest, and in the west the sun glowed in its deepest red as it prepared
to go. Henry put his hand upon Paul's forehead again. The perspiration was
still coming, but the fever was now wholly gone. Then he took his rifle
and went to the door. He stood there a moment, a black figure in the red
light of the setting sun. Then he slid noiselessly into the forest. The
twilight had deepened, the red sun had set, and only a red cloud in the
sky marked its going. But Henry Ware's eyes pierced the shadows, and none
in the forest could have keener ears than his. He made a wide circle
around the cabin, and found only silence and peace. Here and there were
tracks and traces of wild animals, but they would not disturb; it was for
something else that he looked, and he rejoiced that he could not find it.
When he returned to the cabin the last fringe of the red cloud was gone
from the sky, and black darkness was sweeping down over the earth. He
secured the door, looked again to the fastenings of the window, and then
sat down before the fire, his rifle between his knees.
Paul's slumber and exhaustion alike were so deep that he would not be
likely to waken before morning, so Henry judged, and presently he took out
a little of the dried venison and ate it. He would boil some of it in the
pot in the morning for Paul's breakfast, but for himself it was good
enough as it now was. His strong white teeth closed down upon it, and a
deep feeling of satisfaction came over him. He, too, was resting from
great labors, and from a task well done. He realized now, for the first
time, how great a strain had been put upon him, both mind and body.
The night was sharp and chill, but it was very warm and comfortable in the
little cabin. Paul slept on, his breathing as regular as the ticking of a
clock, healthy color coming back into his pale face as he slept. Henry's
own eyes began to waver. A deep sense of peace and rest soothed him, heart
and brain. He had meant to watch the night through, but even he had
reached the limit of endurance. The faint moaning of the wind outside,
like the soft, sweet note of a violin, came to his ears, and lulled him to
slumber. The fire floated far away, and, still sitting in his chair with
his rifle between his knees, he slept.
Outside the darkness thickened and deepened. The forest was a solid black,
circling wall, and the cabin itself stood in deepest shadow. Inside a
fresh piece of wood caught, and the blaze burned brighter and higher. It
threw a glow across the faces of the two boys, who slept, the one lying
upon the bed and the other sitting in the chair, with the rifle between
his knees. It was a scene possible only in the great wilderness of
_Kain-tuck-ee_.
Meanwhile word was sent by unknown code through the surrounding forest to
all its inhabitants that a great and portentous event had occurred. Not
long before they had welcomed the departure of the strange intruder, who
had come and cut down the forest and built the house. Then, with the
instinct that leaped into the future, they saw the forest and themselves
claiming their own again; the clearing would soon be choked with weeds and
bushes, the trees would grow up once more, the cabin would rot and its
roof fall, and perhaps the bear or the panther would find a cozy lair
among its timbers.
Now the strange intruders had come again. The fox, creeping to the edge of
the clearing, saw with his needlelike eyes a red gleam through the chinks
of the cabin. The red gleam smote him with terror, and he slunk away. The
wolf, the rabbit, and the deer came; they, too, saw the red gleam, and
fled, with the same terror striking at their hearts. All, after the single
look, sank back into the shadows, and the forest was silent and deserted.
Paul and Henry, as they slept, were guarded by a single gleam of fire from
all enemies save human kind.
But as the night thickened there had been a whirring in the air not far
away. An hour earlier the twilight had been deepened by something that
looked like a great cloud coming before the sun. It was a cloud that moved
swiftly, and it was made of a myriad of motes, closely blended. It
resolved itself soon into a vast flock of wild pigeons, millions and
millions flying southward to escape the coming winter.
Presently they settled down upon the forest for the night, and all the
trees were filled with the chattering multitude. Often the bough bent
almost to the ground beneath the weight of birds, clustered so thick that
they could scarcely find a footing. The fox and the wolf that had looked
at the lone cabin came back now to seek, an easier prey.
Henry Ware slept until far after midnight, and then he awoke easily,
without jerk or start. The fire had burned down, and a deep bed of coals
lay on the hearth. Paul still slept, and when Henry touched him he found
that he had ceased to perspire. No trace of the fever was left. Yet he
would be very weak when he awoke, and he would need nourishing food. It
was his comrade's task to get it. Henry took his rifle and went outside.
The moon was shining now, and threw a dusky silver light over all the
forest. He might find game, and, if so, he resolved to risk a shot. The
chances were that no human being save himself would hear it. He felt
rather than saw that nothing had happened while he slept. No enemy to be
feared had come, while all his own strength and elasticity had returned to
him. Never had he felt stronger or more perfectly attuned in body and
mind.
He moved again in a circuit about the cabin, watching carefully, and now
and then looking up among the trees. Perhaps an opossum might be hanging
from a bough! But he saw nothing until he widened his circuit, and then he
ran directly into the myriads of wild pigeons. Here was food for an army,
and he quickly secured plenty of it. The danger of the rifle report was
gone, as he had nothing to do but take a stick and knock off a bough as
many of the pigeons as he wished. Then he hastened back to the cabin with
his welcome burden. Paul still slept, and it pleased Henry to give him a
surprise. He kindled the fire afresh, cleaned two of the youngest,
fattest, and tenderest of the pigeons, and began to boil them in the pot.
When the water simmered and pleasant odors arose, he was afraid that Paul
would awake, as he turned once or twice on his bed and spoke a few
incoherent words. But he continued to sleep, nevertheless, and at last the
pigeon stew was ready, throwing out a savory odor.
The day was now coming, and Henry opened the window. The forest, wet with
morning dew, was rising up into the light, and afar in the east shone the
golden glory of the sun. He drew a deep breath of the fresh, good air, and
decided to leave the window open. Then he filled the broken gourd with the
grateful stew, and, holding it in his right hand, shook Paul violently
with his left. Paul, who had now slept his fill, sat up suddenly and
opened his eyes.
"Here, Paul, open your mouth," said Henry commandingly, "and take this
fine stew. Dr. Ware has prepared it for you specially, and it is sure to
bring hack your strength and spirits. And there's plenty more of it."
Paul sniffed hungrily, and his eyes opened wider and wider.
"Why--why, Henry!" he exclaimed. "How long have I slept, and where did you
get this?"
"You've slept about twenty hours, more or less," replied Henry, laughing
with satisfaction, "and this is wild pigeon stew. Fifteen or twenty
millions roosted out there in the forest last night, and they won't miss
the dozen or so that I've taken. Here, hurry up; I'm hungry, and it's my
turn next."
Paul said no more, but, thankful enough, took the stew and ate it. Then,
by turns, they used the broken gourd and ate prodigiously, varied by
drinks from the water barrel. They had fasted long, they had undergone
great exertions, and it took much to remove the sharp edge from their
appetites. But it was done at last, and they rested content.
"Henry," said Paul, upon whose mind the fortunate advent of the wild
pigeons made a deep impression, "while we have had great mischances, it
seems to me also that we have been much favored by Providence. Our
finding of this cabin was just in time, and then came the pigeons as if
specially for us. You remember in the Bible how the Lord sent the manna in
the wilderness for the Israelites; it seems to me that He's doing the same
thing for us."
"It looks so," replied Henry reverently. "The Indians with whom I once
lived think that the Great Spirit often helps us when we need it most, and
I suppose that their Great Spirit--or Manitou, as they call Him--is just
the same as our God."
Both boys were now silent for a while. They had been reared by devout
parents. Life in the forest deepens religious belief, and it seemed to
them that there had been a special interposition in their favor.
"What are we going to do now?" asked Paul at length.
"We can't take up our journey again for a day or two," replied Henry.
"We've got to get that powder to Marlowe some time or other. Wareville
sent us to do the job, and we'll do it; but you are yet too weak, Paul, to
start again. You don't know how really weak you are. Just you get up and
walk about a little."
Paul rose and walked back and forth across the room, but in a few moments
he became dizzy and had to sit down. Then he uttered an impatient little
cry.
"You're right, Henry," he said, "and I can't help it. Find the horses and
take the powder to Marlowe by yourself. I guess I can get back to
Wareville, or come on later to Marlowe."
Henry laughed.
"You know I wouldn't dream of doing such a thing, Paul," he said.
"Besides, I don't think they need to be in any hurry at Marlowe for that
powder. We'll rest here two or three days, and then take a fresh start."
Paul said no more. It would have been a terrible blow to him to have no
further share in the enterprise, but he had forced himself nevertheless to
make the offer. Now he leaned back luxuriously, and was content to wait.
"Of course," said Henry judicially, "we run risks here. You know that,
Paul"
"Everybody who lives in Kentucky runs risks, and big ones," said Paul.
"Then we'll sit here for the present and watch the forest. I don't like to
keep still, but it's a fine country to look at, isn't it, Paul?"
The love of the wilderness was upon Henry, and his eyes glowed as he
looked at the vast surrounding forest, the circling wall of deep-toned,
vivid colors. For him, danger, if absent, did not exist, and there was
inspiration in the crisp breeze that came over a thousand miles of
untenanted woods. He sat in the doorway, the door now open, and stretched
his long legs luxuriously. He was happy; while he might be anxious to go
on with the powder, he pined for neither Wareville nor Marlowe for their
own sakes.
Paul looked at his comrade with understanding and sympathy. The forest
made its appeal to him also, but in another way; and since Henry was
content, he would be content, too. Used as he was to hardships and narrow
quarters, the little cabin would not be a bad place in which to pass two
or three days. He turned back to the fire and held out his hands before
the mellow blaze.
Henry examined the forest again, widening his circle, and saw no traces of
an enemy. He judged that they had passed either to east or west, and that
he and Paul would not be molested just yet, although he had no confidence
in their permanent security. He saw a deer, but in view of their bountiful
supply of pigeons he did not risk a shot, and returned before noon, to
find Paul rapidly regaining his strength. He cooked two more of the
pigeons in their precious iron pot, and then they rested.
They left both door and window open now, and they could see forest and
sky. Henry called attention to a slight paleness in the western heavens,
and then noted that the air felt damp.
"It will rain to-night, Paul," he said, "and it is a good thing for you,
in your weakened condition, that we have a roof."
They ate pigeon again for supper, and their wilderness appetites were too
sharp to complain of sameness. They had barred window and door, and let
the fire die down to a bed of glowing coals, and while they ate, Paul
heard the first big drops of rain strike on the board roof. Other drops
came down the chimney, fell in the coals, and hissed as they died. Paul
shivered, and then felt very good indeed in the dry little cabin.
"You were a real prophet, Henry," he said. "Here's your storm."
"Not a storm," said Henry, "but a long, cold, steady rain. Even an Indian
would not want to be out in it, and bear and panther will hunt their
holes."
The drops came faster, and then settled into a continuous pour. Paul,
after a while, opened the window and looked out. Cold, wet air struck his
face, and darkness, almost pitchy, enveloped the cabin. Moon and stars
were gone, and could not see the circling wail of the forest. The rain
beat with a low, throbbing sound on the board roof, and, with a kind of
long sigh, on the ground outside. It seemed to Paul a very cold and a very
wet rain indeed, one that would be too much for any sort of human beings,
white or red.
"I think, we're safe to-night, Henry," he said, as he closed and fastened
the window.
"Yes, to-night," replied Henry.
Paul slept a dreamless sleep, lulled by the steady pour of the rain on the
roof, and when he awoke in the morning the sun was shining brightly,
without a cloud in the sky. But the forest dripped with rain. He was
strong enough now to help in preparing the breakfast, and Henry spoke with
confidence of their departure the next morning.
The hours passed without event, but when Henry went as usual through the
forest that afternoon, he came upon a footprint. He followed it and found
two or three more, and then they were lost on rocky ground. The discovery
was full of significance to him, and he thought once of hurrying back to
the cabin, and of leaving with Paul at once. But he quickly changed his
mind. In the forest they would be without defense save their own strong
arms, while the cabin was made of stout logs. And perhaps the danger would
pass after all. Already the twilight was coming, and in the darkness his
own footprints would not be seen.
Paul was at the door when Henry returned, and he did not notice anything
unusual in his comrade's face, but Henry advised that they stay inside
now. Then he looked very carefully to the bars of the door and the window,
and Paul understood. The danger flashed instantly on his mind, but his
strong will prepared him to meet it.
"You think we are likely to be besieged?" he said.
"Yes," replied Henry.
Paul did not ask why Henry knew. It was sufficient that he did know, and
he examined his arms carefully. Then began that long period of waiting so
terrible to a lad of his type. It seemed that the hours would never pass.
The coals on the hearth were dead now, and there was no light at all in
the cabin. But his eyes grew used to the dusk, and he saw his comrade
sitting on one of the benches, one rifle across his lap and the other
near, always listening.
Paul listened, too. The night before the rain had fallen on the board roof
with a soothing sound, but now he could hear nothing, not even the wind
among the trees. He began to long for something that would break this
ominous, deadly silence, be it ever so slight--the sound of a falling nut
from a tree, or of a wild animal stirring in the undergrowth--but nothing
came. The same stillness, heavy with omens and presages, reigned in all
the forest.
CHAPTER IV
THE SIEGE
The whole night passed without event and the day came. Paul saw the light
grow deeper and deeper, but nothing stirred in the forest. It stretched
before him, a living curve of glowing red and yellow and brown, but it was
now like a sea of dangerous depths, and the little cabin was their sole
island of safety.
"It's a good thing we brought the extra rifles with us," said Henry. "They
look like good weapons, and they may save us in case of a rush. Ah, there
they come!"
Paul had noticed nothing, but Henry had seen the bushes at the edge of the
forest quiver, and then move contrary to the wind. His eye did not rest
upon any brown body, but he knew as well as if they had cried out that the
warriors were there. How many? That was the question that concerned him
most. If a great war party, they might hang on a long time; but if only a
small one, he and Paul might beat them off as often as they came. They
had four rifles, plenty of ammunition, enough food to last several days,
and he thanked God for the providential presence of the rain barrel.
These were but brief passing thoughts, and he never ceased to watch the
forest. Still no sign of a face, but now and then the unnatural quiver of
the bushes, and above them the sun spinning a fine golden, veil over all
the great wilderness.
"Our guests have come, Paul," said he, "but from safe cover they are
inspecting our front yard."
"And they don't know yet whether or not they would like to disport
themselves on our lawn."
"That is just it. They have doubts about their welcome."
"That being so," said Paul, in the light, jesting spirit that he loved,
"I'll just wait until they knock at our door. Meanwhile I'll take a drink
from that lucky cistern of ours."
He bent his head into the barrel, and as he drank he felt fresh strength
and courage rushing into his veins.
"It was great luck, wasn't it, to find this barrel?" he said.
"It certainly was," replied Henry, and his words came from the bottom of
his heart. "Now you watch while I take a drink."
Paul did so, but he noticed nothing unusual in the woods. The faint signs
that Henry read with such an unerring eye were hidden from him. But his
skill was sufficient to cover all the cleared space. No warrior could pass
there unseen by him. Henry rejoined him.
"You watch from one side and I'll take the other," he said.
They did so, but the single room of the cabin was so small that they were
only a few feet from each other, and could talk together in low tones.
"It will be a trial of patience," said Henry. "The Indian always has more
time than anybody else in the world, and he is willing to make the most of
it."
Paul, too, knew that Shawnees, no matter what their numbers, would not yet
risk a headlong attack on the cabin, and now his curiosity as to what they
would do was aroused. It was surprise that Henry and he must guard
against. What was to be expected? His sense of curiosity was as keenly
aroused as his sense of danger.
Over an hour dragged slowly by, minute by minute. The sun blazed
brilliantly over the wilderness, and the shut little cabin grew close and
hot. No fresh air came except by the loopholes, and it was not enough for
coolness. Paul's forehead grew damp, and his eyes ached from continual
watching at the loophole. Curiosity now began to give way to anger. If
they were going to do anything, why didn't they do it? He watched the
forest so much and so intently that he began to create images there for
himself. A tall stump was distorted into the figure of an Indian warrior,
a clump of bushes took the shape of an entire group of Shawnees, and many
savage, black eyes looked from the leaves. Paul's reason told him that he
beheld nothing, but his fancy put them there, nevertheless. He saw
presently a little jet of smoke, rising like a white feather; he heard a
report, and then the sound of a bullet burying itself with a soft sigh in
a log of the cabin. He laughed at the futility of it, but Henry said:
"They're just trying us a little--skirmishing, so to speak. Be careful
there, Paul! A chance bullet might catch you in the eye at the loophole."
More lead came from the forest, and there was a sharp crackle of rifle
fire. Bullets thudded into the stout walls of the cabin, and Paul's soul
swelled with derision. His vivid mind pictured himself as safe from the
warriors as if they were a thousand miles away. He was attracted suddenly
by a slight, gurgling sound, and then a cry of dismay from Henry. He
wheeled in alarm. Henry had sprung to the water barrel, the precious
contents of which were oozing from a little round hole in the side, about
two thirds of the way up. A bullet had entered one of the loopholes and
struck the barrel. It was an unfortunate chance, one in a thousand, and
had not Henry's acute ear detected at once the sound of flowing water, it
might have proved a terrible loss.
But Henry was rapidly stuffing a piece of buckskin, torn from his hunting
shirt, into the little round hole, and he waved Paul back to the wall.
"You stay there and watch, Paul," he said. "I'll fix this."
The buckskin stopped all the flow but a slight drip. Then, with his strong
hunting knife, he cut a piece of wood from the bench, whittled it into
shape, and drove it tightly into the bullet hole.
"That's all secure," he said, with a sigh of relief. "Now I must get it
out of range."
He wheeled it to a point in the cabin at which no chance bullet could
reach it, and then resumed the watch with Paul.
"Aren't you glad, Paul," said Henry, "that you were not in the place of
the water barrel?"
"Yes," replied Paul lightly, "because a piece of buckskin and a round
stick wouldn't have healed the damage so quickly."
He spoke lightly because he was still full of confidence. The little cabin
was yet an impregnable castle to him. The crackle of rifle fire died, the
last plume of white smoke rose over the forest, drifted away, and was lost
in the brilliant sunshine. Silence and desolation again held the
wilderness.
"Nothing will happen for some hours now," said Henry cheerfully, "so the
best thing that we can do, Paul, is to have dinner."
"Yes," said Paul, with his quick fancy. "We can dine sumptuously--venison
and pigeon and spring water."
"And lucky we are to have them," said Henry.
They ate of the venison and pigeon, and they drank from the barrel. They
were not creatures of luxury and ease, and they had no complaint to make.
When they finished, Henry said:
"Paul, you ought to take a nap, and then you'll be fresh for to-night,
when things will be happening."
Paul at first was indignant at the idea that he should go to sleep with
the enemy all about them, but Henry soon persuaded him what a wise thing
it would be. Besides, the air was all the time growing closer and warmer
in the little cabin, and he certainly needed sleep. His head grew heavy
and his eyelids drooped. He lay down on the bed, and in a surprisingly
quick time was slumbering soundly.
Henry looked at the sleeping lad, and his look was a compound of great
friendship and admiration. He knew that Paul was not, like himself, born
to the wilderness, and he respected the courage and skill that could
triumph nevertheless. But it was only a fleeting look. His eyes turned
back to the forest, where he watched lazily; lazily, because he knew with
the certainty of divination that they would not attempt anything until
dark, and he knew with equal certainty that they would attempt something
then.
He awakened Paul in two hours, and took his place on the bench. He had not
slept at all the night before, when they were expecting a foe who had not
yet come, and he, too, must be fresh when the conflict was at hand.
"When you see shadows in the clearing, wake me, without fail, Paul," he
said.
Then he closed his eyes, and like Paul slept almost at once. Neither the
weary waiting nor the danger could upset his nerves so much that sleep
would not come, and his slumber was dreamless.
The afternoon waned. Paul, peeping from the loophole, saw the sun, red
like fire, seeking its bed in the west, but the shadows were not yet over
the clearing. Refreshed by his sleep, and his nerves steadied, he no
longer saw imaginary figures in the wilderness. It was just a wall of red
and yellow and brown, and it was hard to believe that men seeking his
life lay there. By and by the east began to turn gray, and over the
clearing fell the long shadows of coming twilight. Then Paul awakened
Henry, and the two watched together.
The shadows lengthened and deepened, a light wind arose and moaned among
the oaks and beeches, a heavy, dark veil was drawn across the sky, and the
forest melted into a black blur. Now Henry looked with all his eyes and
listened with all his ears, because he knew that what the warriors wanted,
the covering veil of the night, had come.
It was a very thick and black night, too, and that was against him and
Paul, as the objects in the clearing were hidden almost as well now as
anything in the forest. Hence he trusted more to ear than to eye. But he
could yet hear nothing, save the wind stirring the leaves and the grass.
Inside the little cabin it grew dark, too, but their trained eyes,
becoming used to the gloom, were able to see each other well enough for
all the needs of the defense.
Time passed slowly on, and to Paul every moment was tense and vivid. The
darkness was far more suggestive of danger than the day had been. He took
his eyes now and then from the loophole, for a moment, to glance at
Henry's face, and about the third or fourth time he saw a sudden light
leap into the eyes of his comrade. The next instant Henry thrust his
rifle into the loophole and, taking quick aim, fired.
A long, quavering cry arose, and after that came a silence that lay very
still and deadly upon Paul's soul. Henry had seen in the shadow a deeper
shadow quiver, and he had fired instantly but with deadly aim. Paul,
looking through the loophole on his own side of the cabin, could see
nothing for a little space, but presently arose a patter of feet, and many
forms darted through the dusk toward the cabin. He quickly fired one
rifle, and then the other, but whether his bullets hit he could not tell.
Then heavy forms thudded against the log walls of the hut, and through the
loophole he heard deep breathing.
"They've gained the side of the cabin," said Henry, "and we can't reach
'em with our rifles now."
"I did my best, Henry," said Paul ruefully. Conflict did not appeal to
him, but the wilderness left no choice.
"Of course, Paul," said Henry, with every appearance of cheerfulness,
"it's not your fault. In such darkness as this they were bound to get
there. But they are not inside yet by a long sight. Be sure you don't get
in front of any of the loopholes."
There came a heavy push at the door, but neither it nor the bar showed the
slightest sign of giving way. Henry laughed low.
"They can't get enough warriors against that door to push it in," he said.
The two boys rapidly reloaded the empty rifles, and now each crouched
against the wall, where no chance bullet through a loophole could reach
him. An eye unused to the darkness could have seen nothing there. Their
figures were blended against the logs, and they did not speak, but each,
listening intently, could hear what was going on outside. Paul's fancy, as
usual, added to the reality. He heard men moving cautiously, soft
footfalls going pit-a-pat, pit-a-pat around the cabin, and it seemed to
him a stray word of advice or caution now and then.
The silence was broken suddenly by a blaze of fire that seemed to come
through the wall, a report that roared like a cannon in the cabin. A spurt
of smoke entered at one of the holes, and a bullet burled itself in the
opposite wall. A savage had boldly thrust the muzzle of his rifle into a
loophole and fired.
"Be still, Paul," whispered Henry. "They can't hit us, and they are
wasting their ammunition."
A second shot was tried by the besiegers, but the result was only the
roaring, echoing report, the smoke and the flame, and the bullet that
found a vain target of wood. But to Paul, with an imagination fed by
stories of mighty battles, it was like a cannonade. Great guns were
trained upon Henry and himself. A thin, fine smoke from the two shots had
entered the cabin, and it floated about, tickling his nostrils, and
adding, with its savor, to the fever that began to rise in his blood. He
dropped to his knees, and was creeping, rifle ready, toward one of the
loopholes, eager with the desire to fire back, when Henry's strong hand
fell upon his shoulder.
"I understand what you want, Paul," he whispered. "I, too, feel it, but it
pays us to wait. Let 'em waste their lead."
Paul stopped, ashamed of himself, and his blood grew cooler. He was not
one to wish anybody's life, and again his mind rebelled at the necessity
of conflict.
"Thank you, Henry," he said, and resumed his place by the wall.
No more shots were fired. The warriors could not know whether or not their
bullets had hit a human mark, and Henry inferred that they would wait a
while, crouched against the cabin. He reckoned that when they did move
they would attack the door, and he noiselessly made an additional prop for
it with the heavy wooden bench. But the faint sound of footsteps suddenly
ceased, and Henry, listening intently, could hear nothing save the rising
wind. He looked through one of the loopholes, but he could not see
anything of the savages. Either they were still crouching against the
wall, or had slipped back to the forest. But he saw enough to tell him
that the night was growing cloudy, and that the air was damp.
Presently rain fell in a slow drizzle, but Henry still watched at the
loophole, and soon he caught a glimpse of two parallel rows of men bearing
something heavy, and approaching the cabin. They had secured a tree trunk,
and would batter down the door; but they must come within range, and Henry
smiled to himself. Then he beckoned to Paul to come to his side.
"Bring me your two rifles," he whispered. "This is the only place from
which we can reach them now, and I want you to pass me the loaded guns as
fast as I can fire them."
Paul came and stood ready, although his mind rebelled once more at the
need to shoot. Henry looked again, and saw the brown files approaching. He
thrust the muzzle of the rifle through the hole and fired at a row of
brown legs, and then, with only a second between, he discharged another
bullet at the same target. Cries of pain and rage arose, there was a thud
as the heavy log was dropped to the ground, and Henry had time to send a
third shot after the fleeing warriors as they ran for the forest.
"They won't try that again," said Henry. "They cannot approach the door
without coming within range of the loophole, and they'll rest a while now
to think up some new trick."
"What will be the end of it?" asked Paul.
"Nobody can say," replied the great youth calmly. "Indians don't stick to
a thing as white men do; they may get tired and go away after a while, but
not yet, and it's for you and me, Paul, to watch and fight."
A certain fierce resolve showed in his tone, and Paul knew that Henry felt
himself a match for anything.
"Better eat and drink a little more, Paul," said Henry. "Take the half of
a pigeon. We'll need all our strength."
Paul thought the advice good, and followed it. Then came another period of
that terrible waiting.
CHAPTER V
THE FLIGHT
Paul was half reclining against the wall, when he suddenly saw Henry look
up. Paul's eyes followed his comrade's, and then he heard a soft, faint
sound over their heads. He understood at once. Danger had come from a new
quarter. The Shawnees were upon the board roof, through which a rifle
bullet could easily pass. The menace was serious, but the men up there
could not see their targets below, and they themselves were in a
precarious position.
Henry once pointed his rifle toward a portion of the roof from which a
slight sound came, but for a reason that he did not give he withheld his
fire. Then came a dead stillness, to be broken a few moments later by
fierce war cries all around the cabin and a crash of rapid shots. It
seemed to Paul that an attack in great force was being made from every
side, and, thrusting his rifle through the loophole, he fired quickly at
what he took to be the flitting form of a foe. The next moment he became
aware of a terrible struggle in the cabin itself. He heard a thud, the
roar of a rifle shot within the confined space, a fall, and then, in the
half darkness, he saw two powerful figures writhing to and fro. One was
Henry and the other a mighty Shawnee warrior, naked to the waist, and
striving to use a tomahawk that he held in a hand whose wrist was clenched
in the iron grasp of his foe. Lying almost at their feet was the body of
another warrior, stark and dead.
Paul sprang forward, his second and loaded rifle in his hand.
"No, no, Paul!" cried Henry. "The chimney! Look to the chimney!"
Paul whirled about, and he was just in time. A savage warrior dropped down
the great wide chimney that all the log cabins had, and fell lightly on
his feet among the dead embers of a month ago. His face was distorted
horribly with ferocity, and Paul, all the rage of battle upon him now that
battle had come, fired squarely at the red forehead, the rifle muzzle only
three feet away. The savage fell back and lay still among the cinders. The
next instant the deep, long-drawn sigh of a life departing came from
behind, and Paul whirled about again, his heart full of sickening fear.
But it was Henry who stood erect. He had wrenched the warrior's own
tomahawk from him, and had slain him with it. His face was flushed with a
victorious glow, but he stood there only a moment. Then he seized his own
second and loaded rifle, and ran to the chimney. But nothing more came
down it, and there were no more sounds of warriors walking on the roof.
The three who had come had been daring men, but they had paid the price.
The shots and shouts around continued for a little space, forms dashed
heavily against the door, and then, as suddenly as it began, the tumult
ceased.
Paul felt a chill of horror creeping through his bones. It was all so
ghastly. The dead warriors lay, each upon his back, one among the dead
coals, and Paul could hear nothing but his own and Henry's heavy
breathing.
"It was a daring thing to do," said Henry at last, "to come down the
chimney that way; but it has been done before in Kentucky."
Then they reloaded their rifles, but Paul was like one in a dream. It
seemed to him now that he could not endure the long hours in the cabin
with those dead faces on the floor staring at him with their dead eyes.
"Henry," he said, "we can't keep them here."
"No," replied Henry, "we can't; but we must wait a little."
Paul sat down on the bench. He felt for a moment faint and sick. The
little cabin was full of rifle smoke, and it lay heavy in his nostrils and
upon his lungs. He felt as if he were breathing poisoned air. But the
smoke gradually drifted away up the chimney, and the thick, clogging
feeling departed from his lungs and nostrils. Strength and spirit came
back.
"How are we to get rid of them?" he asked, nodding toward the dead
warriors.
"Let's wait an hour at least, and I'll show you," replied Henry.
The hour passed, but to Paul it seemed two. Then Henry took the largest of
the warriors and dragged him to the wall just beneath the window. The
second and third he did the same way.
"Now, Paul," he said, "you must take down the bar and open the window.
Then I'll pitch them out. The besiegers will be surprised, and they won't
have time to get at us."
Paul accepted his part of the task eagerly. There might be danger, but
better that than having the dead men lying on the floor and staring at him
with dead eyes. He took down the bar and quickly held the window open.
Henry heaved up the bodies of the warriors and cast them out, one by one,
each falling with a dull, heavy sound to the ground below. Then Paul
slammed back the window and shot the bar into place. As he did so three
or four rifles flashed from the forest, and the bullets pattered upon the
heavy oaken shutter.
"Too late," said Henry, "We took 'em by surprise, as I thought we should."
Paul drew a long and deep breath. The cabin had taken on a brighter
aspect.
"I'm mighty glad that's done," he said.
"If you'll listen carefully, I think you'll hear something later," said
Henry.
Henry was right. In about half an hour they heard soft, shuffling noises
beside the cabin, just under the window.
"They're taking away the dead warriors," said Henry.
"I don't want to fire on them while they're doing it," said Paul.
"Nor I," said Henry. "We might reach 'em, but I'm glad they're doing what
they are."
The slight, sliding noises continued for a little while, and then they
heard only the light sweep of the rain. On the roof it became a patter,
and here and there a drop made its way between the boards and fell on the
floor. It was soothing to Paul after the excitement of those terrible
moments, and he felt a queer, pleasant languor. His eyes half closed, but
his vague look fell on somber, dark spots on the floor, and the sight was
repellent to him. He went to the hearth, heaped up the whole of the embers
and ashes, and sprinkled them carefully over the spots, which would have
been red in the light, but which were black in the night and gloom of the
cabin. Henry watched him do it, but said nothing. He understood Paul, and
gave him his sympathy.
Paul sat down again on the floor, and leaned against the wall. The
pleasant, languorous feeling came once more, but he was roused suddenly by
scattered rifle shots, and sprang up. Henry laughed.
"They're not attacking," he said. "It was only a volley, fired from the
wood, to show how angry they are. I don't think we need expect anything
more to-night. You might really go to sleep, Paul, if you feel like it."
"No, I will not!" exclaimed Paul with energy. "I won't do all the
sleeping, and let you do all the watching. Besides, I couldn't sleep,
anyhow; my nerves wouldn't let me. I looked sleepy just because I was
tired, it's your time."
"All right," said Henry. "Now, you watch good, Paul."
Then Henry lay down upon the floor and closed his eyes. He might not have
done so, but he felt sure that nothing more would be attempted that
night; and if, by any chance, they should attack again, Paul would be
sure to waken him in time. The rain grew harder on the roof, and its
steady patter was like the rocking of a cradle to a child. His nerves were
of steel, and the mechanism of his body and brain were not upset at all.
The half-dropped lids dropped down entirely, and he slept, breathing
peacefully.
Paul watched, his brief lethargy gone; but his accustomed eyes could see
little now through the loopholes, only the dim forest and the rain,
falling slowly but steadily. He and Henry seemed to be alone in the world.
Outside all the wilderness was in gloom, but in the little cabin it was
dry and warm. The few drops that came through the boards now and then, and
fell with a little pat on the floor, were nothing. He and Henry were dry
and safe, and it seemed to him that so far, at least, they had all the
better of the battle. The glow of triumph came again.
Paul watched until dawn, and saw the sun spring up over the eastern
forests. Then he awakened Henry, and the great youth, stretching himself,
uttered a long sigh.
"That was fine, Paul!" he said, "fine! Now, what are our friends outside
doing?"
"Nothing that I can see. There are only stumps in the clearing, and trees
and hushes in the forest. I see no warrior."
Henry laughed, and his laugh had a most cheerful tone.
"They are not far away," he said. "It is likely they'll try to starve us
out, or rather conquer us with thirst. They don't know anything about our
barrel of water."
"Blessed barrel!" ejaculated Paul.
It seemed that Henry was right in his prediction. As long hours passed,
the sun rose higher and higher, and it grew very close in the little
cabin. Paul thought the warriors must have gone away, disgusted with their
losses, but Henry cautioned him against savage patience. Toward noon they
ate a little more of their pigeon and dried venison, and Paul looked with
some dismay at the small portions that were left.
"Henry," he exclaimed, "there is enough for supper, and no more."
"Just so," said Henry, "and our enemies remain on guard. They'll wait for
us."
He thought it best to put the case plainly and in all its hideous phases
to Paul. While savages sometimes abandoned a siege very soon, they did not
show signs of ceasing now. Perhaps they relied on starving out the
besieged, and if they only knew the state of affairs within the cabin
theirs was a good reliance.
Their brief dinner over, the two boys sat down on the floor, and from the
loopholes on either side watched the forest. To Paul the whole air and
atmosphere of the cabin had now become intolerably oppressive. At first it
had been such a strong, snug place of refuge that he rejoiced, but at last
his sensitive spirit was weighed down by the long delay, the gloom, and
the silence. The sight of their limited rations brought to him all the
future--the vigilant enemy on guard, the last little piece of food gone,
then slow starvation, or a rush on the savage bullets and sure death. As
usual, his uncommon imagination was depicting everything in vivid colors,
far in advance.
But he said nothing, nor did Henry. They had already exhausted all
subjects for talk, and they waited--Henry with real, and Paul with assumed
patience. Fully two hours passed in silence, but after that time it was
naturally Paul who spoke first.
"Henry," he said in a tone that indicated unbelief in his own words,
"don't you think that they must have got tired and gone away?"
"No, they are surely in the forest about us; but since they won't go,
Paul, you and I must leave to-night."
"What do you mean?" Paul's words expressed the greatest surprise.
Henry stood up, and figure, face, and words alike showed the greatest
decision.
"Paul," he said, "our last piece of venison will soon be gone, and the
Shawnees, I think, will stay, expecting to starve us out, which they can
do; but the night shows all the signs of being very dark, and you and I
must slip through their lines some way or other. Are you ready to try it?"
It was like a signal to Paul, those words, "Are you ready to try it?" He
was ready to try anything now, as a release from the cabin, and a fine
flare of color mounted to his cheeks as he replied:
"I'll follow you anywhere, Henry."
Henry said nothing more; Paul's reply was sufficient; but he resumed his
position at the loophole, and attentively watched the heavens. Somber
clouds were rolling up from the southwest and the air was growing cooler,
but heavy with damp. Already the sun, so bright and pitiless in the
morning, was obscured, and mists and vapors hung over the forest. He
judged that it would be a dark night, with flurries of mist and rain, just
suited to his purpose, and he felt a sensation of relief.
"Paul," he said, after a while, "I think we'd better take the two captured
rifles with us again. If we come face to face with 'em, a couple of extra
shots might save us."
"Whatever you say, Henry," replied Paul.
The afternoon passed slowly away, and the night came on thick and dark, as
Henry had hoped. The rain fell again in intermittent showers, and it was
carried in gusts by the wind. The two boys drank deeply from the barrel,
and ate what was left of the venison.
"Be sure your powder horns are stopped up tight, Paul," said Henry. "We've
got to keep our powder dry. The sooner we go the better, because the
Shawnees won't be expecting us to come out so soon."
The darkness was now rolling up so thick and black that to Paul it seemed
like a great sable curtain dropping its folds over them. It enveloped the
forest, then the clearing, then the hut, and those within it. The inky sky
was without a star. The puffs of rain rattled dismally on the roof of the
old cabin. But all this somberness of nature brought comfort and lightness
of heart to the besieged. Paul's spirits rose with the blackness of the
night and the wildness of the rain.
"Are you all ready, Paul?" asked Henry.
"Yes," replied Paul cheerfully.
Accustomed as they were to the darkness of the cabin, they could not see
each other's faces now, only the merest outlines of their figures.
"We must keep close together," said Henry. "It won't do to lose sight of
each other."
He slipped to the door, lifted the bar and put it soundlessly on one side,
and he and Paul stood together in the open space, just a moment, waiting
and listening.
The rush of air and raindrops on Paul's face felt wonderfully cool and
invigorating. His chest expanded and his spirits rose to the top. It was
like leaving a prison behind.
"Step more lightly than you ever did before in your life," said Henry, and
he and Paul put foot together on mother earth. The very pressure of the
damp earth felt good to Paul all the way through his moccasins. A step or
two from the door they paused again, waiting and listening. The forest was
invisible, and so were the stumps in the clearing. But nothing stirred.
Henry's acute ear told him that.
"We'll follow the wall around to the other side of the cabin," he
whispered to Paul. "They don't know yet that we've come out, and naturally
they'll watch the door closest. Be careful where you put your feet."
But the very dampness prevented any rustle in the weeds and grass, and
they passed to the other side of the cabin without an alarm coming from
the forest. There they paused again, and once more Henry whispered his
instructions.
"I think we'd better get down and crawl," he said. "It's a hard thing to
do with two rifles each, but we must do it until we get to the woods."
It was difficult, as Henry had said, and Paul felt, too, a sense of
humiliation; but then one's life was at stake, and without hesitation he
dropped to his knees, crawling slowly after the dark figure of his
comrade. Henry made no sound and Paul but a little, not enough to be heard
ten feet away. Henry stopped now and then, as if he would listen intently
a moment or two, and Paul, of course, stopped just behind him. Fortune
seemed to favor their daring. The great silence lasted, broken only by
puffs of wind and rain, and the wet leaves of the forest rubbing softly
against each other. Paul looked back once. The cabin was already melting
into a blur, although not twenty yards distant, and in as many yards more
it would be lost completely in the surrounding darkness.
Now the forest was only a few yards away, but to Paul it seemed very far.
His knees and wrists began to ache, and the two rifles became awkward for
him to carry. He wondered how Henry could go forward with so much ease,
but he resolved to persist as long as his comrade led the way.
The dark outline of the wood slowly came nearer, then nearer yet, and then
they entered it, pressing silently among the hushes and the black shadows
of the lofty trees. Here Henry rose to his feet and Paul imitated him,
thankful to rest his aching knees and wrists, and to stand up in the form
and spirit of a man.
"We may slip through unseen and unheard," whispered Henry, "and then again
we may not. Come on; we'll need all our caution now."
But as they took the first step erect, a cry arose behind them, a cry so
full of ferocity and chagrin that Paul absolutely shuddered from head to
foot. It came from the clearing, near the hut, and Paul, without the
telling of it, knew what had happened.
"They've tried the door of the cabin, only to find it open and the place
empty," whispered Henry. "Now, we must not go too fast, Paul. In this
pitchy darkness not even a Shawnee could see us ten feet away, but he
could hear us. No noise, Paul!"
They stole forward, one close behind the other, going but slowly, seeking
with sedulous care to avoid any noise that would bring the savages upon
them. The rain, which had grown steadier, was a Godsend. It and the wind
together kept up a low, moaning sound that hid the faint pressure of
Paul's footsteps. The cry behind them at the cabin was repeated once,
echoing away through the black and dripping forest. After that Paul heard
nothing, but to the keener ears of Henry came now and then the soft,
sliding sound of rapid footsteps, a word or two uttered low, and the faint
swish of bushes, swinging back into place after a body passed. He knew
that the warriors were now seeking eagerly for them, but with the aid of
the intense darkness he hoped that he and Paul would steal safely through
their lines. They went slowly forward for perhaps half an hour, stopping
often and listening. Once Henry's hand on Paul's shoulder, they sank a
little lower in the bushes, and Henry, but not Paul, saw the shadowy
outline of a figure passing near.
Fortunately the forest was very dense, but unfortunately the clouds began
to thicken, and a rumble dull and low came from the far horizon. Then the
clouds parted, cut squarely down the middle by a flash of lightning, and
for a moment a dazzling glow of light played over the dripping forest.
Everything was revealed by it, every twig and leaf stood out in startling
distinctness, and Paul, by impulse, sank lower to hide himself among the
bushes.
The glow vanished and Henry had seen nothing; he was sure, too, that no
one had seen them, but he knew that it was only luck; another flash might
reveal them, and he and Paul must now hasten, taking the chances of
discovery by noise. He spoke a word to his comrade, and they plunged more
rapidly through the undergrowth. The thunder kept up an unceasing and
threatening murmur on the far horizon, and the lightning flared fitfully
now and then, but they were still unseen, and Henry hoped that they had
now passed the ring of savages in the forest and the dusk.
Paul had dropped back from Henry's side, but was following closely behind
him. He was deeply impressed by a situation so extraordinary for one of
his type. The thunder, the lightning, the darkness and the danger
contained for him all the elements of awe and mystery.
"I think we've shaken them off," said Henry presently, "and unless the
lightning shows us to some stray member of the band they can't pick up our
trail again before morning."
Paul was grateful for the assurance, and he noticed, too, that the danger
of the lightning's revelation was decreasing, as the flashes were becoming
less frequent and vivid. His breathing now grew easier and his spirits
rose. Much of the gloom departed from the forest. The thunder that had
kept up a continuous low rolling, like a dirge, died away, and the
lightning, after a few more weak and ineffectual flashes, ceased.
"We won't have any further trouble to-night, that's sure," said Henry.
"They could not possibly find our trail before day, and I think we'd
better push on, as nearly as we can, in the direction of our hidden
powder. You know we still mean to do what we started out to do."
They traveled all night, with brief periods of rest, through rough and
densely wooded country. Toward morning the rain ceased, and the clouds all
floated away. The stars came out in a clear sky, and a warm wind blew over
the wet forest. Henry looked more than once at Paul, and his look was
always full of sympathy. Paul's face was pale, but his expression was set
in firm resolve, and Henry knew that he would never yield.
After a while the dark began to lighten, and Henry stopped short in
surprise. Paul was walking in such automatic fashion that he almost ran
against him before he stopped. Henry pointed with a long forefinger to a
red spot deep in the forest.
"See that?" he said.
"Yes, I guess it's the sun rising," said Paul, who was staggering a
little, and who saw through a cloud, as it were.
Henry looked at him and laughed.
"The sun!" he said. "Well, Paul, it's the first time I ever knew the sun
to rise in the west."
"The sun's likely to do anything out here where we are," rejoined Paul.
"That's a fire, a camp fire, Paul," said Henry, "and I'm thinking it must
be made by white men."
"White men! Friends!" exclaimed Paul. He stood up straight, and his eyes
grew brighter. An hour or two ago it had scarcely seemed possible to him
that they should ever see white faces again.
"It's only my belief," said Henry. "We've got to make sure. Now, you wait
here, Paul, and I'll do a little bit of scouting. Sit down among those
bushes there and I'll be back soon."
Paul was fully content to do what Henry said. He found a good place in a
thick clump of underbrush, and sank down easily. He would have been quite
willing to lie down, because he was terribly tired and sleepy, but with an
effort he held himself to a sitting posture and watched Henry. He was
conscious of a vague admiration as the tall form of his comrade went
forward swiftly, making no noise and hiding itself so quickly in the
forest that he could not tell where it had gone.
Then Paul was conscious of a great peace, and a heavy tugging at his
eyelids. Never in his life before was he so tired and sleepy. The last
raindrop was gone, and the bushes and grass were drying in the gentle
wind. A fine golden sun was bringing with it a silver dawn, and a pleasant
warmth stole all through him. His head sank back a little more and his
elbow found a soft place in the turf.
The boy, with his half-closed eyes and pale face, was not alone as he lay
there among the bushes. Little neighbors came and looked at the newcomer.
A hare gazed solemnly at him for a moment or two, and then hopped solemnly
away. A bluebird flew down to the very tip of a bough, surveyed him at
leisure, and then flew off in search of food. Neither hare nor bird was
scared. Tiny creeping things scuttled through the grass, but the boy did
not move, and they scuttled on undisturbed.
Paul was just sinking away into a pleasant unknown land when a shout
brought him back to earth. He sprang to his feet, and there was Henry
returning through the forest.
"Friends, Paul! Old friends!" he cried. "Up with you and we'll pay 'em a
surprise visit!"
Paul shook his head to clear his thoughts, and followed Henry. Henry
walked swiftly now, not seeming to care whether or not he made noise, and
Paul followed him toward the fire, which now rapidly grew larger.
CHAPTER VI
THE BATTLE ON THE HILL
Six men were sitting around a camp fire, and they showed every sign of
comfort and cheerfulness. It was a big fire, a glowing fire, a warm fire,
and it took all trace of damp from the rain or cold of the autumn morning.
They were just having breakfast, and their food was buffalo hump, very
tender as it came from beneath a huge bed of red-hot embers.
The men seemed to have no fear of an enemy, perhaps because their fire was
in an open space, too far from the forest for the rifle shot of an
ambushed foe to reach them. Perhaps, too, they felt security in their
numbers and valor, because they were certainly a formidable-looking party.
All were stalwart, dressed in wilderness fashion--that is, in tanned
deerskin--and every one carried the long, slender-barreled Kentucky rifle,
with knife and hatchet at his belt. There was Tom Ross, the guide, of
middle years, with a powerful figure and stern, quiet face, and near him
lounged a younger man in an attitude of the most luxurious and indolent
ease, Shif'less Sol Hyde, who had attained a great reputation for laziness
by incessantly claiming it for himself, but who was nevertheless a hunter
and scout of extraordinary skill. Jim Hart, a man of singular height and
thinness, whom Sol disrespectfully called the "Saplin'"--that is, the
sapling, a slim young tree--was doing the cooking. The others were typical
frontiersmen--lean, big of build, and strong.
The shiftless one curled himself into an easier position against a log,
and regarded with interest a particularly juicy piece of the buffalo hump
that lay on the grass some distance from him.
"Say, Saplin'," he drawled, "I wish you'd bring me that piece o' hump. I
think it would just suit my teeth."
"Git it yourself," replied Saplin' indignantly. "Do you think I'm goin' to
cook for a lazy bag o' bones like you, an' then wait on you, too?"
"Well, I think you might," said Shif'less Sol sorrowfully. "I'm pow'ful
tired."
"If I wuz to wait on you when you wuz tired, I'd wait on you all my life."
"Which 'ud he puttin' yourself to a mighty good use," said Sol tolerantly.
"But if you won't bring it to me, I reckon I'll have to go after it."
He rose, with every appearance of reluctance, and secured the buffalo
meat. But he stood with it in his hand and regarded the forest to the
east, from which two figures were coming. Ross had already seen them, but
he had said nothing. The keen eyes of the shiftless one were not at fault
for a moment.
"Paul Cotter an' Henry Ware," he said.
"Yes," said Tom Ross.
"And Paul's just about done up."
"Yes," said Tom Ross.
"Looks like they've had a big fight or a big run, one or t'other or both."
"Yes," said Tom Ross.
Then all went forward to meet the two boys, so well known to them. Paul
was staggering a little, and there was a high color, as of fever, in his
face, but Henry showed signs of neither fatigue nor excitement.
"We're glad to find you," said Henry briefly.
"We're glad, awful glad!" began Paul, with more fervor; but he suddenly
reeled, and everything grew dim about him. Shif'less Sol caught him.
"Here, Paul," he said, "stand up. You're a heavy weight for a tired man to
hold."
His words were rough, but his tone was kindly. Paul, all his pride
aroused, made a great effort and stood straight again. Slowly the world
about him swam back, into its proper position.
"Who said I wasn't standing up?" he asked.
"Nobody," replied Shif'less Sol; "but if I'd been through what I reckon
you've been through, I'd fall flop on the ground, an' Jim Hart would have
to come an' feed me or I'd starve to death right before his eyes."
Paul laughed, and then he felt more like himself. Ross, too, had been
regarding him with sympathy, but he glanced inquiringly at Henry.
"You've had it hot an' hard?" he said.
"Yes," replied the boy laconically; "we've run against Shawnees, and about
everything that could has happened to us."
"Then it's fire, warmth, meat, rest, an' sleep for Paul right away," said
Ross.
Henry nodded.
Paul was looking at the fire, which seemed to him the most glorious one
ever built, and he did not notice anything more until he was lying beside
it, stretched on a blanket, and eating the very piece of tender buffalo
meat that Shif'less Sol had coveted for himself. Despite his relaxed and
half-dreamy condition, his imagination leaped up at once to magnificent
heights. All danger and hardship were gone. He was surrounded by a ring
of dauntless friends, and the fire glowed splendidly.
Shif'less Sol sat down near him, and regarded him with the deepest
sympathy, mingled with a certain amount of envy.
"Paul," he said, "I wish I wuz in your place for an hour or two. They've
jest got to wait on you. Nobody ever believes me when I say I'm sick,
though I'm took pow'ful bad sometimes, an' they don't care whether I'm
tired or not. Now, Paul, take all the advantages o' your position. Don't
you reach your hand for a thing. Make 'em bring it to you. Ef I can't get
waited on myself, I like to see another fellow waited on. Here, Saplin',
some more o' that buffalo steak for Paul, who is mighty hungry."
Saplin' cast a look of scorn upon Shif'less Sol, but he brought the steak,
and Paul ate again, for he was voraciously hungry. But one cannot eat
always, and by and by he had enough. Then his restful, dreamy feeling
grew. He saw Henry and the men talking, but he either did not hear what
they said or he was not interested. Soon the whole world faded out, and he
slept soundly. And as he slept the touch of fever left him. Shif'less Sol
looked down at him kindly.
"I'm tired, too," he said, "but I suppose if I wuz to go to sleep some o'
you 'ud be mean enough to shove me in the side with his foot."
"I'd try to be the first," said Jim Hart, "an' I'd shove pow'ful hard."
"It 'ud be jest like you," said Shif'less Sol, "but I suppose you can't
any more help bein' mean, Jim, than I can help bein' tired."
Jim shrugged his shoulders and returned to his cooking, his tall, lean
form bent over like a hoop. Paul slept peacefully on the blanket, but the
others talked much and earnestly. Henry, as he ate of the buffalo meat,
told them all that had happened to him and Paul in that brief period which
yet looked so long. That the band would pick up the trail, daylight now
come, and follow on, he did not doubt. There he stopped, and left the
conclusion to the others. Shif'less Sol was the first to speak.
"This gang," he said, "come out to hunt buffalo, an', accordin' to what
Henry says, a war party--he don't know how big--is comin' this way huntin'
him an' Paul. Well, ef it keeps on huntin' him an' Paul, it's bound to run
up agin us, because Paul an' Henry are now a part o' our gang. Ez fur me,
I've done a lot o' trampin' after buffalo, an' I feel too tired to run, I
jest do."
"I ain't seen no better place for cookin' than this," said Jim Hart,
undoubling himself, "an' I like the looks o' the country round here
pow'ful well. I'd hate to leave it before I got ready,"
"'Tain't healthy to run afore you're ready," said Ike Stebbins, a short,
extremely thick man. "It ain't good for the stomach. Pumps the blood right
up to the heart, an' I ain't feelin' very good just now, noway. Can't
afford to take no more risks to my health."
A slight smile passed over the stern, bronzed face of Tom Ross.
"I expected to hear you talk that way, boys," he said, "it's in your
blood; but thar's a better reason still for our not goin'. If this war
band stays around here, it'll be pickin' off settlers, an' it's fur us to
stop it. Now, them Shawnees are comin' a-huntin' us. I jest wish to say
that we don't mean to be the hunted; we're to be the hunters ourselves."
Sharp exclamations of approval broke from all these fierce spirits of the
border. But the deepest and most dangerous gleam of all was in the eyes of
Henry Ware. All his primeval instincts were alive, and foremost among them
was the desire to fight. He was tired of running, of seeking to escape,
and his warlike blood was up and leaping. Two more men who had been out
ranging the woods for buffalo, or any other worthy game that might happen
in their way, came in presently, and the little army, with the addition
of the two boys, was now raised to the number of ten. And a real little
army it was, fortified with indomitable hearts and all the skill and
knowledge of the wilderness.
When Paul awoke beneath the pressure of Henry's hand on his shoulder, the
sun was much higher, and the forest swam in limpid light. He noticed at
once that the fire was out, trampled under strong heels, and that all the
men looked as if ready for instant conflict. He rubbed his eyes and sprang
to his feet, half in shame that he should have slept while others watched.
It was Shif'less Sol who came to his rescue.
"It's all right, Paul," he drawled. "We all know you were pow'ful tired,
an' I'd have slept, too, ef them fellows hadn't been mean enough to keep
me from it. You wuz just nacherally overpowered, an' you had to do it."
Paul looked around at the little group, and he read the meaning in the eye
of every man.
"You are going to fight that war band?" he said.
"It 'pears to me that it's a sight less tirin' than runnin' away," replied
Shif'less Sol, "though we hate to drag you, Paul, into such a fracas."
The blood flushed into Paul's face.
"I'm ready for it!" he exclaimed. "I'm as ready as any of you! Do you
think I want to run away?"
"We know, Paul, that you've got ez much grit ez anybody in the world,"
said Tom Ross kindly; "but Sol maybe didn't think a boy that's a big
scholar, an' that kin read an' understand anything, would he as much
interested in a real hair-raisin' fight as the rest o' us."
Paul was mollified. He knew their minds now, and in a way it was an
unconscious tribute that these wild borderers paid to him.
"I'm with you to the end of it," he said. And they, too, were satisfied.
Then the entire party moved forward into the deep woods, watching and
listening for the slightest sign of the Shawnee advance. Tom Ross
naturally took command, but Henry Ware, as always, was first scout. No
other eye was so keen as his, nor any other ear. All knew it, and all
admitted it willingly. His form expanded again, and fierce joy surged up
in his heart. As Ross truly said, the hunted had turned into the hunter.
It was the purpose of the men to circle to the east, and to strike the war
party on the Hank. They knew that the Shawnees had already discovered the
junction of the fugitives with a larger force, but the warriors could not
yet know that the new party intended to stand and fight. Ross, therefore,
like the general of a great army going into battle, intended to seek the
best possible position for his force.
They traveled in a half circle for perhaps two hours, and then Henry
struck a trail, calling at once to Ross. They examined it carefully, and
judged that it had been made by a force of about twenty warriors,
undoubtedly the band that was following Henry and Paul.
"We're behind 'em now," said Henry.
"But they'll soon be coming back on our trail," said Ross. "They know that
they are more than two to one, and they will follow hard."
"I'm gittin' mighty tired ag'in," said Shif'less Sol. "It 'pears to me
thar's a pow'ful good place fur us to rest over thar among all them big
trees on that little hill."
Ross and Henry examined the hill, which was not very high, but small, and
crowned with mighty beeches. The great tree-trunks would offer admirable
cover for the wilderness fighter.
"It does kinder invite us," said Ross meaningly, "so we'll jest go over
thar, Sol, an' set a while longer."
A few minutes later they were on the hill, each man lying behind a tree of
his own selection. Shif'less Sol had chosen a particularly large one, and
luckily there was some soft turf growing over its roots. He stretched
himself out luxuriously.
"Now, this jest suits an easy-goin' man like me," he said. "I could lay
here all day jest a-dreamin', never disturbin' nobody, an' nobody
disturbin' me. Paul, you and me ain't got no business here. We wuz cut out
fur scholars, we wuz."
Nevertheless, lazy and luxurious as he looked, Shif'less Sol watched the
forest with eyes that missed nothing. His rifle lay in such a position
that he could take aim almost instantly.
There was a long and tense silence, full of strangeness to Paul. He could
never get used to these extraordinary situations. When preparing for
combat, as well as in it, the world seemed unreal to him. He did not see
why men should fly at each other's throats; but the fact was before him,
and he could not escape it.
The little hill was so situated that they could see to a considerable
distance at all points of the compass, but they yet saw nothing. Shif'less
Sol stretched himself in a new position and grumbled.
"The wust thing about this bed o' mine here," he said to Paul, "is that
sooner or later I'll be disturbed in it. A fellow never kin make people
let him alone. It's the way here, an' it's the way back in the East, too,
I reckon. Now, I'm only occupyin' a place six feet by two, with the land
rollin' away thousands o' miles on every side; but it's this very spot,
six feet by two, that the Shawnees are a-lookin' fur."
Paul laughed at the shiftless one's complaint, and the laugh greatly
relieved his tension. Fortunately his tree was very close to Sol's, and
they could carry on a whispered conversation.
"Do you think the Shawnees will really come?" asked Paul, who was always
incredulous when the forest was so silent.
"Come! Of course they will!" replied Shif'less Sol. "If for no other
reason, they'll do it jest to make me trouble. I ought to be back thar in
the East, teachin' school or makin' laws fur somebody."
Paul's eyes wandered from Sol to his comrade, and he saw Henry suddenly
move, ever so little, then fix his gaze on a point in the forest, three or
four hundred yards away. Paul looked, too, and saw nothing, but he knew
well enough that Henry's keener gaze had detected an alien presence in the
bushes.
Henry whispered something to Ross, who followed his glance and then nodded
in assent. The others, too, soon looked at the same point, Jim Hart
craning his long neck until it arched like a bow. Presently from a dense
clump of bushes came a little puff of white smoke, and then the stillness
was broken by the report of a rifle. A bullet buried itself in one of the
trees on the hill, and Shif'less Sol turned over with a sniff of contempt.
"If they don't shoot better'n that," he said, "I might ez well go to
sleep."
But the forest duel had begun, and it was a contest of skill against
skill, of craft against craft. Every device of wilderness warfare known to
the red men was practiced, too, by the white men who confronted them.
Paul at first felt an intense excitement, but it was soothed by the calm
words of Shif'less Sol.
"I'd be easy about it, Paul," said the shiftless one. "That wuz jest a
feeler. They've found out that we're ready for 'em. There ain't no chance
of a surprise, an' they shot that bullet merely as a sort o' way o'
tellin' us that they had come. Things won't be movin' fur some time yet."
Paul found that Shif'less Sol was right. The long waiting customary in
such forest combats endured, but he was now becoming more of a stoic, and
he used the time, at least in part, for rest, although every nerve and
muscle was keyed to attention. It was fully an hour later when a shot came
from behind a tree much nearer to them, and a bullet cut a fragment of
bark from the gigantic beech that sheltered Shif'less Sol. There was a
second report before the sound of the first had died away, and a Shawnee,
uttering a smothered cry, fell forward from his shelter, and lay upon the
ground, quite still. Paul could see the brown figure, and he knew that the
man was dead.
"It was Tom Ross who did that," said Shif'less Sol. "The savage leaned too
fur forward when he fired at me, an' exposed hisself. Served him right fur
tryin' to hurt me."
Then Sol, who had raised himself up a little, lay down again in his
comfortable position. He did not seem disturbed at all, but Paul kept
gazing at the figure of the dead warrior. Once more his spirit recoiled at
the need of taking life. Presently came a spatter of rifle fire--a dozen
shots, perhaps--and bullets clipped turf and trees. The Shawnees had crept
much nearer, and were in a wide semicircle, hoping thus to uncover their
foes, at least in part, and they had a little success, as one man, named
Brewer, was hit in the fleshy part of the arm.
Paul saw nothing but the smoke and the flashes of fire, and he was wise
enough to save his own ammunition--he had long since learned the border
maxim, never to shoot until you saw something to shoot at.
But the enemy was creeping closer, hiding among rocks and bushes, and a
second and longer spatter of rifle fire began. One man was hit badly, and
then the borderers began to seek targets of their own. Their long,
slender-barreled rifles flashed again and again, and more than one bullet
went straight to the mark. The plumes of white smoke grew more numerous,
united sometimes, and floated away in little clouds among the trees.
Paul saw that his comrades were firing slowly, but with terrible effect,
as five or six still, brown figures now lay in the open. Shif'less Sol, at
the next tree, only four feet away, was stretched almost perfectly flat on
his face on the ground, and every movement he made seemed to be slow and
deliberate. Yet no one was firing faster or with surer aim than he, and
faint gleams of satisfaction showed now and then in his eyes. Paul could
not restrain speech.
"It seems to me, Sol, that you are not tired as you said you were," he
said.
"Perhaps not," replied Sol slowly, "but I will be."
The savages suddenly began to shout, and kept up a ferocious yelling, as
if they would confuse and terrify their opponents. The woods echoed with
the din, the long-drawn, whining cry, like that of a wolf, and despite
all the efforts of a strong will, Paul shuddered as he had not shuddered
at the sound of the rifle fire.
"'Tain't no singin' school," said Shif'less Sol, in a clear voice that
Paul could hear above the uproar, "but, then, yellin' don't hurt nobody,
either. I'd be pow'ful tired ef I used my mouth that way. But jest you
remember, Paul, that noise ain't bullets."
It seemed to Paul that the Shawnees had come to the same conclusion,
because all the yelling suddenly ceased, and with it the firing. Brown
forms that had been flitting about disappeared, too, and all at once there
was silence in the wilderness, and nothing to be seen save the hunters and
the still, brown figures among the rocks and bushes. To Paul it was
wonderful, this melting away of the battle, and this disappearance of the
foe, all in a flash. He rubbed his eyes, and could scarcely believe that
it was real. But there were the still, brown figures, and by a tree near
him lay another still figure, in hunting shirt and leggings, with his face
upturned to the sky. One of the hunters had been shot through the heart,
and had died instantly and without noise. Three others had been wounded,
but they were not complaining.
Presently a little hum of talk arose, and Shif'less Sol once more moved
comfortably.
"Bit off more'n they could chaw," he said reflectively. "Will wait a
while before takin' another bite. Guess I'll rest now."
He stretched himself luxuriously, took out a piece of venison and began to
eat it, at the same time handing a piece to Paul.
"Atween fights I allus eat," he said. "Better do the same, Paul."
But Paul had no appetite. He crawled over to Henry, and asked him what he
expected to happen next.
"They won't give up," replied Henry, "that is sure. They know that they
outnumber us two or three to one, and I've an idea that this is a band of
picked warriors."
"You think, too, they'll want to revenge their losses?"
"Of course. And they're likely to attack again before night. It's not noon
yet, and they have lots of time."
Paul crawled back to his tree, and, knowing that he would have to wait
again, forced himself to eat the venison that Shif'less Sol had given to
him.
The Shawnees remained silent and hidden in the forest, and the white men,
voiceless, too, lay waiting behind the trees. Between them stretched the
fallen, their brown faces upturned to the red sun, which sailed peacefully
on in a sky of cloudless blue.
CHAPTER VII
WHAT HAPPENED IN THE DARK
Shif'less Sol rose to a sitting position, and carefully cracked his
joints, one by one.
"I wuz a bit afeard, Paul," he said, "that I had jest petrified, layin'
thar so long. A tired man likes to rest, but thar ain't no sense in
turnin' hisself into a stone image."
Sol seemed so careless and easy that Paul drew an inference from his
manner.
"You are not expecting anything more from them just now, Sol?"
His nod toward the forest indicated the "them."
"No, not yet a while," replied Shif'less Sol. "I guess they'll lay by
until night."
His face showed some apprehension as he spoke of night, but it was gone
quickly. Shif'less Sol was not a man who took troubles to heart, else he
never would have earned his name.
"We'll jest chaw a little more venison, Paul," he said. "I know you think
a drink o' water would go pow'ful well with it, an' so do I; but since it
ain't to be had, we'll jest do without it and say no more."
The remainder of the day passed undisturbed, but as the first wan shade of
twilight appeared the men began to look closely to their arms. Horns were
held up to the light in order that the powder line might show, bullets
were counted, and flints examined. Paul knew what it all meant. The
Shawnees would attack in the darkness, and there would be all the
confusion of a midnight battle, when one might not be able to tell friend
from friend nor foe from foe. The sense of weirdness and awe overcame him
again. They were but the tiniest of atoms in that vast wilderness, which
would be just the same to-morrow and the next day, no matter who won.
But Paul had in him the stuff of which heroes are made, and his strong
will brought his mind back to present needs. He, too, measured his powder
and counted his bullets, while he strove also to forget the hot thirst
that tormented him.
The sun sank in the forest, the wan twilight deepened into shadow, and the
shadow darkened into night. The trees where the Shawnees lay hidden were
gone in the dusk, which hung so close that Paul could see but the nearest
of his comrades. Only the murmur of night insects and the faint rustle of
leaves came to his ears. The feeling of awe returned, and his blood grew
chill. Then it was a relief to him to know that he had a comrade in this
sensation.
"Ef an owl would only hoot once or twice now," whispered Shif'less Sol, "I
think I'd jump right out o' my huntin' shirt."
Paul laughed and felt better.
"Now, Paul," continued Shif'less Sol, very gravely this time, "lemme give
you a piece o' mighty good advice. When the muss comes on, don't move
about much. Lay close. Stick to me an' Henry, an' then thar ain't so much
chance to git mixed up with them that's lookin' fur you here."
"I'll remember what you say, Sol," replied Paul earnestly, as he girded
his spirit for action. He knew that the attack would come very soon, as
the Indians would choose the darkest period before the moon rose. Nor was
he wrong. The battle in the night began only a half hour later.
Paul first saw a pink point appear in the darkness, but he knew that it
was the flame from a rifle shot. It came from a place not far away, to
which some Shawnee had crawled; but the hunters paid no attention to it,
nor to a second, nor to a third, as all the bullets flew wild. Paul,
forgetting for the moment that those bullets were sent to kill, became
engrossed in the spectacle of the fireworks. He was always wondering where
the next spurt of blue or pink flame would break through the darkness,
and the popping of the shots formed a not unpleasant sound in the night.
"Comin' closer, comin' closer, Paul!" whispered Shif'less Sol. "One o'
them bullets flyin' in the dark may hit somethin' putty soon."
Sol was a prophet. A hunter not far away uttered a low cry. He was struck
in the shoulder, but after the single cry he was silent. Henry was the
first to see one of the creeping brown bodies and fired, and after that
the shots on either side increased fast. It was all confused and terrible
to Paul. The darkness, instead of thinning to accustomed eyes, seemed to
him to grow heavier. The pin points of light from the rifle fire
multiplied themselves into hundreds, and the front of the foe shifted
about, as if they were trying to curve around the defenders.
Paul could not definitely say that he saw a single savage, but he fired
now and then at the flashes of light, and also tried to obey Sol's
injunction about sticking close to him and Henry. But he was not always
sure that the figures near him were theirs, the darkness remaining so
intense. He heard occasional low cries, the light impact of bullets, and
the shuffling sound of feet, but he was fast losing any ordered view of
the battle. He knew now that the savages were very close, that the combat
was almost hand to hand, but he knew little else. The night enclosed all
the furious border conflict, and hid the loss or gain of either side from
all but the keenest eyes.
Paul could never tell how long this lasted, but he felt confident that the
area of conflict was shifting. Having first faced one side, they were now
facing another, as the savages wheeled about them. He rose to his feet in
order to keep with his friends. He had been loading and firing more
rapidly than he knew, and the barrel of his rifle was hot to his touch. He
stood a moment listening for the savages, and then turned to two
indistinct figures near him.
"Sol," he said, "can you and Henry see them?"
The two indistinct figures suddenly became distinct, and sprang upon him.
He was seized in a powerful grasp and hurled down so violently that he
became unconscious for a little while. Why he was not killed he did not
know that night, nor ever after--probably they wished to show a trophy.
When he gathered his scattered senses he was being dragged away, and his
hands were bound. He was too dazed to cry aloud for rescue, but he
remembered afterwards that the battle behind him was waning at the time.
He was dragged deeper into the forest, and the shots on the hill became
fainter and fewer. His sight cleared, but the darkness was so great that
he could yet see little except the warrior who pulled him along. Paul made
an effort and gained a better footing. It hurt his pride to be dragged,
and now he walked on in the path that the warrior indicated.
They stopped after a while in an open space in the forest. The moon was
clearing a little, and Paul saw other warriors standing about. Nearly all
were wounded. Hideous and painted they were, with savage eyes filled with
rage and disappointment, and the looks they gave Paul made him consider
himself as one dead.
As the moon cleared, more warriors drifted back into the glade. Some of
these, too, bore wounds, and Paul's heart leaped up with fierce joy as he
saw that they had been defeated. The firing had ceased and the wilderness
was returning to silence, broken only by the low words of the savages and
the soft sound of their moccasins on the earth.
Paul was still in a sort of daze. The warriors were grouped about him,
their sole visible trophy of the battle, and they regarded him with
vengeful eyes. But he had passed through so much that he was not afraid.
His only feeling was that of dull stupefaction, and mingled with it a sort
of lingering pride that his comrades had been the victors, although he
himself was a prisoner. He did not know whether they would kill him or
take him with them, and at that moment his mind was so dulled that he felt
little curiosity about the question.
A thin, sharp-faced warrior of middle years seemed to be the leader of the
band, and he talked briefly to the others. They nodded toward Paul, and
then, with a warrior on each side of the prisoner, they started northward.
Paul, his brain clearing, judged that they were taking him as a trophy, as
a prize to show in their village before putting him to death.
They marched silently through the forest, curving far to the left of the
battlefield. The warriors were about a score in number, and Paul thought
they must have lost at least half as many in battle. Their hideous paint
and their savage faces filled him with repulsion. Their wild life and the
mystery of wild nature did not appeal to him as they had once appealed to
Henry in a similar position. To Paul, the chief thing about the wilderness
was the magnificent home it would make in the future for a great white
race. Spared for the present, he expected to live. Henry had saved him
once, and he and his comrades would come again to the rescue.
He stumbled at first in their rapid flight from weakness, and the warrior
next to him struck him a blow as a reminder. Paul would have struck back,
but his hands were tied, and he could only guard himself against another
stumble. Pride sustained him.
They did not stop until nearly dawn, when they camped by the bank of a
creek and ate. Paul's arms were unbound, and the hatchet-faced chief
tossed him a piece of venison, which he ate greedily because he was very
hungry. Then, as the warriors seemed in no hurry to move, he sagged slowly
over on his side and went to sleep. Despite his terrible situation, he was
so thoroughly worn out that he could not hold up his head any longer.
When Paul awoke the sun was high, and he was lying where he had sunk down.
The warriors were about him, some sitting on the grass or lying full
length, but the party seemed more numerous than it was the night before.
He looked again. It was certainly more numerous, and there, too, sitting
near him, was a white youth of nearly his own age. Paul rose up, inspired
with a feeling of sympathy, and perhaps of comradeship, and then, to his
utter amazement, he saw that the youth was Braxton Wyatt, one of the boys
who had come over the mountains with the group that had settled Wareville.
Braxton Wyatt, a year or two older than Paul, had always been disliked at
Wareville. Of a sarcastic, sneering, unpleasant temperament, he habitually
made enemies, and did not seem to care. Paul disliked him heartily, but in
this moment of sudden meeting he felt only sympathy and fellowship. They
were captives together, and all feeling of hostility was swept from his
mind.
"Braxton!" he exclaimed. "Have they got you, too?"
Wyatt rose up, came to Paul, and took his hand in the friendliest manner.
"Yes, Paul," he said. "I was out hunting, thinking that there were no
savages south of the Ohio, and I was taken last night by a band which
joined yours this morning while you slept."
"Why haven't they killed us?" asked Paul.
"I suppose they'd rather show us to the tribe first, or maybe they think
they can adopt us, as Henry Ware was once. They haven't treated me badly."
"That may be because you were taken without any loss to them," said Paul.
"We've had a big fight, and I'm the only one they got. Henry Ware, Tom
Ross, Shif'less Sol, and the others beat them off."
"That was grand fighting!" said Braxton. "Tell me about it."
Wyatt's fellowship and sympathy greatly cheered Paul, and he told in
detail about the battle with the band, and all that preceded it. Braxton
Wyatt listened with attention, but more than once expressed surprise.
"How many did you say were left back there on the hill?" he asked at last.
"We were ten when we began the fighting," replied Paul. "One that I know
of was killed, and it is likely that one or two more were. Then I'm gone.
Not more than six or seven can be left, but they are the best men in all
these woods. Twice their number of Indians cannot whip them."
Paul said the last words proudly, and then he added:
"Henry and Ross and Shif'less Sol will come for me. They'll be sure to do
it. And they'll rescue you, too."
Braxton Wyatt looked thoughtful.
"I think you're right," he said; "but it'll be a very risky thing for
them, especially if the Shawnees expect it. Be sure you don't let the
Indians think you are dreaming of such a thing."
"Of course not," said Paul.
The sharp-faced chief now came up, and said something to Wyatt. Braxton
replied in the Indian tongue.
"I didn't know that you understood any Shawnee," said Paul in surprise, as
the chief turned away.
"I've picked it up, a word here and a word there," replied Wyatt, "and I
find it very useful now. The Chief--Red Eagle is his name--says that if
you'll give 'em no trouble, he won't bind your hands again, for the
present, anyway. I've followed that plan, and I've found it a heap easier
for myself."
Paul pondered a little. Braxton Wyatt's advice certainly seemed good, and
he did not wish to be bound again. It would be better to go along in
docile fashion.
"All right, Braxton," he said, "I'll do as you suggest. We won't make them
any trouble now, but after a while we'll escape."
"That's the best way," said Wyatt.
Red Eagle and another warrior, who seemed to be his lieutenant, were
talking earnestly. The chief presently beckoned to Wyatt, who went over to
him and replied to several questions. But Wyatt came back in a few
moments, and took his seat again beside Paul.
A half hour later they resumed the march, and Paul knew by the sun that
they were going northward. Hence he inferred that they would make no
further attack upon the white hunters, and were bound for what they
called home. Refreshed by his rest and sleep, and relieved by the removal
of the bandages from his wrists, he walked beside Wyatt with a springy
step, and his outlook upon life was fairly cheerful. It was wonderful what
the comradeship of one of his own kind did for him! After all, he had
probably been deceived about Braxton Wyatt. Merely because his ways were
not the ways of Henry and Paul was not proof that he was not the right
kind of fellow. Now he was sympathetic and helpful enough, when sympathy
and help were needed.
The march northward was leisurely. The Shawnees seemed to have no further
expectation of meeting a foe, and they were not so vigilant. Paul and
Braxton Wyatt were kept in the center of the group, but they were
permitted to talk as much as they pleased, and Paul was not annoyed by any
blow or kick.
"Have you any idea how far it is to their village, Braxton?" Paul asked.
"A long distance," replied Wyatt. "We shall not be there under two weeks,
and as the party may turn aside for hunting or something else, it may be
much longer."
"It will give Henry and Ross and the others more time to rescue us," said
Paul.
Braxton Wyatt shrugged his shoulders.
"I wouldn't put much hope in that if I were you, Paul," he said. "This
band is very strong. Since the two parties joined it numbers forty
warriors, and our friends could do nothing. We must pretend to like them,
to fall in with their ways, and to behave as if we liked the wild life as
well as that back in the settlements, and in time would like it better."
"I could never do that," said Paul. "All kinds of savages repel me."
Braxton Wyatt shrugged his shoulders again.
"One must do the best he can," he said briefly.
The leisurely march proceeded, and they camped the next afternoon in the
midst of a magnificent forest of beech, oak, and hickory, building a great
fire, and lounging about it in apparently careless fashion. But Paul was
enough of a woodsman to know that some of the warriors were on watch, and
he and Braxton, as usual, were compelled to sit in the center of the
group, where there was no shadow of a chance to escape.
Hunters whom they had sent out presently brought in the bodies of two
deer, and then they had a great feast. The venison was half cooked in
strips and chunks over the coals, and the warriors ate it voraciously,
chattering to each other, meanwhile, as Paul did not know that Indians
ever talked.
"What are they saying, Braxton?" he asked.
"I can't catch it very well," replied Wyatt, "but I think they are talking
about a stay near the Ohio--for hunting, I suppose. That ought to be a
good thing for us, because they certainly will not decide about our fate
until we get back to their village, and the more they are used to us the
less likely they are to put us to death."
Paul watched the warriors eating, and they were more repellent to him than
ever. Savages they were, and nothing could make them anything else. His
ways could never become their ways. But the fresh deer meat looked very
good, and the pleasant aroma filled his nostrils. Braxton Wyatt noticed
his face.
"Are you hungry, Paul?" he asked.
"No, not hungry; merely starving to death."
Wyatt laughed.
"I'm in the same condition," he said, "but I can soon change it."
He spoke to Red Eagle, and the thin-faced chief nodded. Then Braxton
picked up two sharpened sticks that the savages had used, and also two
large pieces of venison. One stick and one piece he handed to Paul.
"Now we also will cook and dine," he said.
Paul's heart warmed toward Braxton Wyatt. Certainly he had done him wrong
in his thoughts when they lived at Wareville. But he was thinking the
next moment about the pleasant odor of the deer meat as he fried it over
the coals. Then he ate hungrily, and with a full stomach came peace for
the present, and confidence in the future. He slept heavily that night,
stretched on the ground before the fire, near Braxton Wyatt, and he did
not awaken until late the next morning.
The Indians were very slow and leisurely about departing, and Paul
realized now that, vigilant and wonderful as they were in action, they
were slothful and careless when not on the war path, or busy with the
chase. He saw, also, that the band was entirely too strong to be attacked
by Henry and his friends.
They marched northward several days more, at the same dawdling pace, and
then they stopped a week at one place for the hunting. Half the warriors
would go into the forest, and the next day the other half would go, the
first remaining. They brought in an abundance of game, and Paul never
before saw men eat as they ate. It seemed to him that they must be trying
to atone for a fast of at least six months, and those who were not hunting
that day would lie around the fire for hours like animals digesting their
food. He and Braxton Wyatt were still treated well, and their hands
remained unbound, although they were never allowed to leave the group of
warriors.
Paul was glad enough of the rest and delay, but the life of the Shawnees
did not please him. He was too fastidious by nature to like their
alternate fits of laziness and energy, their gluttony and lethargy
afterwards, but he took care not to show his repulsion. He acted upon
Wyatt's advice, and behaved in the friendliest manner that he could assume
toward his captors. Wyatt once spoke his approval. "The Chief, Red Eagle,
thinks of adopting you, if you should fall into their ways," said Wyatt.
"He may adopt me, but I'll never adopt him," replied Paul sturdily.
But Wyatt only laughed and shrugged his shoulders, after his fashion.
A few days later they reached the Ohio. It was running bankful, and where
Paul saw it the stream was a mile wide, a magnificent river, cutting off
the unknown south from the unknown north, and bearing on its yellow bosom
silt from lands hundreds of miles away. The warriors took hidden canoes
from the forest at the shore, and Paul thought they would cross at once
and continue their journey northward, but they did not do so. Instead,
they dawdled about in the thick forest that clothed the southern bank, and
ate more venison and buffalo meat, although they did not kindle any fire.
A day or two passed thus amid glorious sunshine, and Paul still could not
understand why they waited.
Meanwhile he still clung tenaciously to his great hope. He might escape,
he might be rescued, and then Henry and he would resume their task which
would help so much to save Kentucky. No matter what happened, Paul would
never lose sight of this end.
CHAPTER VIII
AT THE RIVER BANK
The days dragged into a week, and the Shawnees still clung to the banks of
the great river, occasionally hunting, but more often idling away their
time in the deep woods near the shore. Paul's wonder at their actions
increased. He could not see any purpose in it, and he spoke several times
to Braxton Wyatt about it. But Wyatt always shrugged his shoulders.
"I do not know," he said. "It is true they build no camp fires, at least
no big ones, and they do not seem to be much interested in hunting; but I
cannot guess what they are about, and I should not dare to ask Red Eagle."
Paul noticed that Red Eagle himself often went down to the bank of the
river, and would watch its surface with the keenest attention. But Paul
observed also that he always looked eastward--that is, up the stream--and
never down it.
Paul and Wyatt were allowed an increasing amount of liberty, but they were
held nevertheless within a ring through which they could not break; Paul
was shrewd enough to perceive it, and for the present he made no effort,
thinking it a wise thing to appear contented with his situation, or at
least to be making the best of it. Braxton Wyatt commended his policy more
than once.
On the morning of the seventh day the chief went down to the bank of the
river once more, and began to watch its surface attentively and long,
always looking up the stream. Paul and Braxton Wyatt and some of the
warriors stood among the trees, not fifty feet away. They also could see
the surface of the river for a long distance, and Paul's eyes followed
those of the chief, Red Eagle.
The Ohio was a great yellow river, flowing slowly on in its wide channel,
the surface breaking into little waves, that crumpled and broke and rose
again. Paul could see the stream for miles, apparently becoming narrower
and narrower, until it ended in a yellow thread under the horizon. Either
shore was overhung with heavy forest red with autumn's touch. Wild fowl
occasionally flew over the current. It was inexpressibly weird and lonely
to Paul, seemingly a silent river flowing on forever through silent
shades.
He saw nothing on the stream, and his eyes came back to the thin,
hatchet-faced chief, who stood upon the bank looking so intently. Red
Eagle had begun to interest him greatly. He impressed Paul as being a
thorough savage of savages, fairly breathing cruelty and cunning, and Paul
saw now a note of expectation, of cruel expectation, in the fierce black
eyes of the Shawnee. And as he looked, a sudden change came over the face
of the chief. A gleam appeared in the black eyes, and the tall, thin
figure seemed to raise itself a little higher. Paul again looked up the
stream, and lo! a tiny dark spot appeared upon its surface. He watched it
as the chief watched it, and it grew, coming steadily down the river. But
he did not yet know what it was.
Now the spirit of action descended quickly upon the whole band. The chief
left the shore and gave quick, low orders to the men, who sank back into
the forest, taking Paul and Braxton Wyatt with them. Two warriors, having
Paul between them, crouched in a dense thicket, and one of them tapped the
unarmed boy meaningly with his tomahawk. Paul did not see Braxton Wyatt,
but he supposed that he was held similarly by other warriors, somewhere
near. In truth, he did not see any of the savages except the two who were
with him. All the rest had melted away with the extraordinary facility
that they had for hiding themselves, but Paul knew that they were about
him, pressed close to the earth, blurred with the foliage or sheltered by
tree trunks.
The boy's eyes turned back to the river, and the black blot floating on
its surface. That blot, he knew, had caused this sudden disappearance of a
whole band of Shawnees, and he wanted to know more. The black blot came
down the stream and grew into shape and outline, and the shape and outline
were those of a boat. An Indian canoe? No; it rapidly grew beyond the size
of any canoe used by the savages, and began to stand up from the water in
broad and stiff fashion. Then Paul's heart thumped, because all at once he
knew. It was a flatboat, and it was certainly loaded with emigrants coming
down the Ohio, women and children as well as men, and the Shawnees had
laid an ambush. This was what the crafty Red Eagle had been waiting for so
long.
It was the final touch of savagery, and the boy's generous and noble heart
rebelled within him. He started up, propelled by the impulse to warn; but
the two warriors pulled him violently back, one of them again touching him
significantly with his tomahawk. Paul knew that it was useless. Any
movement or cry of his would cause his own death, and would not be
sufficient to warn those on the boat. He sank back again, trembling in
every nerve, not for himself but for the unsuspecting travelers on the
river.
The boat came steadily on, Paul saw a number of men, some walking about
and others at the huge sweeps with which it was controlled. And--yes,
there was a woman and a child, too; a little girl with long, yellow curls,
who played on the rude deck. Paul put his hand to his face, and it came
back wet.
Then he remembered, and his heart leaped up. The river was a mile wide,
and the boat was keeping near the middle of the stream. No bullet from the
savages could reach it. Then what was the use of this ambush? It had
merely been a chance hope of the savages that the boat would come near
enough for them to fire into it, but instead it would go steadily on! Paul
looked exultantly at the two warriors beside him, but they were intently
watching the boat, which would soon be opposite them.
Then a ghastly and horrible thing occurred. A white face suddenly appeared
upon the shore in front of Paul--the face of a white youth whom he knew.
The figure was in rags, the clothing torn and tattered by thorns and
bushes, and the hair hung in wild locks about the white face. Face and
figure alike were the picture of desolation and despair.
The white youth staggered to the very edge of the water, and, lifting up
a tremulous, weeping voice, cried out to those on the boat:
"Save me! Save me! In God's name, save me! Don't leave me here to starve
in these dark woods!"
It was a sight to move all on the boat who saw and heard--this spectacle
of the worn wanderer, alone in that vast wilderness, appealing to
unexpected rescue. Fear, agony, and despair alike were expressed in the
tones of Braxton Wyatt's voice, which carried far over the yellow stream
and was heard distinctly by the emigrants. To hear was also to heed, and
the great flatboat, coming about awkwardly and sluggishly, turned her
square prow toward the southern shore, where the refugee stood.
Braxton Wyatt never ceased to cry out for help. His voice now ran the
gamut of entreaty, hope, despair, and then hope again. He called upon them
by all sacred names to help him, and he also called down blessings upon
them as the big boat bore steadily toward the land where two score fierce
savages lay among the bushes, ready to slay the moment they came within
reach.
Paul was dazed at first by what he saw and heard. He could not believe
that it was Braxton Wyatt who was doing this terrible and treacherous
thing. He rubbed away what he thought might be a deceptive film before
his eyes, but it was still Braxton Wyatt. It was the face of the youth
whom he had known so long, and it was his voice that begged and blessed.
And there, too, came the boat, not thirty yards from the land now! In two
more minutes it would be at the bank, and its decks were crowded now with
men, women, and children, regarding with curiosity and pity alike this
lone wanderer in the wilderness whom they had found in such a terrible
case. Paul heard around him a rustling like that of coiled snakes, the
slight movement of the savages preparing to spring. The boat was only ten
yards from the shore! Now the film passed away from his eyes, and his
dazed brain cleared. He sprang up to his full height, reckless of his own
life, and shouted in a voice that was heard far over the yellow waters:
"Keep off! Keep off, for your lives! It is a renegade who is calling you
into an ambush! Keep off! Keep off!"
Paul saw a sudden confusion on the boat, a running to and fro of people,
and a bucking of the sweeps. Then he heard a spatter of rifle shots, all
this passing in an instant, and the next moment he felt a heavy
concussion. Fire flashed before his eyes, and he sank away into a darkness
that quickly engulfed him.
When Paul came back to himself he was lying among the trees where he had
fallen, and his head ached violently. He started to put up his hand to
soothe it, but the hand would not move, and then he realized that both
hands were bound to his side. His whole memory came back in a flash, and
he looked toward the river. Far down the stream, and near the middle of
it, was a black dot that, even as he looked, became smaller, and
disappeared. It was the flatboat with its living freight, and Paul's
heart, despite his own desperate position, leaped up with joy.
From the river he glanced back at the Indian faces near him, and so far as
he could tell they bore no signs of triumph. Nor could he see any of those
hideous trophies they would have been sure to carry in case the ambush had
been a success. No! the triumph had been his, not theirs. He rolled into
an easier position, shut his eyes again to relieve his head, and when he
opened them once more, Braxton Wyatt stood beside him. At the sight, all
the wrath and indignation in Paul's indomitable nature flared up.
"You scoundrel! you awful scoundrel! You renegade!" he cried. "Don't you
ever speak to me again! Don't you come near me!"
Braxton Wyatt did not turn back when those words, surcharged with
passion, met him full in the face, but wore a sad and downcast look.
"I don't blame you, Paul," he said gently, "for speaking that way when you
don't understand. I'm not a renegade, Paul. I did what I did to save our
lives--yours as well as mine, Paul. The chief, Red Eagle, threatened to
put us both to the most awful tortures at once if I didn't do it."
"Liar, as well as scoundrel and renegade!" exclaimed Paul fiercely.
But Braxton Wyatt went on in his gentle, persuading, unabashed manner:
"It is as true as I stand here. I could not take you, too, Paul, to
torture and death, and all the while I was hoping that the people on the
boat would see, or suspect, and that they would turn back in time. If you
had not cried out--and it was a wonderfully brave thing to do!--I think
that at the last moment I myself should have done so."
"Liar!" said Paul again, and he turned his back to Braxton Wyatt.
Wyatt looked fixedly at the bound boy, shrugged his shoulders a little,
and said:
"I never took you for a fool before, Paul."
But Paul was silent, and Braxton Wyatt went away. An hour or two later Red
Eagle came to Paul, unbound his arms, and gave him something to eat. As
Paul ate the venison, Braxton Wyatt returned to him and said:
"It is my influence with the chief, Paul, that has secured you this good
treatment in spite of their rage against you. It is better to pretend to
fall in with their ways, if we are to retain life, and ever to secure
freedom."
But Paul only turned his back again and remained silent. Yet with the food
and rest the ache died out of his head, and he was permitted to wash off
the blood caused by the heavy blow from the flat of a tomahawk. Then he
crossed the Ohio with the band.
Paul was in a canoe with Red Eagle and two other warriors, and Braxton
Wyatt was in another canoe not far away. But Paul resolutely ignored him,
and looked only at the great river, and the thick forest on either shore.
He was now more lonely than ever, and the Ohio that he was crossing seemed
to him to be the boundary between the known and the unknown. Below it was
Wareville and Marlowe, tiny settlements in the vast surrounding
wilderness, it was true, but the abodes of white people, nevertheless.
North of it, and he was going northward, stretched the forest that savages
alone haunted. The crossing of the river was to Paul like passing over a
great wall that would divide him forever from his own. All his vivid
imagination was alive, and it painted the picture in its darkest and most
somber colors.
They reached the northern shore without difficulty, hid the canoes for
future use, and resumed their leisurely journey northward. Braxton Wyatt,
who seemed to Paul to have much freedom, resumed his advances toward a
renewal of the old friendship, but Paul was resolute. He could not
overcome his repulsion, Braxton Wyatt might plead, and make excuses, and
talk about the terror of torture and death, but Paul remained unconvinced.
He himself had not flinched at the crucial moment to undo what Wyatt was
doing, and in his heart he could find no forgiveness for the one whom he
called a renegade.
Wyatt refused to take offense. He said, and Paul could not but hear, that
Paul some day would be grateful for what he was doing, and that it was
necessary in the forest to meet craft with craft, guile with guile.
The days passed in hunting, eating, resting, and marching, and Paul lost
count of time, distance, and direction. He had not Henry's wonderful
instinct in the wilderness, and he could not now tell at what point of the
compass Wareville lay. But he kept a brave heart and a brave face, and if
at times he felt despair, he did not let anyone see it.
They came at last to a place where the forest thinned out, and then broke
away, leaving a little prairie. The warriors, who had previously been
painting themselves in more hideous colors than ever, broke into a long,
loud, wailing chant. It was answered in similar fashion from a point
beyond a swell in the prairie, and Paul knew that they had come to the
Indian village. The wailing chant was a sign that they had returned after
disaster, and now all the old squaws were taking it up in reply. Paul was
filled with curiosity, and he watched everything.
The warriors emerged from the last fringe of the forest, their faces
blackened, the hideous chant for their lost rising and falling, but never
ceasing. Forward to meet them poured a mongrel throng--old men, old
squaws, children, mangy curs, and a few warriors. Paul was with Red Eagle,
and when the old squaws saw him, they stopped their plaintive howl and
sent up a sudden shrill note of triumph. In a moment Paul was in a ring of
ghastly old faces, in every one of which snapped a pair of cruel black
eyes. Then the old women began to push him about, to pinch him, and to
strike him, and they showed incredible activity.
Thoroughly angry and in much pain, Paul struck at the hideous hags; but
they leaped away, jabbered and laughed, and returned to the attack. While
he was occupied with those in front of him, others slipped up behind him,
jabbed him in the back, or violently twitched the hair on his neck. Tears
of pain and rage stood in Paul's eyes, and he wheeled about, only to have
the jeering throng wheel with him and continue their torture. At last he
caught one of them a half blow, and she reeled and fell. The others
shouted uproariously, and the warriors standing by joined in their mirth.
One of the hags finally struck Paul a resounding smack in the face, and as
he turned to pursue her another from behind seized a wisp of hair and
tried to tear it out by the roots. Paul whirled in a frenzy, and so
quickly that she could not escape him. He seized her withered old throat
in both his hands, and then and there he would have choked her to death,
but the warriors interfered, and pulled his hands loose. But they also
drove the old women away, and Paul was let alone for the time. As he stood
on one side, gasping as much with anger as with pain, Braxton Wyatt, who
had not been persecuted at all, came to him again with ironic words and
derisive gesture.
"It was just as I told you, Paul," he said. "I gave you good advice. If
you had taken it, they would have spared you. What you have just got is
only a taste to what you may suffer."
Paul felt a dreadful inclination to shudder, but he managed to control
himself.
"I'd rather die under the torture than do what you have done, you
renegade!" he said.
This was the first time since they crossed the Ohio that he had replied to
Braxton, but even now he would say no more, and Wyatt, following his
custom, shrugged his shoulders and walked away. Then all, mingled in one
great throng, went forward to the village. Paul saw an irregular
collection of buffalo-skin and deer-skin tepees, and a few pole wigwams,
with some rudely cultivated fields of maize about them. A fine brook
flowed through the village, and the site, on the whole, was well chosen,
well watered, and sheltered by the little hills from cold winds. It was
too far away from those hills to be reached by a marksman in ambush, and
all about hung signs of plenty--drying venison and buffalo meat, and skins
of many kinds.
When they came within the circle of huts and tents, Paul was again
regarded by many curious eyes, and there might have been more attempts to
persecute him, but the chief, Red Eagle, kept them off. Red Eagle was able
to speak a little English, but Paul was too proud to ask him about his own
fate. Not a stoic by nature, the boy nevertheless had a will that could
control his impulses.
He was thrust into a small pole hut, and when the door was tightly
fastened he was left alone there. The place was not more than six feet
square, and only a little higher than Paul's head when he stood erect. In
one corner was a couch of skins, but that was its whole equipment. Some of
the poles did not fit closely together, leaving cracks of a quarter of an
inch or so, through which came welcome fresh air, and also the subdued hum
of the village noises. He heard indistinctly the barking of dogs, and the
chatter of old squaws scolding, but he paid little heed to them because he
felt now the sudden rush of a terrible despair.
The Ohio had been the great wall between Paul and his kind, and with the
steady march northward, through the forests and over the little prairies,
still another wall, equally great, had been reared. It seemed to Paul that
Henry and Shif'less Sol and his other friends could never reach him here,
and whatever fate the Shawnees had in store for him, it would be a hard
one. Wild life he liked in its due proportion, but he had no wish to
become a wild man all his days. He wanted to see the settlements grow and
prosper, and become the basis of a mighty civilization. This was what
appealed to him most. His great task of helping to save Kentucky
continually appealed to him, and now his chance of sharing in it seemed
slender and remote--too slender and remote to be considered.
The boy lay long on his couch of skins. The hum of the village life still
came to his ears, but he paid little heed to it. Gradually his courage
came back, or rather his will brought it back, and he became conscious
that the day was waning, also that he was growing hungry. Then the door
was opened, and Red Eagle entered. Behind him came a weazened old warrior
and a weazened old squaw, hideous to behold. Red Eagle stepped to one
side, and the old squaw fell on Paul's neck, murmuring words of
endearment. Paul, startled and horrified, pushed her off, but she returned
to the charge. Then Paul pushed her back again with more force. Red Eagle
stepped forward, and lifted a restraining hand.
"They would adopt you in place of the son they have lost," he said in his
scant and broken English.
Paul looked at Red Eagle. It seemed to him that he saw on the face of the
chief the trace of a sardonic grin. Then he looked at the weazened and
repulsive old pair.
"Put me to the torture," he said.
Now the sardonic grin was unmistakable on die face of the chief.
"Not yet," he said, "but maybe later."
Then he and the old pair left the hut, and presently food was brought to
Paul, who, worn out by his trials, ceased to think about his future. When
he had finished eating he threw himself on the couch again, and slept
heavily until the next day.
CHAPTER IX
A CHANGE OF PLACES
Now came a time which Paul did not wholly understand, but which seemed to
him a period of test. The repulse of the old couple was not permanent.
They came back again and again, inviting him to be their son, and
patiently endured all his rebuffs until he began to feel a kind of pity
for them. After that he was always gentle to them, but he remained firm in
his resolve that he would not become a savage, either in reality or
pretense.
After a week he was allowed to walk in the village and to look upon
barbaric life, but he saw not the remotest chance of escape. The place
contained perhaps five hundred souls--men, women, children, and
papooses--and at least fifty mangy curs, every one of whom, including the
papooses and curs, seemed to Paul to be watching him. Black eyes followed
him everywhere. Nothing that he did escaped their attention. Every step
was noted, and he knew that if he went a yard beyond the village he would
bring a throng of warriors, squaws, and dogs upon him. But he was grateful
for this bit of freedom, the escape from the confinement of close walls,
and the forest about them, glowing with autumnal foliage, looked cool and
inviting. He saw nothing of Braxton Wyatt, but Red Eagle told him one day
that he had gone northward with a band, hunting. "He good boy," said Red
Eagle. Paul shuddered with disgust.
More than two weeks passed thus, and it seemed to Paul that he was not
only lost to his own world, but forgotten by it. Kentucky and all his
friends had dipped down under the horizon, and would never reappear. Henry
and Ross and Shif'less Sol would certainly have come for him if they
could, but perhaps they had fallen, slain in the night battle. His heart
stood still at the thought, but he resolutely put it away. It did not seem
to him that one of such strength and skill as Henry Ware could be killed.
Paul sat on a rock about the twilight hour one day, and watched the sun
sinking into the dark forest. He was inexpressibly lonely, as if forsaken
of men. Savage life still left him untouched. It made no appeal to him
anywhere, and he longed for Wareville, and his kind, which he was now sure
he would never see again. Behind him rose the usual hum of the
village--the barking of dogs, the chatter of squaws, and the occasional
grunt of a warrior. In their way, these people were cheerful. Unlike Paul,
they were living the only life they knew and liked, and had no thoughts of
a better.
The lonely boy rose from the rock and walked back toward the pole hut, in
which they fastened him every night. It had become a habit with him now,
and he knew that it saved useless resistance and a lot of trouble. Had he
taken a single step toward the forest instead of his own prison hut, a
score of watchful eyes would have been upon him.
The twilight melted into the dark, and fires gleamed here and there in the
village. Dusky figures passed before and behind the fires--those of squaws
cooking the suppers. Paul's eyes wandered, idle and unobserving, over the
savage scene, and then he uttered a little cry of impatience as a hulking
warrior lurched against him. The man seemed to have tripped upon a root,
an unusual thing for these sure-footed sons of the forest, and Paul drew
back from him. But the savage recovered himself, and in a low voice said:
"Paul!"
Paul Cotter started violently. It was the first word in good English that
he had heard in a time that seemed to be eternity--save those of Braxton
Wyatt, whom he hated--and the effect upon him was overpowering. It was
like a voice of hope coming suddenly from another world.
"Paul," continued the voice, now warningly, "don't speak. Go on to your
hut. Friends are by."
Then the hulking and savage figure walked away, and Paul knew enough to
take no apparent notice, but to continue on as if that welcome voice Had
not come out of the darkness. Yet a thousand little pulses within him were
throbbing, throbbing with joy and hope.
But whose was the voice? In his excitement he had not noticed the tone
except to note that it was a white man's. He glanced back and saw the
hulking form near the outskirts of the village, but the light was too dim
to disclose anything. Henry? No, it was not Henry's figure. Then who was
it? A friend, that was certain, and he had said that other friends were
by.
Paul walked with a light step to his prison hut, sedulously seeking to
hide the exultation in his face. He was not forgotten in his world! His
friends were ready to risk their lives for him! His heart was leaping as
he looked through the dusk at the smoking camp fires, the dim huts and
tepees, and the shadowy figures that passed and repassed. He would soon be
leaving all that savage life. He never doubted it.
He came to his prison hut, went calmly inside, and a few minutes later,
the regular time being at hand, the door was fastened on the outside by
Red Eagle or some of his people. He might perhaps have forced the door in
the night, but he had not considered himself a skillful enough woodsman to
slip from the village unobserved, and accordingly he had waited. Now he
was very glad of his restraint.
Paul lay down on the couch of skins, but he was not seeking sleep. Instead
he was waiting patiently, with something of Indian stoicism. He saw
through the cracks in his hut the Indian fires, yet burning and smoking,
and the dim figures still passing and repassing. There was also the faint
hum to tell him that savage life did not yet sleep, and now and then a
mongrel cur barked. But all things end in time, and after a while these
noises ceased; even the cure barked no more, and the smoking fires sank
low.
The Indian village lay at peace, but Paul's heart throbbed with
expectation. Nor did it throb in vain. A muffled sound appeared in time at
his door. It was some one at work on the fastenings, and Paul listened
with every nerve a-quiver. Presently the noise ceased, a shaft of pale
night light showed, and then was gone. But the door had been opened, and
then closed, and some one was inside.
Paul waited without fear. He could barely see a dark, shapeless outline
within the dimness of his hut, but he was sure it was the figure of the
slouching warrior who had bumped against him. The man stood a moment or
two, seeking to pierce the dusk with his own eyes, and then he said in a
low voice:
"Paul! Paul! Is it you?"
"Yes," replied Paul, in the same guarded tone, "but I don't know who you
are."
The figure swayed a little and laughed low, but with much amusement.
"It 'pears to me that we are forgot purty soon," it said. "An' I've worked
hard fur a tired man."
Then Paul knew the familiar, whimsical tone. The light had burst upon him
all at once.
"Shif'less Sol!" he exclaimed.
"Jest me," said Sol; "an' ain't I about the purtiest Shawnee warrior you
ever saw? Why, Paul, I'm so good at playin' a loafin' savage from some
other village that nary a Shawnee o' them all has dreamed that I am what I
ain't. If ever I go back thar in the East, I'm goin' to be a play-actor,
Paul."
"You can be anything on earth you want to be, Sol!" said Paul jubilantly.
"It was mighty good of you to come."
"You'd a-thought Henry would a-come," whispered Sol; "but we decided that
he was too tall an' somehow too strikin'-lookin' to come in here ez a
common, everyday Injun, so it fell to me to loaf in, me bein' a
tired-lookin' sort o' feller, anyway. But they're out thar in the woods
a-waitin', Henry an' Tom Ross an' that ornery cuss, Jim Hart."
"I knew that you fellows would never desert me!" exclaimed Paul.
"Why, o' course not!" said Sol. "We never dreamed o' leavin' you. Now,
Paul, we've got to git through this village somehow or other. Lucky it's
purty dark, an' you'll have to do your best to walk an' look like a Red.
Maybe we kin git fur enough to make a good run fur it, and then, with the
woods an' the night helpin' us, we may give them the slip. Here, take
this."
He pressed something cold and hard into Paul's hand, and Paul slipped the
pistol into his belt, standing erect and feeling himself much of a man.
"It's time to be goin'," said Shif'less Sol.
"I'm ready," said Paul.
But neither took more than a single step forward, stopping together as
they heard a light noise at the door.
"Thunder an' lightnin'!" said Shif'less Sol, under his breath. "Somebody's
suspectin'."
"It looks like it," breathed Paul.
"Lay down on the skins and pretend to be asleep," said Shif'less Sol.
Paul lay down on the couch at once, in the attitude of one who slumbers,
and closed his eyes--all but a little. Shif'less Sol shoved himself into
the corner, and blotted out his figure against the wall.
The door opened and Braxton Wyatt stepped in. What decree of fate had
caused him to be spying about that night, and what had caused him to find
the door of Paul's prison hut unfastened? He stood a few moments, trying
to accustom his eyes to the dark, and he plainly heard the regular
breathing of Paul on the bed of skins. Presently he saw the dim, recumbent
figure also. But he was still suspicious, and he took a step nearer. Then
a big form, projected somewhere from the dark, hurled itself upon him, and
he was thrown headlong to the earthen floor. Strong fingers compressed his
throat, and he gasped for breath.
"Here, Paul," said Sol, "tear off a piece o' that skin an' stuff it into
his mouth."
Paul, who had leaped to his feet, obeyed at once.
"An' cut off some stout strips o' the same with this knife o' mine," said
Shif'less Sol.
Paul again obeyed at once, and in three minutes Braxton Wyatt lay bound
and gagged on the earthen floor. Shif'less Sol Hyde and Paul Cotter stood
over him, and looked down at him, and even in the dark they saw the terror
of all things in his eyes.
"The Lord has been good to us to-night, Paul," said Shif'less Sol, with a
certain solemnity, "an' He wuz best o' all when He sent this hound here
a-spyin'."
"You know what he is?" said Paul.
"Ef I don't know, I've guessed."
Then the two stood silent for a little space, still gazing down at Braxton
Wyatt, bound and gagged. Paul had never before seen such stark dread in
the eyes of any one, and he shuddered. Despite himself, he felt a certain
amount of pity.
"He would have lured a boat-load of our people into the hands of the
savages," he said.
"I'll put this knife in his foul heart, Paul," said Shif'less Sol.
The bound figure quivered in its bonds, and the eyes became wild and
appealing.
"No, not that," replied Paul; "I couldn't bear to see anyone helpless put
to death."
"It was just the thought uv a moment," said Shif'less Sol. "We've got a
better use fur him. It's the one that the Lord sent him here fur. Now,
Paul, help me strip off his huntin' shirt."
They took off Braxton Wyatt's hunting shirt, leggins, and cap, and Paul
put them on, his own taking their place on the form of the gagged youth.
"Now, Paul," said Shif'less Sol, "you're Braxton Wyatt--for a little
while, at least, you've got to stand it--an' he's you. Help me roll him up
thar on your bed o' skins, an' he kin sleep in calm an' peace until they
bring him his breakfast in the mornin'."
They put Wyatt on the couch, and his eyes glared fiercely at them. He
struggled to speak, but they did not care to hear him. Sol took the
weapons from his belt and gave them to Paul.
"Good-night, Braxton," said Shif'less Sol pleasantly. "Fine dreams to you.
We're glad you came. You happened in jest in time."
Wyatt quivered convulsively on his bed of skins. Paul was filled with
repugnance, but he would not exult. His nature would not permit him.
Shif'less Sol opened the door, and the two stepped out into the open air
and a dark night. No one was about, and the shiftless one deliberately
fastened the doors on the outside in the usual manner. Then he and Paul
strolled away through the village.
"Remember that you are Braxton Wyatt," whispered Shif'less Sol. "Walk ez
near like him ez you kin. You've seen him often enough to know."
The two sauntered lazily forward. An old squaw, crouched by a low and
smoking fire, gave one glance at them, but no more. She went on dreaming
of the days when she was young, and when the braves fought for her. A
mangy cur barked once, and then lay down again at the foot of a deer-skin
lodge. A warrior, smoking a pipe in his own doorway, looked up, but saw
nothing unusual, and then looked down again.
The coolness of Shif'less Sol was something wonderful to see. He merely
loafed along, as if he had no object in the world but to pass away the
time, and there was nothing in the course he chose to indicate that he
meant to reach the forest. Now and then he spoke apparently casual words
to Paul, and the boy, in the faint light, wearing Braxton Wyatt's clothes,
might easily pass for Braxton Wyatt himself, even to the keen eyes of the
Shawnees.
Presently they reached the northern end of the village, the one nearest to
the forest, and it was here that Shif'less Sol intended to make the
escape. Paul kept close to him, and he noticed with joy that all the time
the light, already faint, was growing fainter. The friendly forest seemed
to curve very near. Paul's heart throbbed with painful violence.
Shif'less Sol passed the last wigwam, and he took a step into the open
space that divided them from the forest. Paul stepped with him, but a
gaunt and weazened figure rose up in their path. It was that of the old
squaw who wished a new son, and she stared for a few moments at the
clothes of Braxton Wyatt, and the figure within them. Then she knew, and
she uttered a shrill cry that was at once a lament and a warning. At the
same time she flung her arms around Paul in a gesture that was intended
alike for affection and detention.
"Run, Paul, run!" exclaimed Shif'less Sol.
Paul attempted to throw off the old woman, but she clung to him like a
wild cat, showing marvelous strength and tenacity for one so little and
weazened and old. Shif'less Sol saw the difficulty and, seizing her in his
powerful grasp, tore her loose.
"Don't hurt her, Sol!" cried Paul.
Shif'less Sol understood, and he cast her from them, but not with
violence. Then the two ran with utmost speed and desperate need toward the
forest, because the village behind them was up and alive. Lights flared,
dogs barked, men shouted, and before the friendly trees were reached
rifles began to crack.
"Jumpin' Jehoshaphat!" cried Shif'less Sol, as a bullet whistled past his
ear. "Ef that don't put life into a tired man, I don't know what will."
He ran with amazing swiftness, and Paul, light-footed, kept beside him.
But the alert Shawnee warriors, ever quick to answer an alarm, were
already in fleet pursuit, and only the darkness kept their bullets from
striking true. Paul looked back once--even in the moment of haste and
danger he could not help it--and he saw three warriors in advance of the
others, coming so fast that they must overtake them. He and Sol might beat
them off, but one cannot fight well and at the same time escape from a
multitude. His heart sank. He would be recaptured, and with him the
gallant Shif'less Sol.
Flashes of fire suddenly appeared in the forest toward which they ran, and
death cries came from the two warriors who pursued. Shif'less Sol uttered
an exultant gasp.
"The boys!" he said. "They're thar in the woods, a-helpin'."
Daunted by the sudden covering fire, the pursuing mob fell back for a few
moments, and the two fugitives plunged into the deep and friendly shadows
of the woods. Three figures, all carrying smoking rifles, rose up to meet
them. The figures were those of Henry Ware, Tom Ross, and Jim Hart. Henry
reached out his hand and gave Paul's a strong and joyous grasp.
"Well, Sol has brought you!" he said.
"But Sol's not goin' to stop runnin' yet for a long time, tired ez he is,"
gasped the shiftless one.
"Good advice," said Henry, laughing low, and without another word the five
ran swiftly and steadily northward through the deep woods. Henry had on
his shoulder an extra rifle, which he had brought for Paul, so confident
was he that Sol would save him; but he said nothing about it for the
present, preferring to carry the added weight himself. They heard behind
them two or three times the long-drawn, terrible cry with which Paul was
so familiar, but it did not now send any quiver through him. He was with
the ever-gallant comrades who had come for him, and he was ready to defy
any danger.
Henry Ware, after a while, stopped very suddenly, and the others stopped
with him.
"I think we'd better turn here," he said, unconsciously assuming his
natural position of leader. "It's not worth while to run ourselves to
death. What we've got to do is to hide."
"Them's blessed words!" gasped Shif'less Sol. "I wuz never so tired in all
my born days. Seems to me I've been chased by Shawnees all over this here
continent of North Ameriky!"
Paul laughed low, from pure pleasure--pleasure at his escape and pleasure
in the courage, loyalty, and skill of his comrades.
"You may be tired, Sol," he said, "but there was never a braver man than
you."
"It ain't bravery," protested the shiftless one. "I get into these things
afore I know it, an' then I've got to kick like a mule to get out o' 'em."
But Paul merely laughed low again.
Henry turned from the north to the west, and led now at a pace that was
little more than a walk. Paul and Sol drew deep breaths, as they felt the
heavenly air flowing back into their lungs and the spring returning to
their muscles. They went in Indian file, five dusky figures in the shadow,
a faint moonlight touching them but wanly, and all silent. Thus they
marched until past midnight, and they heard nothing behind them. Then
their leader stopped, and the others, without a word, stopped with him.
"I think we've shaken 'em off," said Henry, "and we'd better rest and
sleep. Then we can make up our plans."
"Good enough," said Shif'less Sol. "An' ef any man wakes me up afore next
week, I'll hev his scalp."
He sank down at once in his buckskins on a particularly soft piece of
turf, and in an incredibly brief space of time he was sound asleep. Jim
Hart, doubling up his long, thin figure like a jackknife, imitated him,
and Paul was not long in following them to slumberland. Only Henry and
Ross remained awake and watchful, and by and by the moonlight came out and
silvered their keen and anxious faces.
CHAPTER X
THE ISLAND IN THE LAKE
When Paul awoke the others were munching the usual breakfast of dried
venison, and Henry handed him a piece, which he ate voraciously. Henry was
sitting on the ground, with his back against a fallen log, and he regarded
Paul contemplatively.
"Paul," he said, in the dryest possible tones, "I don't see how you could
have been so hard-hearted."
Paul looked at him, startled. "Why, what do you mean?"
"To tear yourself away, as you did, from a loving father and mother. Why,
Sol, here, tells me that you actually threw your mother from you."
"Truth, Gospel truth," put in Shif'less Sol. "I never seen sech a cruel,
keerless person. He gives her jest one fling into the south, an' then he
bolts off into the north, like an arrow out o' the bow. I follows him
lickety-split to bring him back, but he runs so fast I can't ketch him."
Paul smiled.
"I've one father and mother already," he said, "and so I have no use for
two. Rather than cause embarrassment, I came away as quickly as I could."
"You did come fast," said Henry dryly.
"It was mighty fine of all of you to come after me," said Paul earnestly,
"and to risk your lives to save me from the Shawnees. But I knew you'd do
it."
"Uv course," said Tom Ross simply. "The rest uv our party would hev come,
too, but they were needed back thar in Kentucky. Besides, we could spare
'em, ez it took cunnin' an' not numbers to do what we had to do."
"What's our next step?" asked Paul, who was in the highest of spirits--his
imagination, with its usual vivid rebound, now painted everything in
glowing colors.
"We are going northward," said Henry.
"Northward?"
"Yes, it's necessary. There's some great movement on foot among the
tribes. It's not the Shawnees alone, but the Miamis and Wyandots and
others as well, though the Shawnees are leaders. War belts are passing
between all the tribes, and we think they are joining together to destroy
all the white settlements in Kentucky."
"An' some renegades are helpin' 'em," said Tom Ross. "They may hev better
luck than they did when they attacked Wareville."
"Yes, an' there's Braxton Wyatt," said Shif'less Sol sorrowfully, "He's
cunnin' an' revengeful, an' he'll do us a power o' harm. Paul, you ought
to a-let me put a knife in atween his ribs when I had the chance. I might
a-saved some good lives an' a power o' sufferin'."
Paul did not reply, but he was not sorry that he had interfered. He could
not see a bound youth killed.
"I think we'd better be goin' now," said Tom Ross. "We've got to keep to
the north, to throw the Shawnees off the track, an' then we'll come back
an' spy on 'em."
"An' me with only ten hours o' rest got to git up an' start to runnin'
ag'in," said Shif'less Sol plaintively.
"Wa'al, no, you needn't run," said Tom Ross, grinning. "You can jest walk
for about forty hours without stoppin'!"
Shif'less Sol heaved a deep sigh, but made ready. Jim Hart undoubled
himself, cracked his joints, and said deliberately:
"Ef I wuz ez lazy ez Shif'less Sol Hyde, I'd a-stayed back thar in the
East, whar a feller might jest sleep hisself to death, an' no Injuns to
torment him."
"Ef I wuz es mean an' onchristian ez Jim Hart, I'd go an' join Braxton
Wyatt an' become a renegade myself," rejoined Shif'less Sol.
Paul smiled. He enjoyed the little spats of Sol and Jim, but he knew that
the two were as true as steel, and the best of friends to each other.
Moreover, he was about to take up again the mission which Fate seemed so
constantly to interrupt. The scene of action had been shifted to the great
northern woods, and it now seemed to Paul that perhaps Fortune had been
kind in bringing him there. If a league of the tribes were being attempted
for a new attack upon the settlements, the powder for Marlowe might well
rest, for the present, in its hiding-place in the woods, while his
comrades and he undertook more important action elsewhere.
Before they started, Henry and Ross took stock of their ammunition, of
which they had a plentiful supply, replenished more than once from their
enemies, and also gave an abundance to Paul. The extra rifle given to him,
one of those taken from the two warriors that Henry had slain, was a fine
weapon, carrying far and true, and he was perfectly satisfied with it.
Then they started, and they traveled all day northward, through a fine
rolling country, with little prairies and great quantities of game. It was
fully equal to Kentucky, but Paul knew they were in the heart of the
chosen home of the northern Indians, and it behooved them to be cautious.
But there were no signs of pursuit, and they went on all day undisturbed.
Late in the afternoon they entered a dense forest, and walked through it
about two hours, when Paul saw an opening among the trees. It was a great
flash of silver that all at once greeted his eyes. But as he looked it
turned to gold under the late sun.
"Another of those little prairies," he said.
Henry laughed.
"No, Paul," he said, "that's not a prairie. The sun and the sky together
have fooled you. It's a lake, and we're going to live in it for a little
while."
"A lake," echoed Paul, "and we're going to live in it? Come on, I want to
see it!"
Kentucky was not a country of lakes, and Paul did not know much about
them. Hence, as he hastened forward, he was thinking more of the lake
itself than of Henry's somewhat enigmatic words, "We're going to live in
it."
They soon reached its margin, and Paul uttered a little cry of delight. It
was a splendid sheet of water, shaped like a half moon, seven miles long,
perhaps, and two miles across at the center. But at the widest part stood
a gem of a wooded island, covered with giant trees. High hills, clothed
with magnificent forest, rose all around the lake.
The beauty of the scene penetrated the souls of all. Uneducated men like
Shif'less Sol and Jim Hart felt it as well as Paul. The five stood in
silence, gazing at the lake and the gem of a wooded island. The light from
the sinking sun gleamed in red and gold flame across the silver waters,
and on the wooded island the boughs of the trees seemed to be touched with
fire.
"That's where we are to stay," said Henry, pointing to the little island.
"No Indian will ever trouble us there."
"Why?" asked Paul, looking at him questioningly.
"Wait and you'll see," replied Henry.
Henry led the way along the shore, and from a dense thicket at the water's
edge he took a light canoe.
"I captured this once," he said; "brought it across the woods and hid it
here, thinking it might be useful some day, and now you see I am right.
Get in! Light as it is, it will hold us all."
Henry and Ross took the paddles, and they pushed out into the lake.
Shif'less Sol uttered a long and deep sigh of satisfaction.
"Now, this jest suits a tired man," he said. "Henry, you an' Tom can
paddle jest ez long ez you please. I'd like to do all my travelin' this
way."
"An' you'd get so lazy you'd want somebody to come an' feed you with a
spoon," said Jim Hart.
"An' it would jest suit me to have you do it. That's jest the kind uv a
job you're fit fur, Jim Hart."
"Shet up, you two," said Ross. "You hurt my ears, a-buzzin' an'
a-buzzin'."
Shif'less Sol sank back a little and closed his eyes. An expression of
heavenly luxury and ease came over his face, but it could not last long
because in a few minutes the boat reached the wooded island. Shif'less Sol
opened his eyes, to find that the sun was almost gone, and that the
shadows had come among the great trees.
"Cur'us kind o' place," he said. "Gives me a sort o' shiver."
Paul had felt the same sensation, but he said nothing. Before them lay the
little island, a solid, black blot, its trees blended together, and behind
them the lake shone somberly in the growing darkness.
"All out!" said Henry cheerfully. "This is home for a while, and we need
rest."
They sprang upon the narrow beach, and Henry and Ross dragged the canoe
into some thick bushes, where they hid it artfully. Paul meanwhile was
looking about him, and trying to keep down the ghostly feeling that would
assail him at times. The island, so far as he could judge, was perhaps two
hundred yards long, half as broad, and thickly covered with forest. But he
could see nothing of the interior.
"Come," said Henry Ware, in the same tone of cheerful confidence, as he
led the way.
The others followed, stepping lightly among the great tree trunks, and
Henry did not stop until he came to a small, open space in the very center
of the island, where a spring bubbled up among some rocks, and flowed away
in a tiny brook in a narrow channel to the lake. The open space was almost
circular, and the great trees grew so thickly around that they looked like
a wall.
"Here is the place to rest," said Henry. "There is no need for anybody to
watch."
They lay down upon the ground, disposing themselves on the softest spots
that they could find. Paul stared up for a few moments at the great
circular wall of trees, and the weird, chilly sensation came again, but he
was too tired and sleepy to think about it long. In fifteen m
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