DAVID FACES DEATH
Feeling his way back to where the hanging branches of a small hemlock
promised to screen him from the trail, David sank to the ground with a
shivering sigh of relief. While it might be that a long and weary vigil
awaited him, yet to be able to stretch his aching body and relax his
taut muscles was a blissful thing. When his breathing had quieted, the
sounds of the night, unheard or unnoted while he journeyed, came to him
eerily: the faint stirrings of small animals, the scratching noise of
a raccoon or hedgehog clawing his way up a tree-trunk, a brief flurry
in the brush a little way off and the agonized squeal of some tiny
victim surprised by the slayer, and, suddenly, shudderingly near, the
long-drawn howl of a wolf.
The latter sound brought to the boy a realization of his unarmed
condition. Not even a knife did he have. He sought within his reach for
some branch that might serve for a club, but found nothing. After all,
it mattered little, for it was not wolves but Indians that he feared,
and against them such a weapon would avail none. As for the wolves, he
had little fear of them, knowing them to be cowards at heart, attacking
only when in force and having no liking for man. He tried desperately
to keep his eyes open, but they would close in spite of his efforts,
whereupon his head would drop and he would pull himself back from the
abyss of sleep with a frightened start. He told himself that, when he
had rested but a little longer, he would take the trail and travel
southward, so placing more distance between him and his enemies,
walking until daylight should force him again into concealment. But
even as he thought this, his lids closed again and his chin sank. This
time he did not start into wakefulness. After a moment his body slid
over sidewise, he gave a long, deep sigh and slept.
When he awoke a saffron light filled the woods and birds were calling
high in the branches. Dawn had come while he slept, and his heart sank
as he realized that perhaps his weakness had lost him the reward of
his efforts. It might well be that the English had passed southward
already. In the stupor that had held him it would have taken more than
the tread of feet on the trail or the sound of a voice to alarm him.
He peered forth from his leafy screen and strove to read the trail,
but the well-trod earth told him nothing. He was at an elbow of the
path. A few paces away in each direction it bent eastward. Already the
leaves of a witch hazel were pale with the first rays of sunlight that
filtered down through the thick forest. No longer was it possible for
him to travel the trail, though it might be that by proceeding slowly
and with much caution he could follow it through the woods. But he was
sore and stiff in every muscle and his hands and face, whipped and
scratched by the branches, were tender to the touch. He still craved
rest, and yet he knew that should the English not come soon from the
village, their coming would concern him little, for already the Indians
were doubtless seeking him. For the first time it occurred to him
that, after all, he had no certain knowledge that his friends had come
for him yesterday. There might be some other reason for concealing
him in the cave. Perchance an alarm had been brought to the fort that
later had proven false. The thought dismayed him and for a moment he
contemplated taking the trail boldly and making what haste his tired
limbs would allow, trusting to luck to meet none who would question,
and so escaping out of the Wachoosett country ere pursuit reached him.
But second thoughts showed the futility of that design. Even had he
been fresh and untired, he could not have traveled at a speed great
enough to elude the Indian runners. No, if the English did not come
shortly and he was still free, he would make his way through the forest
at what haste he might until darkness and then take advantage of the
trail.
Anxiously he waited and watched. Every stirring of the leaves brought
his heart into his throat. He was parched for water, but dared not
leave the trail to seek it. An hour passed and hope passed with it,
for he was convinced that his friends, did they mean to travel back
that day, would have made an early start and ere this have passed
his hiding-place. Either, then, they had not come yesterday to the
village or they had gone by while he slept. He could have wept with
disappointment. Hunger began to make itself felt, and he crawled a few
yards to where a black birch grew and broke some twigs from it and
gnawed them. He had but settled in his place again when his eyes, fixed
on the trail to the north, shouted hope to his heart. Something had
moved beyond the leaves there! An instant later around the bend came an
Indian. Hope vanished and fear took its place, for the savage was not
the vanguard of the English searching party, but he who had kept watch
last night above the cave!
Softly yet swiftly he came, his tomahawk in hand, his head turning
from side to side as he peered with sharp eyes into the forest. David
dropped to the ground, scarce breathing. Somewhere behind him in the
depths of the wood an owl hooted. The Indian stopped abruptly and swept
the forest with his gaze. David saw the brown fingers about the haft of
the tomahawk tighten. Again came the owl’s tremulous call, this time
much nearer, and David’s heart sank sickeningly, for he knew that the
sound came from no owl and that his brief freedom was near its end.
Turning his head, he looked behind him. At first there was naught to
be seen. Then the branch of hemlock quivered slightly some dozen paces
distant and beside it something redder than the bole of the tree showed
in the sunlit haze. The soft padding of moccasined feet drew his gaze
to the trail again, and any lingering hope he may have had of escaping
detection died, for the first Indian was coming straight toward his
hiding-place, his black eyes aglitter and his thin mouth curved in
a snarling grin. They were closing in on him, front and back, and
flight was useless. Yet to be taken without an effort was not in his
mind, and, leaping to his feet, he brushed past the branches that had
hidden him and sprang onto the trail. There was a cry from the savage
nearest at hand, but David heeded it not, but fled fast, his weariness
forgotten.
And yet he knew that he could not hope to elude his pursuers. Even as
he sped around the turn of the trail, he heard the patter of skin-clad
feet behind him and thought to feel the blow of a thrown tomahawk each
instant. Some sixty paces he made ere disaster came. Then a tired
foot failed to lift itself above a sprawling root and the boy crashed
forward and went rolling over and over into the bushes. Jarred and
confused, he strove to regain his feet, but the first of his foes was
beside him. A snarling copper-hued face glared down at him and a knife
was poised above his heart.
David saw and yielded. “Netop!” he gasped. The Indian grunted and
pressed the point of the knife closer, and the boy, looking up into
the blazing eyes, read murder in them. What he did then was done
without thought, in the consuming horror that gripped him. Quickly
lifting a foot, he thrust it at the savage’s stomach. The latter fell
backward with a grunt of pain, the knife dropped from his hand, and
David, rolling swiftly to one side, sprang to his feet. But the Indian
was up almost as soon as he. Not heeding the knife underfoot, he
seized his tomahawk and sprang at the boy, his eyes glaring with pain
and hatred and the lust to kill. David turned to flee, but a branch
had caught at his torn doublet and now, ere he could wrest himself
away, the Wachoosett was on him. David saw the tomahawk swing upward
and back, heard the savage’s indrawn breath rattle in his throat, and
knew that the end of all things on earth had come to him, even as,
instinctively, he threw up an arm to ward the blow. Then, as the weapon
swept down upon him, a form rushed between, the murderous arm was
grasped and dragged aside, and the blow ended weakly in air.
The second Indian spoke harshly and with authority as David, weak
with revulsion, staggered against a tree. What he said the boy did
not know, but it answered, for the first savage, after a flow of
high-pitched, angry words, yielded grumblingly and moved aside. David’s
rescuer pointed to the trail sternly and David moved wearily away
toward the village. He realized that only fear of the sachem had caused
the Indian to intervene, for there was naught of mercy or gentleness
in the brave’s harsh countenance. When David had gone a few paces, the
first savage passed him swiftly and took the lead, and so they went for
a way, the boy’s limbs trembling with weariness and his feet dragging.
Then the leader turned from the trail and entered the forest and the
journey became vastly more difficult. Once, surmounting a fallen tree,
David toppled across it and rolled to the ground beyond, and would have
stayed there gladly had not the second savage threatened him with his
knife. He staggered to his feet again and toiled on. Presently they
came to a brook and he made signs that he was thirsty and they allowed
him to drink. That put new strength into his body and he made better
progress. He believed that they were taking him back to the cave, and
from that argued that the reason for his banishment from the village,
whatever it might be, still existed. But before long they stopped in
a small clearing and his captors gave him some parched corn to eat and
ate some themselves. Then the Indian who had led the way disappeared
through the forest toward where David thought the village must lie.
The boy stretched himself upon the ground and, watched sourly by the
remaining savage, soon slept the sleep of exhaustion.
He awoke with a hand tugging at his shirt. The Indian who had gone away
was back, and when David had got sleepily to his feet they went on once
more, this time toward the village. But a few minutes brought them to
the edge of the forest, and there, no more than a half-mile distant,
stood the palisade. And so, tired and discouraged, ragged and bruised,
David came again to the gate in the fort and back into captivity. Past
the Indian hovels and the snarling dogs, observed incuriously by the
inhabitants, past the great lodge of the sachem, he was led to his own
wigwam and there, pushed ungently through the entrance by his captors,
he fell to the ground and knew no more for a long while.
When he awoke it was late afternoon. He was sore and weary, and,
although he had no mirror to view himself by, he knew that his face
was cut and scratched in many places. He awoke as one awakes after a
bad dream, the sense of impending misfortune weighting his spirits.
It took him a long moment, however, to recall the history of the past
twenty-four hours. Memory supplied the record in fragments and his
confused brain found difficulty in arranging them in their sequence.
When it had done so, a greater depression seized him. He had lost
his chance. His friends had come and gone. Moreover, Metipom would
doubtless punish him for the attempted escape. Life looked very drab to
David just then.
His reflections were disturbed by the pat of moccasined feet on the
trampled ground outside and the entrance was darkened as the Indian
whose duty it was to watch him and wait upon him entered. John showed
such evident pleasure at seeing the captive again that David’s spirits
momentarily lightened.
Squatting beside him, John produced his pipe and hazarded a few words
of English.
“How you do?” he asked. “White brother plenty well?”
“Matchanni,” answered David. “Very sick.”
John shook his head and groaned, thus expressing his sympathy. Then,
ere he realized what was happening, David found himself alone again,
for the young Indian had arisen and glided to the door in what seemed
one movement. David sighed. He craved companionship and even John was
better than no one.
But the Indian was soon back, the palm of one hand filled with a
yellow-brown grease with which he began to anoint the boy’s face.
“Much good,” he explained.
“It smells not good,” grumbled David.
But he was glad of the service, and, indeed, the smarting and burning
of the lacerations ceased as though by magic. Then John bade him remove
his clothes and rubbed the salve wherever a bruise showed. Afterwards,
at David’s request, he brought water in a fold of bark. Refreshed,
David sought information of his friends, but the Indian looked blank
and shook his head and David gave up.
The old squaw appeared with a few live embers and an armful of fagots
and made a fire, and to escape the smoke, David arose, not without a
groan, and went outside and seated himself in the shade of the wigwam.
John took himself off to his own lodge presently.
Many fires were burning and the village was hazy with the smoke of
them. At a little distance, beside the log barrier, a knot of older
boys were throwing flat stones at a stake driven into the earth, and
their cries came to him shrilly. The sun was sinking behind a shoulder
of the great hill and its slanting rays filled the world with a soft
amber radiance. It was a fair and peaceful scene, yet David had never
felt more lonely and homesick. The ancient squaw came to the entrance
and signed that his food was ready, and he went in to it, though
with little appetite. As he nibbled at the stewed meat and beans,
he wondered why the sachem had not summoned him for punishment, and
wondered what the punishment would be. Yet no summons came, and he went
early to sleep, both because he was still weary and because he wished
to forget his loneliness. Outside, his jailer sat silent in his blanket
and blew clouds of smoke at the star-sprinkled sky.