AFTER THE FOREST FIRE
THE old tree trunk was slowly giving way to the demands of Nature. It
had a split up and down one side, where doubtless the wood was rotting
away. Bob could see out of it--see the gray, smoky landscape, still
lighted by flashes of fire. During the progress of the fire he had even
watched the roaring whirlwind sweep past; and then forgotten all about
this crevice in his mad desire to climb up to the hole that served as
the bear's exit.
The thought that came to him was this--that perhaps with the aid of his
sharp hunting knife, and a set determination to bring about results,
he might manage to enlarge this narrow opening enough to admit of his
bursting forth!
He did not lose another second in wondering whether it could be done.
There was absolutely nothing else for him to try, if he hoped to keep
from being slowly suffocated in that prison cell. He could do it, he
_must_ do it!
When he set to work, he found at once that the wood was inclined to be
soft and wormy, especially close to the crack. Time had overcome the
hardness of the oak, and under his vigorous assault it fairly crumbled
away in sections.
After what may have been a minute's labor but which seemed much longer,
Bob was able to thrust his whole arm through the cleft he had made.
At that rate he would soon be free. The very thought gave him new
energy, and he went at the task even more fiercely than before. But
somehow his rate of progress did not seem to increase in proportion to
the extra vim he threw into the work.
Evidently the deeper he cut, the harder the wood became. It was decayed
only along the crevice!
Realizing this, he now turned his attention to the other side, and for
a brief time all went smoothly, progress being rapid. Now he could even
thrust a leg out of his cell. Twice that dimension, and the gap would
be large enough to admit of the passage of his entire body.
But surely it was getting much hotter inside the stump. The fire had
taken hold in earnest. He believed that the flames must be curling
around the old tree, and mounting upward while they fed upon the dead
wood.
It mattered not just then that his hand grew sore from constant
friction with the rough buck-horn handle of his knife. Such little
things could not count when everything depended on his making a success
of his effort.
Just then Bob needed all the encouragement he could find. He realized
this, and to try and cheer up his drooping spirits he started talking
to himself while he worked, even laughing from time to time.
It encouraged him, and could do no harm.
"That was a good slice, Bob!" he went on, just as though it might be
his mother speaking, "Keep it up, my boy! You're just bound to break
out of this smoke-stack soon! Nothing can stop you, now you've got
started in the right direction. Hey! almost dropped my knife outside
that time. Gracious! what if it had gone beyond my reach! You must be
more careful after this, Robert, my lad!"
He sliced away, and the opening grew wider; but, oh! how slowly its
dimensions increased, and how much hotter did the air seem all around
him!
Was it fated that he should be smothered here, suffocated by the
pungent smoke that caught his breath, and seemed to choke him? He would
not allow himself to give way to even the thought of such a horrible
thing.
"Sure you will get through, Bob!" he shouted, as he kept working away
with every atom of strength. "Why, the hole must be mighty near big
enough now for you to slip through. Sandy could do it, I know, and I'm
not much stouter than he. Just hold out a little longer, boy! Keep at
it, and success must come."
His knife was no longer keen, since its working edge had been worn away
against the tough wood; but, under the efforts Bob put into his work,
it still sliced off shavings with every downward movement.
He thrust his head forward, more in the desire to suck in some of the
outer air than because he expected to be able to pass it through the
opening.
A thrill shook his whole frame when he found that he could thus thrust
his head completely out of the prison cell. Seized with a new hope he
began wriggling his body sideways, his right shoulder first of all
being pushed through.
And though it proved a tremendous task, and a tight fit, Bob managed
to press completely through the narrow aperture! He fell in a heap on
the ground, almost done for, yet with a feeling of thanksgiving. And
his second thought was of that mother who he knew full well would be
heartbroken should anything happen to either Sandy or himself.
Although Bob had apparently collapsed after bursting out from his
strange prison, he did not long remain there on the earth.
"I must be up and doing," he cried, as he struggled to gain his feet.
There was Sandy to think of, and, besides, it was quite too hot so
close to the burning stump. How he longed for a cool drink to moisten
his parched throat!
"My gun! I could not think of leaving that behind!" he exclaimed,
turning back once more, after starting to leave the scene of his
singular adventure.
Throwing himself down on the ground, he pushed close up to the tree and
inserted his arm, groping in the quarter where he remembered his musket
had last stood. At first he failed to touch it.
"Why, that's odd," he exclaimed, dismayed at the idea of losing his
precious weapon, for another could not probably have been obtained in
its place for long, weary months.
Perhaps, after all, it happened to be just out of reach of his fingers.
Thinking thus, Bob snatched up a piece of wood that had escaped the
ground conflagration. It was about a foot or so in length, and afforded
him the assistance he needed.
"There it is, if I can only start it coming this way!" he observed,
still imbibing renewed courage from his habit of talking to himself.
It proved that he could readily manage to move the heavy gun; and
almost immediately his eager fingers were clutching the butt of the
musket.
"Now, after all, I'm little the worse off for it all," declared Bob,
as he hastened to scramble further away from the pillar of fire before
rising to his feet; "and the next thing is--Sandy!"
He seemed to feel a sudden sinking in the region of his heart just
at thought of his brother, and yet, if the boy had followed his
instructions to the letter, surely no ill could have overwhelmed him.
"That tree was sounder than the one where the bear had his den," he
kept muttering to himself as he hurried along over the blackened
ground in the direction where he believed he must find the hollow oak
given over to Sandy; "and after it was all over he could come out much
easier than I did. But why have I not heard his signal call? Would he
not follow after the fire, seeking some sign of me?"
Bob had just come through a very extraordinary adventure, for some time
his life had actually hung in the balance; but he quickly forgot all
about this in the new anxiety about his brother.
More than once he had to cast about him to be sure that he was heading
the right way. Somehow, since the fire had burned over the ground,
eating up the masses of dead leaves and other inflammable growths,
things did not look the same as before.
"But the wind came down from the north," he kept saying, as he pushed
doggedly on over the smoking ground; "and that is the way I'm going
back now. Only, I seem to be in a new part of the forest, things look
so different. But hold on, Bob, there's that cross formed by two trees
that fell toward each other. I remember that plainly, and it was just
after I left Sandy, too."
Now he was sure that the hollow tree must be somewhere close by. He
raised his voice, and called the name of his brother.
"Sandy! Hello! where are you?"
Through the desolate forest, with its blackened carpet, the sound of
his voice came back to mock him. Nothing else responded to his hail.
Louder than before he shouted, but there was no answering call. Bob
again felt that terrible chill in the region of his heart. A brief time
before, and he had been apparently burning up; now he was shivering.
"There it is!" he suddenly cried, as he happened to let his wandering
gaze fall upon a tree that seemed to have a gap in its side.
He hurried forward. Even as he advanced other familiar things greeted
him, so that his last lingering doubt vanished.
"It's the tree, surely," he muttered, straining his eyes to see within,
and almost holding his very breath lest he discover a motionless figure
in the cavity.
But it was empty!
At least Sandy had not been smothered by the dense smoke; he must have
left his retreat.
"Oh! I hope he stayed here until the worst was over!" was the cry that
burst from the boy, as he stood there, staring into the empty _cache_,
which he had intended to be a means of life-saving to his brother.
He turned and looked around. There did not seem to be a living thing in
sight. Animals and birds had all been driven away by the fire, which
was doubtless still rushing through the woods far to the south.
Was it worth while to call out again? Surely if Sandy had been within
half a mile of him he must have heard that last shout!
Puzzled, and sorely distressed, Bob hardly knew what to do. He even
looked again into the hollow tree, as though in that way he might
receive an answer to his question as to what had become of his brother.
And he did.
For, when he looked down, he saw that there had gathered quite a
quantity of dead wood within the cavity. It had not dried out since the
last rain, some time before, which must have driven into the cleft. And
plainly he could see marks there that must have been made by Sandy!
This gave him an idea, and he wondered why he had not thought of it
before. Of what use was his forest training if he could not ascertain
whether Sandy had issued from the tree before, or after, the fire?
Down he dropped on his hands and knees. The very first thing he
discovered was the positive impression made by one of his brother's new
moccasins, given to him by Colonel Boone before the great hunter had
said good-bye.
It was plainly made after the fire had passed, of that Bob felt
certain; and the fact gave him the keenest of pleasure, since it
assured him of Sandy's having passed through the siege unharmed.
But why had he not answered his shouts? Where could he have wandered
to, that he failed to hear a far-reaching hail, such as the strong
lungs of his brother had sent sounding through the forest?
Bob began to follow the footprints. At least Sandy must have intended
to seek him, for he had commenced to chase _after_ the fire.
"Oh!" gasped the boy, suddenly coming to a stop, and gazing in alarm at
some new marks that met his eyes.
They were also moccasin tracks! More than that, they seemed to mingle
with the smaller ones made by Sandy. Bob bent closer, his heart
seeming to leap into his throat as a dreadful fear clutched him.
One thing he noted that gave him this new chill--every one of the new
footprints _toed in_! He knew what this signified. White men seldom
tread that way, but it is the universal custom of Indians to walk after
the fashion called "pigeon-toe" as nature undoubtedly intended should
be done.
Then Indians had been here,--after the fire, too; and poor Sandy must
have fallen into their hands!